Chapter 6: FIRST BLOOD
Moody's Used Auto sits on three acres of dirt and rusting cars. The kind of place that survives on repair work and selling beaters to people with bad credit. A family business. Honest work.
Three men are making it dishonest.
They're big. Professional muscle. Not thugs—hired men who know what they're doing. Two block the garage entrance. One has Mr. Moody by the shirt, backed against a tool bench. Mrs. Moody stands to the side with their teenage son, both trying to look brave. Failing.
Lucas and I pull up. Exit our vehicles. Approach with hands near our weapons but not on them. De-escalation first.
"Gentlemen." Lucas's voice carries authority. "Step away from Mr. Moody."
The man holding Moody looks over. Maybe thirty-five, shaved head, expensive watch. He doesn't let go.
"Sheriff. Deputy. This is private business."
"It's a disturbance call," I say. "That makes it our business."
"Mr. Proctor made Mr. Moody a generous offer for this property. We're here to facilitate his acceptance."
Facilitate. Nice word for intimidation.
"Mr. Moody?" Lucas addresses the man being held. "You want to sell?"
"No, sir." Moody's voice shakes. "This is family land. My father's business. I told Mr. Proctor I'm not interested."
"There you go." Lucas spreads his hands. "Not interested. Time to leave, gentlemen."
The lead enforcer smiles. Not friendly. "I don't think you understand how things work in Banshee, Sheriff. Mr. Proctor wants this property. What Mr. Proctor wants, he gets. That's been true long before you arrived."
"Maybe." Lucas's voice drops. Gets colder. "But I'm here now. And I'm telling you to leave."
The enforcer lets go of Moody. Steps forward. His two companions move with him—flanking maneuver, military precision. These aren't random thugs. They're trained.
"We're leaving," the lead man says. "But here's some free advice. You don't want to cross Kai Proctor. He's reasonable to people who don't interfere. Less reasonable to those who do."
"I'll keep that in mind," Lucas says.
The man nods. Starts to turn—
And throws a punch at Lucas.
Fast. Practiced. Aimed at the jaw with enough force to drop him.
Lucas barely gets his arm up. Blocks but staggers. The other two move in—one toward Lucas, one toward me.
The one coming at me telegraphs his move. Obvious windup for a right hook. I have time to think this is going to hurt—
And then something clicks.
The world doesn't slow. Time doesn't dilate. But the patterns clarify. I see the hook coming, see the weight shift, see the opening in his guard before it exists.
My body moves without conscious thought.
I step inside his reach. Grab his extended arm. Twist. His elbow hyperextends with a crack that sounds like a gunshot. He screams—high, shocked, agonized.
I let go. He drops, clutching his arm. Ruined. I did that. Broke a man's arm like snapping a dry branch.
The lead enforcer is grappling with Lucas. The third man sees his partner down. Sees me. Hesitates.
I don't.
The pattern is there. His stance, his fear, his moment of uncertainty. I read it like text. Move into the opening. My palm strike hits his solar plexus. Not hard—I think. But he folds. Gasps. Goes down.
Two men down in maybe three seconds.
Lucas gets free. The lead enforcer backs up, re-assessing. His eyes land on his fallen companions. Then on me.
"What the hell—"
I don't let him finish. Something in me understands that speech is a delay. That letting an opponent think is giving them advantage. So I move.
He swings. I'm already past it. My fist hits his kidney. He buckles. My other hand takes his leg out. He goes down hard.
Three men. Ten seconds. Done.
I stand over them, breathing steady. My hands don't hurt. My heart isn't racing. It's like the fight never happened. Like it was choreographed and I knew all the moves.
What the hell was that?
Lucas stares at me. Mrs. Moody has both hands over her mouth. Her son's eyes are wide. Mr. Moody just looks relieved and terrified in equal measure.
Sirens approach. Brock's car. Backup arriving too late.
"Jesus Christ," Lucas says quietly. "Where did you—"
"I don't know." My voice is steady. That scares me more than the fighting. I should be shaking. Should be shocked. Instead, I feel calm. Focused. Like this is normal.
Brock pulls up. Takes in the scene—three men on the ground, groaning. Lucas and me standing. The Moody family huddled together.
"What happened?" Brock exits his vehicle, hand on his weapon.
"Assault," Lucas says smoothly. "These men attacked Mr. Moody. We intervened. They resisted."
"Resisted." Brock looks at the man with the broken arm. "That's more than resisting."
"He was attacking my partner." Lucas doesn't blink. "I'd call that justified."
Brock walks to the downed men. Checks them—alive, conscious, no permanent damage except maybe the arm. He straightens, looking at me.
"Marcus. You did this?"
"We both did."
"Don't lie. I can see the pattern. Lucas has a bruised cheek. You don't have a scratch." His eyes narrow. "Three trained men. Taken down by one deputy. That's... impressive."
It's not a compliment. It's suspicion.
"Adrenaline," I say. "They weren't expecting resistance."
"Uh-huh." Brock doesn't believe me. But he lets it go. "We'll need statements. From everyone. And these men are going to need medical attention."
"Call an ambulance," Lucas says. "We'll handle the paperwork."
The next hour is procedures. Statements from the Moodys. The three enforcers refusing to talk, waiting for lawyers. An ambulance taking broken-arm guy to the hospital. Brock watching everything. Watching me especially.
By the time we're done, it's late afternoon. The Moodys thank us—genuine gratitude mixed with fear. They know they've made an enemy today. Kai Proctor doesn't accept defiance.
Lucas and I return to the station. Write reports. Make it official and boring. Assault. Resistance. Appropriate use of force. Everything by the book.
But when we're finally alone in the parking lot, Lucas grabs my arm.
"What the hell was that?"
"I don't know."
"Ben." His grip tightens. "You moved like—I've seen professional fighters. Military hand-to-hand specialists. You were better. Faster. You read them before they moved."
"I know."
"How?"
I pull free. Lean against my patrol car. My hands are steady. No tremor. No reaction.
But inside, something is screaming. Because I felt it during the fight. That awareness. That clarity. Like every possibility existed in my mind simultaneously and my body just picked the best path through them.
"The healing," I say finally. "After the crash. Maybe whatever fixed my body changed other things."
"Changed you into a martial arts master?"
"I don't know!" It comes out harsh. I breathe. Lower my voice. "I don't know what I am, Lucas. I woke up in a dying body. It healed. And apparently, I can fight now. I don't know why. I don't know how. I just... did it."
Lucas studies me. Long, measuring look.
"You're not normal."
"I noticed."
"I mean really not normal. Supernatural not normal."
"Maybe."
"Maybe." He laughs—no humor in it. "My partner is some kind of superhuman, and I'm obsessed with a woman who wants nothing to do with me. Hell of a team."
"Partners," I say. "Still partners."
He meets my eyes. "Yeah. Partners." He straightens. "But we need to talk about this. About what you can do. Because if Proctor's men report back about the deputy who took them down alone—"
"They won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because admitting three professional enforcers got beaten by one deputy makes them look incompetent. They'll lie. Say it was five cops, or we used weapons, or something. Nobody admits to being destroyed that easily."
Lucas considers. Nods slowly. "Okay. Maybe. But Proctor will still hear some version. And he'll be interested."
"Let him be interested. As long as he doesn't know what I actually am."
"And what are you?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because I don't know.
We separate. I drive back to the apartment. Park. Sit in the car for ten minutes, staring at my hands.
These hands broke a man's arm. Took down three trained fighters. Moved with impossible precision.
What am I?
The question circles. No answer comes.
I get out. Walk upstairs. The apartment is empty—Lucas staying at the station, finishing paperwork. I'm alone with my thoughts and my impossible abilities.
I go to the bathroom. Strip off my shirt. Check for injuries in the mirror.
Nothing. Not even a bruise. Like the fight never happened.
But my knuckles are red. Not bloody, not bruised. Just red from impact. Proof that it was real.
I touch my arm. The place where bone broke through skin two days ago. Smooth. Healed. Perfect.
I touch my ribs. The place where they were crushed. No pain. No tenderness. Like they were never shattered.
Regeneration. Accelerated healing. And now—fighting ability that shouldn't exist.
I'm changing. Or I've already changed. The body I'm wearing is becoming something else.
No. Not becoming. Is. I'm something else wearing human skin. A predator disguised as prey.
The wolf.
The thought comes unbidden. But it fits. I survived being killed. Healed from impossible injuries. Fought three men without breaking a sweat. I'm not Marcus Webb. I'm not Ben Franklin. I'm something else using those names as camouflage.
I'm the wolf.
And tonight, for the first time, I showed teeth.
The question is: who else noticed?
I dress. Go to the kitchen. Pour bourbon—Sugar left a bottle. Drink it straight. Let the burn ground me in physical sensation.
My phone rings. Lucas.
"Yeah?"
"Proctor knows. Just got a call. He wants to meet us. Tomorrow evening. His place." Lucas's voice is tight. "Said he was impressed by our handling of the situation today. Wants to discuss cooperation."
"Cooperation."
"That's what he said."
"You believe him?"
"No. But we don't have a choice. We either go or we insult him. And insulting Kai Proctor isn't smart."
I sip bourbon. Think about patterns and power and the shape of this town.
"Okay. We go. We listen. We don't commit to anything."
"Agreed."
"Lucas? One more thing."
"Yeah?"
"Siobhan Kelly. She's going to keep digging. We need a plan for when she finds something."
Silence on the line. Then: "I know. I'm working on it."
"Work faster. Between her and Proctor and Carrie—we've got too many loose threads."
"I know."
He hangs up. I finish my bourbon. Stand at the window, watching Banshee settle into evening.
Somewhere out there, Kai Proctor is learning about his new sheriff and deputy. Somewhere out there, Siobhan Kelly is questioning what she saw. Somewhere out there, Carrie Hopewell is afraid.
And here I am. A dead man who won't die. A deputy who fights like a professional killer. A thing pretending to be human.
The wolf has shown teeth.
Tomorrow, I meet the king of Banshee.
That should scare me.
It doesn't.
Instead, I feel hungry. Ready. Alive.
The hunt is on.
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