Reincarnated in Banshee Town

Seeing the erratic movements of the truck, Brock immediately turned on the police lights and pressed the siren button on the dashboard, tailing the vehicle closely. The old tubular police lights flashed in alternating red, blue, and white as the siren wailed. A few seconds later, the truck pulled over.

The police car stopped behind the truck, but Brock didn't rush to exit. Instead, he grabbed the loudspeaker and began addressing the vehicle ahead.

—To the vehicle in front, turn off the engine immediately, lower the window, and place the keys on the roof for inspection.—

After repeating the command twice, the truck finally shut off, and the driver placed the keys on the roof. Both officers exited the car, with Brock standing in front of the police vehicle, signaling for Ethan to approach and question the driver.

Ethan, his hand brushing the grip of his pistol, walked toward the driver's side. A white man in a yellow jacket sat behind the wheel, gripping it impatiently as a strong odor emanated from the vehicle.

Recognizing the distinct smell of marijuana, Ethan kept his hand on the Glock, cautiously approaching the car window.

—Good morning, sir. Banshee Town Police Department. We noticed your erratic driving and a broken taillight, so we pulled you over. Please show me your driver's license, vehicle registration, and insurance policy.—

—Screw you! Who are you, anyway? I've never seen you before,— the driver responded arrogantly.

Irritated by the man's attitude, Ethan's tone hardened.

—Sir, am I to understand you are refusing to comply with an officer's orders?—

With a scoff, the driver pulled his ID from the sun visor and handed it to Ethan.

—Is the vehicle registered under your name, Mr. Cole Moody?— Ethan asked while inspecting the ID.

—Yeah, it's mine. Anything else?— Moody replied, growing more impatient.

Ignoring his tone, Ethan warned him to remain still. He then pressed the radio and relayed the plate number and related details to Alma. Moments later, Alma's voice came through the radio.

—I checked, and everything seems fine.—

Ethan handed the ID back to Cole.

—Mr. Moody, I have reason to suspect that you were smoking illegal substances in the vehicle moments ago. You need to step out of the car for an inspection. Are you carrying any weapons on your person or in the vehicle?—

—I didn't do anything! Don't cause me problems. Leave me alone,— Cole said, waving his hands nervously.

Ethan, taking a step back, warned him firmly.

—I'm warning you—don't do anything stupid. Open the car door and step out immediately.—

—What's going on?— Brock asked, quickly approaching.

Cursing, Cole opened the car door and stepped out, shoving Ethan in the chest and yelling at Brock.

—Brock, what the hell! It's just a little weed! What does this guy think he's doing?—

With quick reflexes, Ethan deflected Cole's hand and delivered a swift punch to his abdomen. Cole groaned and dropped to his knees. He tried to get up and fight back, but in seconds, he was on the ground, his head pinned under his hands.

—Go ahead, tough guy—give me a reason to shoot you,— Ethan said, pressing the Glock 17 against the back of Cole's neck.

Brock hurried over, pushing Cole down further, pressing a knee into his waist, and swiftly cuffing him. Ethan holstered his pistol, and together, they lifted Cole and pressed him against the hood of the police car. A quick search revealed at least half an ounce of marijuana in Cole's pocket.

Ethan waved the weed in front of Cole's eyes, but he only glared back in fury. After reading him his rights, Ethan placed Cole in the backseat of the police car.

—Good job. You're not hurt, are you?— Brock asked, catching his breath.

—Do you know this guy?— Ethan replied, waving a hand to show he was fine.

—It's a small town. The Moody brothers run a furniture store in town. They're always causing trouble and are regulars at our station.—

After a brief exchange, they took Cole back to the station. Once the matter was handled, they resumed their patrol, and noon quickly arrived. Brock parked the police car and led Ethan to a food truck by the side of the road.

Tacos, hot dogs, and donuts were piled high. Americans joke that guns and donuts are the two most essential tools for police. If you want free donuts, don't rob a donut shop—that's like breaking into a prison.

They ordered hot dogs, donuts, and bottled water from the vendor and sat on a nearby bench. At the first bite, the overpowering sweetness hit Ethan hard. He'd never been a fan of sweets, so he quickly drank water to suppress the sensation.

—Thanks, but it's too sweet for my taste,— Ethan said, grateful but uncomfortable with the sugar overload.

After lunch, they resumed their patrol. Throughout the afternoon, they encountered several traffic violations, with Ethan taking notes and sketching maps in his notebook to familiarize himself with the area. He knew that when patrolling alone in the future, he couldn't afford to delay in locating places if his colleagues needed backup.

Around 6:00 PM, they returned to the station.

—Ethan, come to my house later. It's your first day, and we've prepared a welcome party for you,— said Siobhan, handing him a document.

—Thank you, that's very kind.—

—It's nothing special, just a few of us from the station grilling some sausages and beef in my backyard. Seven-thirty—don't be late. I'll text you the address,— Siobhan said with a smile as she left.

Working in a municipal police station is relatively straightforward. Typically, only one person is on duty overnight, but off-duty staff must remain within the jurisdiction in case of emergencies.

After returning home, Ethan saw he still had time, so he set up an open area beside his house, creating a makeshift shooting range with old bottles and cans. It was the perfect place to practice shooting without disturbing anyone.

After showering and changing into casual clothes, he strapped on his service belt holster, pocketed his police badge, donned a light jacket, and drove to Siobhan's house.