Chapter 20: THE RABBIT'S ORDER
[Yulish "Mr. Rabbit" Hisbauch]
The phone rings at 2 AM. Satellite encryption. Scrambled routing. Olek knows better than to call on traceable lines.
"Uncle." His voice is careful. Respectful. "We found her."
Yulish sets down his tea. Ukrainian import. The only luxury he permits himself—everything else is business. "You're certain?"
"Photographs confirm. She's living as Carrie Hopewell. Married. Has a child. Complete cover identity."
Fifteen years. Fifteen years of searching. Of wondering. Of hoping and fearing simultaneously.
"Is she well?" The question escapes before professionalism can stop it.
Brief pause. "She appears healthy. Happy, even. She's built a life, Uncle."
A life without him. Without the family. Without the empire she was meant to inherit.
"Protection?" Yulish asks.
"Local law enforcement. But unusual. Two deputies responded to our scout's contact. One broke Pavel's wrist before he could report. They know she's being hunted. They're protecting her."
"Small town deputies against professional extraction?" Yulish doesn't hide his skepticism.
"That's what concerns me. They shouldn't be this capable. The deputy who engaged Pavel—he moved like Spetsnaz. Maybe better. There's something wrong about them."
Yulish processes this. American law enforcement is typically soft. Bureaucratic. Bound by rules. But exceptions exist. Special operators. Veterans. Men who know violence intimately.
"How many men do you need?" he asks.
"Twenty should be sufficient for extraction. But I'd recommend thirty for buffer. If the protection is more organized than expected—"
"You'll have forty." Yulish stands. Walks to the window. His compound overlooks the Black Sea. Dawn is approaching. "This is my daughter. The heir to everything I've built. I will not lose her to American deputies who think they can interfere."
"Yes, Uncle."
"Olek." His voice hardens. "She comes home unharmed. I don't care about collateral damage. I don't care about witnesses. I don't care about international complications. My daughter comes home. Nothing else matters."
"Understood. We'll need forty-eight hours to assemble and deploy—"
"You have thirty-six. Move faster." He hangs up.
Yulish remains at the window. Watching the sun rise over water. Anastasia. His brilliant, deadly, beautiful daughter. Alive. Well. Living a lie in some American backwater.
He'll bring her home. Remind her who she is. Forgive her transgression.
And then they'll discuss the diamonds.
[Ben Franklin]
Job's workshop is chaos organized by purpose. Screens everywhere showing intercepts, encryptions breaking in real-time, communications flowing like water.
"They're calling it Operation Homecoming," Job says, pulling up translated transcripts. "Forty operatives. Not thirty. Forty."
"Shit." Lucas leans forward. "ETA?"
"Thirty-six hours. They're moving faster than expected. Private flights, ground transport, coordinated arrival from multiple locations. By tomorrow night, Banshee will have an army in its streets."
I study the logistics. Multiple entry points. Coordinated timing. Professional military operation.
"Can we intercept?" Lucas asks.
"No. Too many variables. They'll arrive from different directions, different times, consolidate at rally points." Job pulls up a map. "Motel, warehouse district, two safe houses. Four locations, ten men each initially."
"Then we can't stop the arrival," I say. "We have to control the engagement."
"Against forty professionals?" Job's tone is flat. "The math doesn't work."
"Math doesn't account for everything."
"Bullets do. Bodies do. Numbers matter in combat."
"So do tactics. Geography. Surprise." I lean over the map. "They expect easy extraction. Grab Carrie, neutralize resistance, leave. Fast operation, minimal exposure."
"That's the standard approach," Job agrees.
"So we make it non-standard. Force them into prolonged engagement. Urban environment. Witnesses. Complications."
Lucas catches on. "They can't afford public spectacle. Forty armed men in a small town creates attention. Federal response. Media. Everything Rabbit wants to avoid."
"Exactly." I point to the map. "If we can slow them down, create chaos, make the extraction take longer than planned—they'll have to withdraw or risk exposure."
"Or they'll just kill everyone and take Carrie anyway," Job says. "These are criminals, not soldiers following rules of engagement."
He's right. Rabbit's men won't be bound by law or ethics. If pushed, they'll escalate to overwhelming lethal force.
But they also want Carrie alive. Unharmed if possible. That's our tactical advantage.
"We need force multipliers," I say. "Can't match their numbers directly. But we can use terrain, preparation, psychology."
"How?" Lucas asks.
I pull out my own map of Banshee. Start marking positions. "The town has natural choke points. Main Street is single-lane downtown. The residential areas have limited access. If we can funnel their movement—"
"Ambush points," Lucas finishes. "Classic guerrilla tactics."
"They'll see it coming," Job warns.
"Eventually. But not immediately. First few engagements, they'll think it's just resistance. Cops defending civilians. By the time they realize it's coordinated—"
"They're committed," Lucas says. "In the killbox."
Job looks between us. "You're planning to turn Banshee into a battlefield."
"I'm planning to make extraction cost more than it's worth," I correct. "Force Rabbit to choose: abort the mission or accept massive casualties and exposure."
"He won't abort. This is his daughter."
"Then he'll pay in blood."
Silence settles. The weight of what we're proposing becomes real. Forty professional killers. Civilian population. Urban warfare.
People will die.
"There has to be another way," Lucas says quietly.
"What way?" I challenge. "Negotiation? Rabbit doesn't negotiate—Carrie confirmed it. Running? They'll chase. Hiding? They'll find her. The only option is to make this too expensive. Too visible. Too costly."
"We're deputies," Lucas says. "We're supposed to protect people."
"We are protecting people. Carrie. Her family. This town." I meet his eyes. "But protection sometimes requires violence. You know that."
He does. We both do. The badges are symbols, but underneath, we're still criminals. Still survivors. Still wolves.
"What do you need?" Lucas asks.
"Weapons. Ammunition. Defensive positions prepared. Civilian evacuation routes." I turn to Job. "Can you monitor their communications? Track movements in real-time?"
"Already set up. When they arrive, I'll know where and when."
"Good. We'll need early warning to position properly."
Sugar appears from the back room. I didn't know he was listening. But of course he was. This is his bar. His town.
"Forty men," he says. "Coming here. For what?"
"Someone they want back," Lucas says carefully.
"And you two are going to stop them." Not a question.
"We're going to try."
Sugar studies us. Then moves to the bar. Pulls out a shotgun from underneath. Old. Well-maintained. Hands it to me.
"I've seen men plan fights like this before," he says. "Most of them died."
"And the rest?"
"Got lucky and lived with the consequences." He pulls out a second shotgun. Gives it to Lucas. "You'll need more than luck. But luck helps."
I take the weapon. Check it—loaded, clean, reliable. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just survive." Sugar returns to his spot behind the bar. "And try not to burn down my town."
"We'll do our best."
We plan through the morning. Job coordinates surveillance. Lucas identifies fallback positions. I mark ambush points, escape routes, fields of fire.
By noon, we have a strategy. Incomplete. Desperate. Probably suicidal.
But it's something.
Lucas leaves to prep the station—filing vacation requests for the next few days, clearing administrative work, creating plausible absence. If this goes sideways, he wants minimal official scrutiny.
I remain with the map. Staring at the lines representing streets. The X's marking positions. The arrows showing movement patterns.
Somewhere in this town, we'll make our stand. Against overwhelming numbers. Against professional killers.
The wolf in me is eager. Ready. Confident.
The man wearing the wolf's skin knows better.
This could go very wrong.
My phone buzzes. Text from Carrie: Gordon coming home early. Flight lands tonight. I need to maintain normal. Be careful.
Normal. The greatest fiction in Banshee.
I check the clock. Thirty-four hours until Rabbit's forces arrive.
The math is still terrible. But math doesn't account for powers that shouldn't exist. For abilities that break natural law.
Tomorrow, I'll test those powers. Push them. Find their limits.
Tonight, I plan.
The wolf prepares to hunt.
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