Chapter 25: THE DEPUTIES' CHOICE
The station conference room feels smaller with four people in it. Maps spread across the table. Weapons stacked in the corner. The clock reads 7:32 PM.
Four hours and twenty-eight minutes.
Brock and Siobhan sit across from Lucas and me. Their faces are serious. Professional. But I see the calculation happening behind their eyes—weighing what they've been told against what they suspect.
"Let me be clear," I say. "Thirty armed men. Professional killers. They're coming to extract someone under our protection. This happens tonight. Midnight, give or take."
"Thirty." Brock's tone is flat. "Against four deputies."
"Five, counting Sugar. Six with Job on surveillance." Lucas leans forward. "But yeah. The math is bad."
"This isn't official," I continue. "It won't be sanctioned. If you walk away right now, no one judges you. No one questions it. You go home. Safe."
Silence.
Siobhan looks at her badge on the table. Picks it up. Sets it back down. "And the person you're protecting? They worth dying for?"
"That's not the question," I say. "The question is: are we willing to let thirty killers take what they want from our town? From people who trust us to stand between them and monsters?"
"That's a hell of a sales pitch," Brock says. "But you're dodging. Who are we protecting?"
Lucas and I exchange glances. How much truth to give?
"Someone who escaped organized crime," Lucas says. "Built a new life here. Good person. Family. Kids. And the people coming want to drag them back. Or kill them. Haven't decided which."
"Eastern European," I add. "Ukrainian syndicate. The same people who sent the scouts you met."
Brock processes this. "So we're not protecting a federal witness. We're protecting someone who ran from the mob."
"Yes."
"And you two knew this person from before." Not a question.
"Yes," Lucas admits.
"And you're asking us to risk our lives for your friend. Against overwhelming odds. With no official sanction or backup." Brock looks at Siobhan. She looks back.
Neither moves toward the door.
"Why are you really doing this?" Brock asks me. "Not for some stranger you used to know. What's the real reason?"
I consider lying. Deflecting. Playing the noble deputy.
Instead: "Because it's the right thing. Because they're monsters and she's not. Because sometimes the badge means something more than procedure and politics. Because if we don't stand here, who will?"
"And because she's family," Lucas adds quietly. "Not by blood. But by choice. And I don't abandon family."
Brock nods slowly. "Okay."
"Okay?" Siobhan asks him.
"Okay. I'm in." He stands. "I became a cop to protect people. That's what this is. Different scale, different rules. But same job."
Siobhan stands too. "I'm in. But I want one thing clear—we survive this, you both owe me answers. Real ones. About everything."
"Deal," I say.
Lucas pulls out a detailed map of Banshee. "Positions. Job's tracked their likely entry points. Three vectors—north, east, west. They'll spread out, search systematically, converge on the target when they find it."
"Which they won't," I say. "Because we'll stop them first."
"How?" Brock asks.
"Ambush points." Lucas marks the map. "We can't hold a perimeter. But we can control the approaches. Funnel them. Hit them before they consolidate."
I take over. "Siobhan, you take east. There's a warehouse with roof access. Good sight lines. Rifle range. You see them coming, you thin the numbers before they reach town center."
She nods. "Sniper position. I can work with that."
"Brock, west approach. The old mill road. It's the fastest route from the highway. They'll use it. Set up behind the concrete barriers. Cover, concealment, escape route if you're overwhelmed."
"And you two?" Brock asks.
"Lucas guards Sugar's directly. It's the likely target once they start searching. I'll be mobile." I tap multiple positions on the map. "Wherever the fighting is thickest. Wherever you need backup."
"Mobile response." Siobhan's voice is skeptical. "Against thirty men."
"I'm good at moving fast. And I'm hard to kill." I meet her eyes. "You've seen some of it. Tonight you'll see more. Don't let it distract you. Just trust it."
She holds my stare. Then nods. "Okay. But after—"
"After, you get answers. I promise."
We distribute equipment. Extra ammunition. Radios on encrypted frequency. First aid kits—more for them than me. Body armor. Tactical vests.
Brock checks his weapon. Reloads methodically. "Rules of engagement?"
"They're armed. They're hunting someone. They won't surrender." Lucas's voice is hard. "You shoot first. You shoot to kill. You don't hesitate. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Communications stay open," I add. "You see them, report first, engage second. Job will be monitoring from his location. He'll provide intel—numbers, positions, movements. Use it."
"And if we're overrun?" Siobhan asks.
"Fall back to Sugar's. We concentrate our forces. Make them come to us on our terms."
We review the plan twice more. Timing. Signals. Fallback positions. What to do if communications fail. What to do if someone goes down.
The professionalism is surreal. Four deputies planning urban warfare like it's standard procedure.
By 9 PM, we're ready. As ready as we'll ever be.
"Positions by 10:30," Lucas says. "They'll start arriving around 11. Contact expected by midnight."
"One more thing," I say. "These aren't normal criminals. They're trained. Experienced. They've done this before. Don't underestimate them. Don't try to be heroes. Do your job and stay alive."
Brock almost laughs. "Says the man planning to be mobile against thirty killers."
"I'm different."
"Yeah. I'm starting to figure that out." He offers his hand. I shake it. "See you on the other side, Deputy Webb."
"See you there."
Siobhan lingers as Brock leaves. She's checking her rifle. Doesn't look at me.
"Something on your mind?" I ask.
"I've seen you do things I can't explain. At the bank. At the fights. Even just the way you move." She finally looks up. "Tonight, I don't care about explanations. Just don't die."
It's not romantic. Not a confession. It's rawer than that—one soldier to another. Recognition that we might not see morning.
"I'll do my best," I say.
"Your best is pretty good." She slings the rifle. "But thirty against four? Even you have limits."
"We'll find out."
She moves toward the door. Pauses. "You know what I think? I think you're not just different. I think you're something we don't have words for yet. Something new." She doesn't wait for confirmation. "Be that thing tonight. Whatever it takes."
She leaves.
I'm alone in the conference room. Maps. Weapons. The quiet before violence.
My phone buzzes. Job: All systems green. Monitoring active. You're cleared to positions.
I text back: Thanks for doing this.
Thank Lucas. I'm doing it for him. You're just a bonus.
I almost smile.
Another text, from Lucas: Carrie asks if you're ready.
Tell her the wolf is awake.
She says that's either reassuring or terrifying.
Both. Tell her both.
I gear up. Vest. Weapons. Ammunition. Radio. The weight is familiar. Comforting. Tools of the trade.
My shoulder twinges—memory of the training cut, long healed. My body is ready. Powers tested. Limits known.
Tonight, those limits get tested for real.
I leave the station. The town is quiet. Normal. People in their homes. Living their lives. Unaware that in three hours, war comes to their streets.
I'll keep it that way. Keep them safe. Keep them ignorant.
The wolf stretches inside me. Wakes up. Smiles.
Thirty killers.
Four defenders.
The math is terrible.
But math doesn't account for monsters on both sides.
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