Chapter 23: EARLY BIRDS
The sensation hits at 3 PM. Criminal Instinct screaming—immediate threat, close range, approaching fast.
I'm checking the southern perimeter. Country road, minimal traffic. Perfect spot for infiltration.
I pull over. Radio Lucas. "Contact imminent. South access road near the old Miller farm. Two vehicles."
"I'm ten minutes out. Wait for backup."
"Copy."
I don't wait. Can't. The threat is here now.
Two sedans. Dark, nondescript. They slow as they pass, scanning. The passengers—two men per vehicle, military bearing—check tablets. GPS coordinates. Mapping.
Scouts.
They're not supposed to be here yet. Rabbit's main force isn't due for another 29 hours. But these men are here. Now.
The lead car pulls into a turnout. Three men exit. The fourth driver keeps the engine running. The second car continues down the road—spreading out, covering more ground.
I approach on foot through the tree line. Quiet. My Violence Mastery tracks their positions automatically. Three targets. Armed—I can tell from the way their jackets hang.
They're arguing. Russian, I think. Or Ukrainian. Too far to hear clearly.
One pulls out a phone. Takes photos of the road, the sight lines, the positions.
I step out of cover. "Gentlemen. Can I help you?"
All three turn. Hands don't move toward weapons—yet. Professional discipline.
"Officer." The leader's English is accented but clear. "We are lost. Looking for highway."
"Highway's back that way. Ten miles north."
"Thank you." They don't move. Just watch me. Assessing.
I'm assessing too. These aren't random travelers. They're advance scouts. Here early. Which means—
Lucas's car appears on the road. He exits. Hand on his weapon. "Problem here, Deputy?"
"Just giving directions."
The scouts exchange glances. Three cops now—me, Lucas in uniform, and they can see Brock's patrol car approaching from the north.
Surrounded.
The leader smiles. "No problem. We go now."
"Actually," I say, "I need to see some ID. Standard procedure for suspicious activity."
"We do nothing suspicious."
"You're mapping roads. Taking photos. In my experience, tourists don't usually do that." I step closer. "ID. Now."
The leader's smile fades. He reaches slowly for his wallet. His companions tense.
Violence Mastery reads the pattern. They're about to run.
"Don't." My hand moves to my weapon. "Hands visible. Slowly."
The leader weighs options. Three against three. But we're law enforcement. Shooting cops creates problems his boss won't appreciate.
He hands over a passport. Fake—I can tell from the quality. But professionally fake.
Lucas approaches the other two. "You as well."
Brock arrives. Takes position covering the escape route. "Sheriff. Everything okay?"
"Routine stop. Just checking credentials."
The scouts comply. Three fake passports. Ukrainian names. Entry stamps from last week.
"You're a long way from New York," I observe.
"Tourism," the leader says.
"Right. Tourism." I hand back the passport. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to get in your car. Drive straight to the highway. And leave Banshee."
"Or?"
"Or I arrest all three of you for suspicious activity, run these passports through federal databases, and see what comes back. I'm guessing it won't be good."
The leader's eyes are cold. Calculating. He's memorizing our faces. Planning revenge.
"We leave," he finally says. "No problem."
They get in their car. Drive away slowly. The second car—the one that continued down the road—receives a call. Turns around. Follows.
Brock watches them go. "Those weren't tourists."
"No."
"Part of your federal witness thing?"
"Yeah."
"They saw us. Know we're watching." Brock checks his radio. "They'll report back."
"I know." I turn to Lucas. "We need to talk. Now."
We drive to a secure location—Job's warehouse. He's waiting with new intelligence.
"Those scouts weren't part of the six I was tracking," Job says. "They're additional. Which means Rabbit sent multiple teams on different schedules."
"How many total?" Lucas asks.
"Unknown. But based on communications I've intercepted—" He pulls up translated messages. "The assault is moving up. Tonight. Midnight."
My stomach drops. "Tonight? It was supposed to be tomorrow night."
"Rabbit accelerated. Doesn't trust his scouts' information. Wants overwhelming force before you can prepare." Job's screens show movement tracking. "I count at least 30 inbound operatives. Multiple routes. They'll consolidate at rally points around town by 11 PM."
Lucas checks his watch. "That's eight hours."
"Eight hours to prepare for thirty professional killers." I pace. "We had 32 hours. They cut it to eight."
"What do we do?" Brock asks.
I think fast. Eight hours. Need to: move Carrie, position defenders, set ambush points, brief the team, prepare weapons.
"We accelerate too," I say. "Job, monitor all communications. I want real-time updates on every movement. Lucas, brief Siobhan fully. Brock, help him set defensive positions. I'll move Carrie to the safe house."
"Where is she?" Brock asks.
"Better you don't know. If you're captured, you can't tell what you don't know."
He doesn't like it. But he nods.
We split up. Lucas and Brock to prep positions. Job to monitoring. Me to Carrie.
I drive to the Hopewell residence. Gordon's car is in the driveway. Shit.
I knock. Gordon answers. "Deputy Webb. Is everything alright?"
"Routine check. Is Mrs. Hopewell home?"
"She's upstairs. Is there—"
Carrie appears behind him. She sees my expression. Understands immediately.
"Gordon, could you give us a minute?" She guides him toward the kitchen. "Deputy business. About that incident last week."
Gordon leaves reluctantly. Carrie faces me.
"How long?" she asks quietly.
"Eight hours. Midnight."
Her composure cracks. Just for a second. "I need to get Gordon and the kids out."
"Do it now. Family emergency. Out of town. Tonight."
She nods. Moves fast. Fifteen minutes later, Gordon is packing. Deva is protesting. The story is Carrie's sister had an accident—needs help immediately.
Gordon believes it. Deva doesn't. But they go.
I watch them drive away. Gordon confused. Deva watching through the rear window—suspicious, angry, seeing through the lies.
Carrie stands in her doorway. Watching her family leave. Maybe for the last time.
"Ready?" I ask.
"No." She turns. "But let's go anyway."
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