After two hours of driving through the mountains, a voice suddenly came through the car radio.
—Thank God, we have a signal. I'll call the police —Jesse said, waking the others as she pulled her phone from her pocket.
She switched on the screen, looked at it in surprise, and quickly began dialing.
—Wait —Ethan interrupted, shaking his head.
Jesse looked at him in confusion.
—Shouldn't we call the police?
—No —Ethan replied, struggling to pull his own phone from his pocket. He handed it to Daria, who sat beside him—. We're calling the FBI.
The cannibals had been terrorizing the mountains for years. They had even operated a gas station to sell stolen goods. Ethan suspected someone in the local police department was helping them—or, worse, that one of the officers belonged to their group.
He turned to Daria.
—Find Racine in my contacts.
Daria dialed the number and handed him the phone. After a few rings, Special Agent Racine's gravelly voice came through the line.
Everyone at the Banshee Police Department had received Racine's number after the last closed-door hearing. Rather than involve the local department, Ethan had decided to contact the federal authorities directly.
The morning sun shone brightly as the truck stopped outside a dilapidated gas station. The wooden building was cluttered with assorted belongings, and a refrigerator stood beside the kitchen. Ethan opened it and found it stocked with beer and food. With a faint smile, he took a beer and went outside.
A few hours later, when Ethan and the others had nearly emptied the refrigerator of beer, they heard approaching vehicles.
Special Agent Racine spotted the gas station sign and pulled over. His gray hair stirred in the breeze as he climbed out. He surveyed the scene, took out a cigarette, and drew a long breath of smoke.
—Shit.
A man and three women leaned against the wall in bloodstained clothes, basking in the sun as though they were on vacation. They held beers, with shotguns resting at their feet.
—Special Agent Racine. Thanks for coming. This whole thing's a disaster —Ethan said.
Seeing that only one car had arrived, he reluctantly picked up the last can of beer and stood.
As Ethan approached, Racine immediately caught the strong smell of blood coming from him.
—Is it really that bad? —he asked, scratching his cheek with the hand holding his cigarette before taking a sip of beer.
Ethan shrugged, led him to the back of the truck, and lifted one of the bedspreads covering the bodies of Jesse and Carly's murdered friends.
—Worse than you can imagine.
Racine looked at the disemboweled man lying in the truck and spat out his beer. Still, his decades of investigative experience quickly took over. He nodded, reached into his pocket, and took out his phone to make a call.
Soon afterward, six black Chevrolet SUVs pulled up at the intersection with their emergency lights flashing. Agents climbed out, wearing jackets marked with the FBI logo. Racine had also requested a SWAT team.
As arranged, Daria, Jesse, and Carly got into a car and left with an African American agent. Ethan smiled faintly as he watched them go.
He had reviewed their accounts with them beforehand. Most of what they had said was true, with only a few details omitted. Racine had already contacted the SEAL team's command to confirm Ethan's story, but the team's involvement had to be left out of the official account. All the kills would therefore be attributed to Ethan.
—Come on. Show us the way —Racine said, lighting a cigarette before climbing into the car.
Following Ethan's directions, the convoy returned to the riverbank. A dozen FBI agents moved between the wooden houses, carrying out bodies one after another. Behind some of the buildings, they also found a well filled with bones.
Occasionally, a younger agent would rush outside, brace against a wall, and vomit. Leaning against a car's hood, Ethan sensed that something was wrong again. His smile faded, and he held his cigarette between his lips.
Racine's face alternated between sickly pale and flushed with anger. His eyes blazing, he shouted:
—You're an FBI agent, you asshole! Swallow whatever's left in your mouth and get back to work!
The young agent hastily wiped his mouth and hurried back inside.
Ethan lit his cigarette and noticed people watching him from time to time. Whenever he looked up, they quickly glanced away. Then a man in an FBI field jacket approached, adjusted his glasses, and asked politely:
—Is this all of them?
Ethan looked at the dozen bodies laid out before him and shook his head.
—No. There were a couple more cabins upstream, farther up the slope. They burned down, but you should still be able to find the remains.
He pointed toward the forest on the nearby hillside.
The agent removed his glasses and looked at him in bewilderment.
—You're really a small-town police officer?
Ethan spread his hands and shrugged.
As the agent walked away in disbelief, Racine tapped his cigarette pack thoughtfully.
—What do you think? Interested in joining us?
—The FBI?
Racine took a deep drag before replying with interest:
—Yes. I remember your father was a police officer too. With your record, getting in shouldn't be difficult. If you're interested, we'd be happy to have you. You'd just need to go to Quantico for training.
Though Racine knew he didn't have much time left, Ethan's talent still impressed him enough to make a recruitment attempt. Every FBI department needed people like him.
Ethan shook his head.
—Thanks. I'm happy where I am. But if that changes, you'll be the first person I call.
Racine clapped him on the shoulder, his expression meaningful.
—All right. You have my number. Don't worry. I'll handle the rest.
By bypassing the local police and bringing the case directly to Racine, Ethan had handed him a major success. In return, he needed Racine's help keeping certain details out of the report. Racine asked an agent to take him somewhere to rest. Exhausted after two intense days, Ethan fell asleep in the car.
He didn't know how much time had passed before the agent woke him. They had stopped outside a two-story wooden house, with a black Chevrolet SUV parked in the driveway. Ethan rubbed his eyes and climbed out.
It was a remote community, though he could faintly hear car horns in the distance. The lighted house and signs of civilization finally allowed him to relax. He had no desire to venture any farther into the mountains.
He knocked, and an FBI agent in field clothing opened the door. The man looked him over before stepping aside.
—Where are my friends? —Ethan asked.
—Upstairs. They're resting —the agent replied, settling onto the sofa and picking up a newspaper—. You should get some rest too. At least take a hot shower.
Ethan went upstairs. In the hallway, he hesitated briefly before entering a room with an open door. He dropped his backpack on the floor and spotted a minibar stocked with small whiskey bottles. He took four or five.
The cheap whiskey burned his throat, but his attention soon shifted to the glass shower beside the bed. Aware of how badly he smelled, he quickly undressed and stepped inside.
The hot water brought immediate relief, and he let himself enjoy it.
—Ethan?
A surprised voice came from outside the shower.
He wiped the water from his face and looked out. Carly stood in the doorway, wearing a white bathrobe, her wet hair falling over her shoulders. She had clearly just showered too.
Ethan smiled and lifted the bottle in his hand. Carly smiled back, let her robe fall, and hurried toward him. A loud cry soon rang through the room.
—What's taking Carly so long to find ice? —Daria asked, swirling her glass and struggling to enjoy the warm liquor.
Jesse sat cross-legged in a chair, one corner of her robe slipping aside to reveal her long, pale legs. She set down her glass.
—I'll go find her.
The moment she opened the door, she heard loud thumping from the room opposite. Its door stood ajar, and a bathrobe lay on the floor. Jesse stepped closer, pushed the door open, and looked inside.
Steam clouded the glass shower, making it difficult to see clearly. Carly leaned against the shower door, her wet black curls clinging to her back. She bit her lip, then noticed Jesse and reached toward her.
—Come help me!
—Ah…
Before she could say more, she cried out and disappeared back into the steam. Jesse's heart raced. The alcohol had gone to her head, leaving her dizzy. Then a loud snort sounded behind her.
Daria stood there with half a glass of brandy in her hand, her eyes gleaming. Jesse looked down at the bloodstained clothes and backpack on the floor. She immediately recognized them.
Daria finished her brandy, gave Jesse a playful slap on the backside, and walked toward the shower. She tossed her robe onto the bed and disappeared into the mist. The thumping stopped briefly, then resumed more forcefully. Jesse's pulse raced, and her face flushed.
She glanced into the hallway, stepped fully into the room, and silently closed the door.
The four surrendered to the moment as the steady sound of running water mingled with their uneven breaths. There were no words, only exchanged looks and gentle touches beneath the warmth of the shower. Water traced their skin as though washing away the fear and danger they had endured. Every touch, every gesture, quietly affirmed that they were alive and safe, sharing something deeper than the threats they had faced.
The cramped shower became a refuge, a place where the vulnerability of the previous days gave way to an unspoken bond. The falling water enclosed them like a protective curtain, shutting out the world and allowing a closeness words could not express.
Beside Ethan, Jesse and Daria shared the same quiet comfort, their bodies relaxing and their fingers intertwined as though neither wanted to let go. They looked at each other without speaking. Steam enveloped them, creating a small space in which everything they had endured seemed to recede, leaving only the present. Their physical closeness carried an emotional intimacy none of them could have anticipated.
For that moment, the outside world ceased to exist. There was no fear, no urgency, no immediate danger—only running water, surrounding warmth, and the shared weight of what needed no explanation. Their exchanged glances held a deep understanding born from surviving the worst together. The danger that had surrounded them had become a bond, intangible but strong.
Time seemed to slow. What might otherwise have been fleeting stretched beneath the weight of their emotions. Terror, adrenaline, and grief found release in gentle touches and faint laughter. It was more than physical comfort or passing attraction. They understood that they had survived, that they were still together, and that this small, steam-filled space offered a way to set down some of what they had carried.
The water continued flowing over them as their physical and emotional exhaustion gradually eased. None wanted to let the moment end. They were doing more than surviving; they were finding their way back to themselves and soothing the invisible wounds those days had left.
Hours later, the darkened room held them in a quiet calm. They had left the shower for the bed, lying together beneath loosely drawn sheets. The night breeze whispered through the half-open window, while warmth and closeness filled the room.
Carly nestled beside Ethan, her fingers lightly brushing his arm as though reassuring herself that they were safe. Nearby, Jesse rested her head on Daria's chest, their breathing settling into a slow, peaceful rhythm. Their experiences had brought them closer in ways none had expected, and that night, they finally found room to release what they had held inside.
The danger had marked each of them. That night, those marks seemed to soften with every touch and quiet gesture. In bed, fear gave way to shared warmth and understanding.
***A week later.***
A small boat floated on the lake. The calm water rippled, then splashed as strong arms emerged and fingers caught its edge. Ethan pulled himself up, turned, and leaned back inside the wooden boat.
Taking advantage of the last daylight, he finished his swim, picked up the paddle, and headed toward his small dock. The camping trip was long over, and Jesse and Carly had returned to Philadelphia. At Ethan's request, Racine had kept several of their identities anonymous in the report.
The boat bumped gently against a tire hanging from the dock. Ethan climbed out, tied it to a wooden post, got dressed, and drove his Dodge Challenger straight to the Davis Bar.
Once there, he asked Sugar to fry a large plate of beef ribs to satisfy his hunger.
After eating, he sat at the bar and talked with Sugar. Everything damaged earlier had been replaced, restoring the bar's familiar appearance. As the evening wore on, more customers arrived.
When Hood entered with his arm around a blonde woman, Ethan set down his glass in surprise and looked at Sugar.
The woman was Kate Moody, the wife of Cole Moody—the man Ethan had killed. He had previously seen Kate coming downstairs from Hood's rooms in the barn and assumed they were having a discreet affair. He hadn't expected them to appear together so openly.
Sugar topped up his whiskey and shrugged.
—We're adults. What's so strange about it? Carrie, Hood's old lover, is in prison. It's natural for him to find someone else.
Ethan nodded, though it still felt strange. Kate wasn't particularly beautiful, but she had a sturdy figure. She had also been kind to him, once bringing an apple pie to the station. Still, he had no interest in her. It wasn't resentment or a lack of attraction; he simply couldn't stomach the thought of sleeping with the widow of a man he had killed.
When Kate smiled at him from across the room, Ethan raised his glass and returned the gesture.
Late that night, the customers began drifting out. Kate and Hood had already returned to the barn, and Sugar yawned. Ethan stood and finished his drink, but just then, Job opened the door.
—I knew you'd be here.
Job tossed his wallet onto the bar and ordered a drink. Ethan hadn't seen him in days and immediately noticed his new look: what little hair he had was dyed pink.
—How's the stuff I asked you for coming along? —Ethan asked, raising his glass to him.
—We'll talk about that later.
Job drained his drink, took out his phone, and made a call.
—I'm at Sugar's. Get over here.
He hung up and tossed the phone aside. Sugar refilled their glasses and asked curiously:
—New York didn't go well?
Ethan spread his hands, equally puzzled. Job shook his head and drank his whiskey, looking miserable. A moment later, Hood entered with a smile and approached the bar. He took a drink and asked eagerly:
—Did you find a buyer?
Job glanced at Ethan, then produced a small black bag. He opened it and spilled dozens of diamonds onto the counter. They sparkled beneath the lights.
—This is what we stole from Capital Diamond, using Rabbit's information —Job said, lighting a cigarette—. Ten million dollars in uncut diamonds.
Hood scratched his head, confused.
—You couldn't find a buyer? It's been a while. It shouldn't be that hard.
—I'd take twenty percent. That would be enough.
—It's not the buyer.
Job exhaled smoke and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray.
—Rabbit played us.
An uneasy feeling settled over Hood as he looked at Job.
Suddenly, Job grabbed the ashtray and slammed it onto one of the diamonds. A dull crack echoed through the bar, and the glittering stone shattered.
—Rabbit played you —he exclaimed, his voice growing angrier—. He fucked you. He fucked me. That bastard fucked all of us.
Job tossed the ashtray aside. It clattered against the counter, scattering cigarette ash everywhere.
He sat on a tall stool and lit another cigarette with trembling hands.
—Fifteen years.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke.
—You spent fifteen years in prison for stealing a handful of fake glass.
Hood stood motionless, staring at the shattered stones. His thoughts spun. He had always believed there was something binding him to Rabbit. He had endured fifteen years of imprisonment and torture, fighting to survive with the thought of those ten million dollars waiting for him. Knowing Carrie had escaped Rabbit's control had helped keep him alive too.
He had believed Rabbit kept him alive only because he wanted the diamonds back. Now it all seemed like a cruel joke. A burning sensation rose in Hood's face, and warm blood began running from his nose. He quickly wiped it away and spoke coldly.
—We have to find Rabbit. This time, he's not the one coming for revenge. I am.
Job smoked in silence, then slowly nodded and exhaled.
—Don't worry. I'll stay on his trail for as long as it takes.
Hood stood and left the bar. The ten million dollars in diamonds had been his last fallback. With that gone, he felt empty.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor of the barn. Kate Moody lay on her side in bed, the tattoo on her lower back exposed. A curl of white smoke escaped her red-painted lips as the door opened. Seeing Hood's vacant expression, she looked at him curiously.
—What's wrong?
Without speaking, Hood fell upon her like a hungry wolf. He wanted only to release the anger and frustration burning inside him.
Back at the bar, after Hood's departure, Sugar quietly picked up a towel, moved the glasses aside, and swept the cigarette butts into the trash.
—Sorry —Job said, calmer now, his expression embarrassed.
—That's new. First time I've heard you apologize.
Sugar removed his hat, hung it on the rack behind the bar, and poured himself a whiskey.
—Believe me, I know how you feel. I've put years of sweat, pain, and effort into something, only to find it was all for nothing.
With a bitter smile, he drained the whiskey.
—Look at me. An old, gray-haired, overweight guy looking after this beat-up bar. If I didn't tell people, who'd know I used to be a boxing champion? That I ruled the ring in my prime?
—You're still in good shape —Ethan said, trying to lighten the mood—. You took down a few bikers at the Banshee Festival.
—You don't get it —Sugar replied sadly—. This is an old boxer's body. How many more years do you think it'll let me keep serving drinks?
Ethan had no answer, so he simply drank with them. A little later, he and Job left the bar.
Their cars sped along the road, one following the other, until they reached Job's house. Ethan shut his car door, looked at the dark building, and asked:
—Johnny's not with you?
Johnny, Job's goth boyfriend, was usually around.
—He's in New York —Job replied, grimacing as he opened the front door.
His mood remained bleak. He had expected to walk away with hundreds of thousands of dollars and had ended up with nothing. They entered the house, which, unlike his place in New York, was fully furnished. Job opened the refrigerator and tossed Ethan a bottle of water. Ethan took a sip before asking:
—Where's the stuff I asked for?
—Basement.
They descended the stairs into a room empty except for a wine rack against the wall. Job smiled, approached it, and pushed it a few inches. It swung open like a door. Lights flickered on, revealing a small space of only a few square meters, with a gun rack mounted on the wall beside a table.
A heavy black travel bag sat on the table.
—I've got just about anything you might need —Job said, lighting another cigarette—. You won't have to go hunting for arms dealers. Pick what you want.
Ethan opened the bag. Among the rifles and handguns, his eyes settled on a silver Desert Eagle. It weighed four pounds, kicked brutally, and held only seven rounds. He gripped it firmly, knowing he would have no trouble handling it.
—Got any gloves?
—Side pocket.
Job took out a pair of black gloves and handed them over.
Ethan inspected the weapons and selected the Desert Eagle, a Beretta M9, an AR-15, and an Uzi submachine gun. Job watched him curiously.
—Who are you planning to fight?
Ethan raised an eyebrow, turning the Desert Eagle in his hands.
—Everyone.