The cigarette smoke floated slowly under the soft lights of Sugar's bar, blending with the sound of clinking glasses and low-voiced conversations. The place was empty; Sugar had closed the bar early just for them.
The first to break the silence was Job:
—We're talking about nearly 15 million dollars in dirty, untraceable money. Enough for our friend Colonel Stowe and his mercenary pals to be willing to kill just to get it back.
Job kept sliding his finger, and a complex architectural blueprint appeared on his laptop screen.
—I studied it for a long time and found an old steam pipe tunnel beneath Genoa base. This is our VIP passage, and we can access the base directly through it.
—Even though there'll be obstacles down there, it's still a lot easier than dealing with the layers of barbed wire and armed soldiers with live ammo up top.
These good news, one after another, made Hood clench his fists in excitement.
Ethan forced himself to stay calm and not let the money cloud his judgment. After drinking half a glass of whiskey, he said:
—Isn't the risk too high?
—What risk? —Hood's eyes lit up— They're thieves too. We're stealing money from thieves, and nobody reports that.
—That's what worries me.
Ethan lit a cigarette and went on:
—We're talking about a huge amount of money, one that could cost any of us our lives. —He exhaled a puff of smoke, watching it dissipate before continuing— Just because no one reports it doesn't mean there won't be an investigation. And those guys don't need proof to act; a simple suspicion is enough. I'm no expert in the world of those big sharks, but I know their revenge would be far more brutal than we can imagine.
Job agreed:
—Then if we're doing this job... we have to be flawless. There can't be a single mistake.
Ethan took another sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking in the glass with a metallic sound. His eyes scanned his companions until they landed on the only woman in the room, and he narrowed his gaze at her.
Ethan knew something the others didn't. As someone who had transmigrated, he had knowledge of things they couldn't even imagine. He always acted with caution, trying not to interfere too much with the course of events. He didn't want to cause a butterfly effect that altered the plot more than necessary, because he knew any unexpected change could create variables he wasn't ready for.
—What? —Carrie asked warily.
—Do you know Colonel Douglas Stowe?
Carrie gave him a puzzled look:
—What the fuck are you talking about?
—I'm not playing games. I saw your reaction a moment ago... you're lying. —Ethan said, knocking gently on the table with his knuckles— And honestly, it's starting to piss me off. —his voice dropped, laced with threat—
Carrie was annoyed and embarrassed:
—What does it have to do with this job, whether I know Douglas or not?
Hood also realized something was off.
—Carrie, why are you calling him by his first name? What aren't you telling us?
—Well...
Carrie glared at Ethan:
—I've slept with him a couple of times. It's no big deal.
As soon as the words dropped, the atmosphere changed quickly.
Job rolled his eyes and shot a glance at Hood out of the corner of his eye, while Sugar grabbed a clean wine glass and began wiping it vigorously with a cloth.
—And when exactly were you planning to tell us? —Ethan asked bluntly, not caring who she slept with.
Now that it was out in the open, Carrie no longer cared. She said flatly:
—He's just a tool to kill time.
—Let me think.
Ethan tapped his fingers rapidly on the bar, constantly weighing the pros and cons.
Seeing him like that, Job simply closed his laptop.
After a long moment, Ethan shook his head:
—Guys, my suggestion is we scrap this operation.
Everyone stared at Ethan in shock. They hadn't expected him to say that out of nowhere.
—Why?
Suddenly, Hood became anxious. He said seriously:
—Are you worried about Carrie? Don't worry, she's a pro.
—Yeah, I swear —said Carrie, offended— Douglas and I just had casual sex, he's nobody.
Looking into his perplexed eyes, Ethan took a deep drag from his cigarette:
—I don't care who you sleep with, but I just want to ask you one question.
He turned his head and looked at Job:
—Even if you can handle all the security measures at the base, if you're Stowe, the safe gets stolen, and the existing search methods turn up no clues—what's the first thing you'd do?
Job placed himself in the situation, thought for a moment, and said:
—I'd start with the people around me.
—These soldiers just got back from leave overseas. If I'm not mistaken, there aren't many people who've had any connection with this Colonel Stowe.
Ethan ignored Carrie's flushed face, picked up his wine glass, and continued:
—Among this small group of people, Carrie was once a key member of a criminal organization. That's not a hard secret to uncover.
—Do you really think that even if we manage to steal the money, Sto won't find it in Carrie's possession?
The scene suddenly fell into a deathly silence, the excitement of the moment completely lost.
Just like Ethan said moments ago, these people don't need any evidence. Just because of Carrie's identity, she's the prime suspect.
After a while, Sugar reluctantly asked:
—Aren't you being overly cautious?
—You know I'm not,— Ethan put down his wine glass and said helplessly. *In my opinion, there's only one way to pull this off.
—What way?—Hood's eyes lit up.
—After stealing the money, Carrie takes most of it, takes her two kids and Gordon, and flees to a country that's an enemy of Uncle Sam—where she'll live out the rest of her life.
Ethan even laughed at what he said. He looked at Carrie:
—With that money, I believe you'll live a wealthy life in whatever country you choose.
—The key is whether Gordon is willing to go with you. If he doesn't, can you bear to watch him die? Can you make that decision?
Carrie had a blank expression on her face, with no idea what to say.
—Shit.
Job angrily pulled out his cigarette case:
—How about we just kill that bastard?
—Don't be naive. Anyone who has ever been near Stowe will be investigated. — Ethan said, taking a sip of wine. As much as I hate to say it, this plan was doomed from the start. Unless Carrie is willing to run, we'll be facing wave after wave of manhunts.
—Shut up, don't say another word.
Carrie gripped the glass so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Among them, her financial situation was the worst, and now she could only work as a waitress.
She had thought she could pull this job off once and for all, but in the end, she had made a mistake that put everything at risk.
Just thinking about it made her grind her teeth.
Sugar was also deeply disappointed at that moment. She forced herself to say:
—Ethan's right. If something happens to Carrie—whether we save her or not—as long as we do, we'll all be exposed.
—And if we don't save her? Are we just going to watch her die?
—I agree with Ethan's decision,— Job sighed. —I spent a whole day and night tossing in bed for nothing.— He weakly picked up the wine bottle. Unless Carrie escapes with her family, this can't be done.
Hood's mind was spinning, desperately trying to find a better way to resolve this hidden danger. But no matter how hard he thought, he couldn't get rid of the problem.
That is to say, after the incident, Carrie would inevitably become the prime suspect.
He couldn't—he wouldn't—put Carrie in that kind of danger.
Hood sighed deeply and set down the beer bottle:
—Let's leave it for now. We'll talk again if a better option comes up.
With that, he left the bar with heavy steps.
Ethan shrugged at Sugar, ignored Carrie sitting there in a daze, and took Job to the Savoy Gentlemen's Club to unwind.
Just as Hood and his crew dispersed in disappointment, they headed deep into the forest reserve.
Next to the tall trees, more than a dozen tents had been set up, and piles of campfires lit the area.
Nearby, on a wooden rack, dozens of weapons were displayed. Several members of the Red Bone Gang stood outside the white line holding AK-47 rifles, practicing their shooting skills on beer bottles placed at a distance.
Every now and then, the sound of shattering bottles echoed through the air, followed by cheers from the crowd.
In the tallest tent, the battle was fierce.
After a long, strained moan, Chayton lowered the delicate-skinned Indian girl. There was no joy in his eyes—only rage.
There wasn't a trace of happiness on Chayton's face, only a quiet fury. All his plans had been ruined by Nola Longshadow. Now that damned woman was the tribal chief, and there was no sign of his men or George Hunter. Only a pool of blood remained… but no body.
His access to the tribal council was immediately blocked, and by the time he tried to react, it was too late to seek allies. George Hunter, like Alex, had vanished without a trace. You didn't need to be a genius to figure out who was behind it… even Chayton could piece it together just by sitting and thinking.
He had barely issued his threat against Proctor when the news arrived—his main financial backer had been murdered. A storm of rage brewed in Chayton's chest.
He reached out and grabbed an Indian girl, held her over him, and began to fuck her violently, furiously ignoring the girl's muffled pleas as he took her on the furs.
Half an hour later, Chayton pushed aside the curtain of the tent and walked over to the men practicing their aim.
—Cease fire.
With his command, several people who had been shooting stopped. The spectators also cleared a path for them.
Chayton approached and looked at the men holding weapons. Except for his younger brother Tommy, these were the men with the best control and aim when it came to handling firearms.
He looked around, and a thunderous voice echoed:
—I think everyone has heard what happened to Renault and the others.
Everyone nodded with heavy expressions.
—We are the Red Bone Gang!... No, not just that —Chayton climbed onto a fallen log and raised his voice— We are the Kinaho tribe! And we've been trampled like never before! That white man, Proctor, killed our chief... and he keeps taking the lives of our people!
—What should we do with this bastard?
—Kill him!
Tommy took the lead and shouted, raising the gun in his hand. Others quickly followed. Those without weapons or knives lifted their beer bottles.
A loud war cry echoed through the depths of the forest.
Chayton nodded with satisfaction and jumped down from the log. His heavy body landed with a dull thud.
He approached the men who had just finished target practice and looked around.
Including Tommy, they all puffed out their chests and met Chayton's gaze without blinking.
—Weyne, Skiny, and Chucky.
Three strong Indian men stepped forward in response to Chayton's call. Under the envious gazes of those around them, they followed Chayton toward the tall tent with their heads held high.
Tommy looked at the girls around him; with a flushed face, he set down his AK and quickly chased after them.
—Go and bring me Proctor's head. I'll hang it from the tallest tree in the reservation so the whole tribe can see it.
Following Chayton's orders, the three men he had just chosen left, excited, with AKs in hand, casting disdainful glances at Tommy as they passed him.
—Why didn't you pick me?
Tommy said eagerly:
—I'm the one who should bring back Proctor!
Chayton smiled and ruffled his hair.
—It's not your time yet. I have other plans for you.
—Don't ruffle my hair.
Tommy brushed Chayton's hand away, embarrassed. Watching him turn around and walk into the tent, he muttered:
—Chayton, everyone here thinks the only reason I get to be here is because I'm your brother.
He looked at Chayton, who turned around and replied reluctantly:
—I need to prove something to these people.
—No.
Chayton extended his hands, grabbed him by the shoulders, and spoke in a deep voice:
—What you need is patience.
Tommy wanted to say something, but when he saw the fire dancing in Chayton's eyes, he could only lower his head in silence.
Chayton patted his shoulder and pushed him gently:
—Go on, have a beer, find yourself a girl. Your time will come soon.
Tommy clenched his teeth and kicked a dead branch beside him.
—Stupid brother.
Watching Tommy's back as he walked away angrily, Chayton smiled helplessly. The men from the tribe he sent were disposable to him, just cannon fodder to test Proctor's strength. Of course, it would be great if they could catch him and bring him back to the reservation dead or alive—but that was nearly impossible.
Even if the plan failed, Chayton would at least make sure Proctor knew one thing: he was not someone to be trifled with and walk away unharmed. How could he send his younger brother to almost certain death?
At the Savoy Gentlemen's Club, next to the dance floor, Job drank his wine with a grim expression. A job worth nearly fifteen million lost—it was like watching a gold-laden train pass by without even being able to hop on. That filled him with a silent rage. Even if you have all the money in the world, you still need to be alive to spend it.
Ethan didn't say a word. He remained silent, deep in thought, as the bar's background murmur carried on.
If it weren't for Carrie being involved with Stowe, Ethan would've been more than interested in pulling off that hit. But there was no need to rush. Over a million dollars rested in his bank account from the diamond sale, and in his storage space, there were still tens of thousands in cash and four gold bars.
Aquí tienes la traducción al inglés, cuidando la ortografía, los tiempos verbales, y los pronombres, tal como solicitaste. También se han conservado los guiones de diálogo:
He already had money—why be greedy? Not to mention, as long as he helped Nola deal with Proctor, even if he slept at home every night, he would still earn over two million in legal income every year from his share in the casino.
Shortly after, a waitress approached his table: a young blonde with long legs, dressed in a tight Playboy-style bunny outfit, complete with black satin ears and a rehearsed smile.
She leaned slightly toward him in a suggestive way, revealing the shimmer of her cleavage, and with smooth movements, served a glass of whiskey in front of him, the amber liquid catching the low light of the venue.
Seeing that Job still looked unhappy, Ethan had an idea. He took the girl by the arm and sat her on Job's lap. He whispered something in her ear, and she just nodded with a half-smile before walking away.
Ethan was known for being generous with the girls, and with his attractive presence and confident gaze, it was no surprise that everyone in the club was more than willing to please him. For them, helping him wasn't an obligation—it was almost a privilege.
Soon after, three men approached and stood in front of Job.
—Come on, lose the long face, Job —Ethan said lightly, patting him on the back and placing a thick bundle of small bills in his hands.— There will be other chances in the future, I promise.
—I hope so, because Carrie just cost me three million dollars. —Job replied with a sarcastic smile as he shook the bills— But who needs money when you've got friends, right?
Job's face lit up instantly. A smile appeared, and with renewed spirit, he walked toward the back, surrounded by several attractive men, holding the large pile of small bills high in the air.
Ethan smiled as he watched Job disappear into the crowd. Since coming to this world, he had found in him something more than a companion—he was his first real friend here, one worth keeping by his side.
He took a sip of his drink, then pulled out another wad of bills as he looked toward the blonde girl at the pole dance bar.
As soon as the dancers saw the pile of money Ethan dropped, they got to work like their lives depended on it. They moved their hips shamelessly, twisting like high-class whores trained to seduce, eyes locked on the man who clearly could afford them.
Soon, she slid down the pole and walked toward Ethan. The blonde was topless, wearing only a thin thong strap.
Ethan placed the wad of cash on the table as the girl began to move with the rhythm of the music. The melody of Peggy Lee's "Fever" played softly through the speakers, wrapping the room in sensuality. Her movements were slow and deliberate, every sway of her hips and gentle glide of her body seemed to mesmerize everyone watching.
Ethan couldn't help but enjoy the show. Though his face remained impassive, his eyes followed each of her movements, watching her glide across the stage, commanding the dance floor with grace and confidence.
With each movement, the girl seemed to get closer to him, as if she wanted him to lose himself in the rhythm, in the heat of the music and the desire-charged atmosphere. Meanwhile, he simply watched, his mind torn between the enjoyment of the moment and thoughts of everything that still needed to be done.
Just as he was drinking quietly, the screen of his phone lit up.
It was Siobhan calling. Late at night—maybe she couldn't sleep, maybe she just wanted a bit of nighttime company. Ethan smiled, pocketed the rest of the money, and quickly left the club.
When he stepped out of the club and hit the answer button, he heard Siobhan's urgent voice on the other end:
—We got a report. Proctor's villa was attacked by the Red Bone Gang.
—Understood.
Ethan hung up the phone, sent a short message to Job, got into his car, grabbed a bottle of water to rinse his mouth, and popped a couple of mints. He splashed more water on his face, clipped his police badge to his chest, and drove to Proctor's villa.
When he arrived at the gate, police lights were flashing, and the ambulance had already gotten there before him.
He and Hood arrived at almost the same time. He reeked of alcohol too—seemed like he'd also been venting his frustration.
After all, it was midnight, and he was still sober enough to do his job properly. They didn't give a damn about Proctor. Hood forced a smile and turned to walk in.
Ethan pushed aside the medical personnel carrying the body bag and walked down the stairs to the backyard.
Brock was taking Proctor's statement. Besides the smell of alcohol, there was also perfume on him. It seemed this old man had been having a passionate affair with his ex-wife again, while on duty.
Ethan looked around and saw bullet casings and bloodstains all over the ground. From the look of it, it had been a fierce shootout.
Burton was sitting on a nearby flowerbed with a wound on his arm while paramedics wrapped it. There were also several armed guards near the other pool.
—I don't know what happened. I was resting at home when suddenly I heard gunfire. —Proctor answered Brock's questions with an impatient expression.—
Siobhan approached and handed the transcript to Ethan.
—It was the Red Bone Gang. Two people dead, one seriously injured. That man did it —she pointed at Burton and then pursed her lips, glancing at the people near the pool— The weapons they're holding are registered. No problem there.
Ethan skimmed through it. It only stated how the incident occurred. He hadn't expected the Red Bone Gang to be so bold as to attack Proctor at his home—it was practically suicide to attempt something like that with only three people.
Hood patted Brock on the shoulder, told him to leave, and said to Proctor:
—I guess you reap what you sow, huh?
—I don't understand what you mean, Sheriff.
Hood sneered:
—Come on, drop the act. The moment you killed Alex, the war with the Kinaho Tribe began.
Proctor clenched his jaw and said:
—Really? Let me tell you something, Sheriff: if there were a war, you'd be the first to know.
Ethan stepped forward, picked up a bloody shell casing, and tossed it to Proctor.
—You lost two more this time. They're not going to stop... Get ready, because they'll keep coming for you.
—I don't give a shit —Proctor spat, crushing the casing under his boot and flinging it away— If Chayton sets foot here, I'll bury him with my own hands. And anyone who comes after him will end up the same—or worse. Let them all come... I'm waiting.
As he spoke, Proctor locked eyes with Hood in restrained fury. If it weren't for that damn sheriff, he wouldn't be in this mess. Ever since he killed Alex, the whole Kinaho tribe wanted him dead.
Then his meth lab blew up, leaving him without income. And even though Cage, his main competitor, had been killed today—which gave him some breathing room—he'd still have to pay a lot to clean up the mess.
—Let me be clear with you —Hood said, stepping forward with firm steps and a hard stare— Whatever happens between you and the goddamn Red Bone Gang is not my problem. Next time, clean up your own mess and don't call the cops... or interrupt my sleep.
His big shot at retirement with one last score had gone up in smoke. He was furious, but he couldn't take it out on Carrie—so he unleashed it right then and there, unfiltered.
—Fuck off! —Proctor spat, his eyes blazing— You're the damn sheriff and I'm the one who pays your bills. I fund your fucking salary! So do your damn job and don't let that scum step foot on my property again.
Seeing that they were about to go at each other, Ethan quickly stepped in and pushed Hood back.
The scene was full of witnesses, and even if Proctor was a bastard, at that moment he was technically the victim of an attack. If Hood hit him right there, it would be exactly what Proctor wanted—a reaction that made him look like the offended party.
If things escalated, Hood would be the only one in trouble. Emmett and Brock quickly jumped in too, pulling him back. Ethan shook his head in frustration and pulled the transcript from his pocket.
—Mr. Proctor, you just mentioned Chayton. How do you know he sent someone to attack you?
—You disappoint me, Ethan. I thought we could be friends. I thought you'd be more reasonable. —Proctor looked at him for a moment, didn't answer the question, shook his arm free, and walked into the house.
—Has Chayton returned to the Kinaho tribe?
A voice sounded behind him, tinged with anger.
He looked at Proctor's back as he walked away, put away the notebook, and handed it and the pen to Siobhan:
—Looks like he knows something we don't.
Ethan reached out to touch Siobhan's forehead. She flinched for a moment but then stopped with a pout. She had a small scar, left by the broken glass when the police car crashed into the ditch last time.
Ethan touched the scar, a murderous glint in his eyes:
—Don't worry. I'll get revenge on Chayton—for what he didn't do.
—When you say revenge, you mean sending him to prison, right? —Siobhan looked into his murderous eyes, glanced around quickly, and helped him finish the task.
—Of course —Ethan realized he had said too much and smiled—
No wonder the Red Bone Gang had been so loud lately—stealing weapons and working with George Hunter—turns out Chayton was behind it all.
He came back just in time to settle both old and new scores. After wrapping up the scene, it was past 2 a.m., and everyone yawned and went home.
When Ethan returned home, he intended to ask Nola if she knew anything about Chayton. Maybe she'd heard something from the tribal council. However, when he walked into the room, he froze in place: Nola had fallen asleep waiting for him.
She was completely out, her brow slightly furrowed even in sleep. She'd spent days dealing with council tensions, and though Thompson was helping, the burden was still overwhelming.
Ethan didn't want to wake her. He showered quietly and gently returned to the bedroom. As he lay beside her, Nola, even in her sleep, unconsciously shifted to rest against him, seeking his warmth. Ethan smiled and wrapped an arm around her, holding her tenderly before drifting off to sleep himself.