Chapter 22: BROCK'S INSTINCTS
Brock catches me at the coffee machine. The station is quiet—mid-morning lull, paperwork time.
"Deputy Webb. Got a minute?"
I pour coffee. Black, no sugar. "What's up?"
"That motel outside town. Red Roof. You been by there recently?"
My Criminal Instinct pulses—warning. But I keep my face neutral. "Routine patrol. Why?"
"Had some guests check in couple days ago. Unusual types." Brock leans against the counter. "Clerk mentioned they paid cash. Lots of it. Four guys, military bearing, armed."
"Armed how?"
"Concealed carry. Legal. But the clerk's been there twenty years. Says these guys felt wrong. Professional wrong."
I sip coffee. Too hot. "Could be anything. Security contractors. Military veterans. Banshee gets all types passing through."
"That's what I thought. Then I noticed more arriving." Brock pulls out his notebook. "Checked the guest logs this morning. Twelve rooms occupied by single males, all cash payments, all arrived in last 48 hours. That's not coincidence."
Shit. Rabbit's advance team is larger than expected. Or growing faster.
"You run backgrounds?" I ask.
"Can't. No cause. They're not breaking laws. Just... present." His eyes are sharp. "And both you and the sheriff have been acting strange. Late nights. Tense conversations. Something's happening."
The door opens. Siobhan enters. Sees us talking. Approaches.
"Morning," she says. Then to Brock: "Still going on about the motel?"
"You noticed too?"
"Hard not to. Twelve men, military types, all arriving at once? Either someone's planning a reunion or planning something else." She pours her own coffee. "I asked the sheriff. He said to leave it alone."
"Leave it alone." Brock's tone carries skepticism. "That's not standard procedure."
"No. It's not." Siobhan looks at me. "Which means there's something we're not being told."
They're both watching me now. Good cops. Alert. Perceptive. Exactly what makes them dangerous to operational security.
I could lie. Deflect. Send them away.
Or I could give them enough truth to prepare them. Because in six hours, Banshee becomes a warzone. And these two will be in the middle whether I want them there or not.
"It's a protective detail," I say quietly. "Federal witness."
Both lean in. Brock first: "What kind of witness?"
"The kind dangerous people want dead." I set down my coffee. "Organized crime. Eastern European syndicate. The witness is here, hiding. We're providing unofficial backup."
"Unofficial," Siobhan repeats. "Why?"
"Because official channels leak. Witness protection is compromised. Federal marshals can't be trusted." I let that sink in. "Sheriff Hood has... connections. From before. He's helping this person survive."
It's close enough to truth. Lucas does have connections. He is helping someone survive. The details are fiction, but the framework is real.
"And the men at the motel?" Brock asks.
"Scouts. Advance team. They're looking for the witness. Haven't found them yet. But they will eventually."
"Then what?"
"Then they try to extract. Or eliminate. Depends on orders."
Siobhan's expression hardens. "This is happening in our town. Our jurisdiction. And nobody told us?"
"I'm telling you now."
"Why now?" Brock challenges.
"Because the timeline's accelerating. Because I might need backup. Because you're good cops who deserve to know when violence is coming to your streets."
They exchange glances. Silent communication. Weighing my words. Deciding how much to believe.
"How many men are we talking about?" Brock finally asks.
"Thirty. Maybe more."
"Jesus." Siobhan sets down her coffee. "Thirty armed men coming to Banshee. When?"
"Soon. Could be tonight. Could be tomorrow."
"And you and the sheriff are planning to handle this alone?"
"We're planning to manage it. Minimize casualties. Protect the witness." I meet their eyes. "But yeah. Mostly alone."
"That's insane," Brock says.
"Welcome to federal witness protection." I pour fresh coffee. "If you want to help, I won't stop you. But understand—these people are professionals. Killers. If it goes sideways, people die. Might be them. Might be us."
Siobhan doesn't hesitate. "I'm in."
Brock takes longer. Processing. Calculating. "This is going to get messy."
"Probably."
"And we can't call in state police? County? Nobody?"
"Not without exposing the witness. Which defeats the purpose."
He nods slowly. "Okay. I'm in too. But I want to know the plan. Where the witness is. What we're defending."
"You'll know when you need to know. Right now, just be ready. Armed. Alert." I check my watch. "And don't ask questions I can't answer."
Brock doesn't like it. But he accepts it. "When do we brief?"
"Later today. The sheriff will coordinate."
They leave together. Talking quietly. Planning. Good.
I text Lucas: Brought Brock and Siobhan partially in. Federal witness cover story. They're ready to help.
Response: Good call. We need them. Meeting at 6 PM to brief.
I finish my coffee. The lie I told Siobhan and Brock isn't entirely false. Just incomplete. They're defending a witness. They're facing organized crime. They might die.
All true.
They just don't know the witness is a crime lord's daughter. Or that the sheriff and deputy are criminals themselves. Or that one of the deputies has supernatural powers.
Small details.
I return to my desk. Pretend to work on paperwork. But my mind is planning. Thirty men. Four defenders now—me, Lucas, Brock, Siobhan. Plus Job on surveillance. Plus Sugar guarding Carrie.
Better odds. Still terrible.
Siobhan appears at my desk. Quiet. "Can I ask something?"
"Depends what."
"At the bank robbery. Your arm." She sits in the visitor chair. "I saw the wound. I saw the blood. But when the EMT checked—"
"It wasn't as bad as it looked."
"It should have taken weeks to heal. You were fine the next day."
I don't respond. What can I say?
"I'm not asking you to explain," she continues. "I'm just saying... whatever you are, whatever you can do—it might be what saves us. So don't hide it when it matters."
She stands. Walks away before I can reply.
Smart. Too smart. Siobhan has connected dots I wish she hadn't. But she's not pushing. Not demanding answers.
Just giving permission to be what I am when necessary.
That's... unexpected. And valuable.
My phone buzzes. Job: Scout activity increasing. They're mapping the town. Expect contact within 12 hours.
Twelve hours. Not the 32 I thought I had this morning.
I text back: How many scouts?
At least 6. Possibly more. They're good—avoiding cameras, using dead zones.
The noose tightens.
I leave the station. Drive the perimeter roads. My Criminal Instinct is active, scanning for threats. It pulses steadily—danger nearby, watching, waiting.
I spot two cars. Rentals. Circling. Passengers taking photos of buildings, roads, positions.
Reconnaissance.
I memorize the plates. Let them pass. Don't engage. Not yet.
But they see me too. Note the patrol car. Mark the deputy as potential resistance.
Good. Let them think they know what they're facing.
The surprise will be worse.
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