Chapter 10: THE BANK JOB
The radio crackles at 10:47 AM.
"All units, armed robbery in progress. Banshee Savings and Loan. Multiple suspects, hostages reported. Units respond Code 3."
I'm two blocks away. Flip the lights, hit the siren. The patrol car accelerates.
Alma's voice again: "Deputy Webb, you're closest. Deputy Kelly en route from south end. Sheriff Hood is at county courthouse—twenty minutes out."
"Copy. Approaching scene now."
The bank sits on Main Street. Single story, brick construction, large windows. Bad tactical position for robbery—too exposed. Which means either amateurs or professionals counting on speed.
I pull up across the street. Kill the siren, leave the lights. A woman runs from the bank entrance—customer, panicked, safe. I intercept her.
"How many?"
"Four. Masks. Guns. They told everyone on the floor." She's shaking. "My daughter's still inside."
"Stay here. Don't move."
Siobhan's car arrives. She exits, weapon drawn, using her vehicle for cover. Professional. Competent. She assesses the scene quickly.
"Backup's ten minutes minimum," she says. "State police longer."
"We can't wait." I point to the windows. "Hostages visible. Four suspects confirmed. They'll either grab money and run or execute hostages to prevent pursuit."
"Standard protocol is contain and wait for tactical."
"Standard protocol gets people killed." My Criminal Instinct is screaming. Not about value this time—about pattern. The robbery feels wrong. Staged. Like a test.
Siobhan studies me. "You have a plan?"
"I take the back. You cover the front. Anyone runs, you contain. I'll push them toward you."
"That's not a plan. That's suicide."
"It's a chance." I meet her eyes. "Your call. You're senior deputy."
She looks at the bank. At the hostages visible through the windows. Makes the calculation.
"Go. But you radio before engagement. Clear?"
"Clear."
I move. Circle around back through the alley. The rear entrance is service access—employees only. My instinct maps the building's interior automatically. Kitchen, break room, hallway to main floor. The guard posted at this entrance will be watching the front, not expecting rear approach.
I'm right.
He's young. Maybe twenty-five. Masked, but his stance screams inexperience. Holding an AR-15 like it's heavy. Uncomfortable grip. Finger on the trigger instead of the guard.
Amateur.
I come up quiet. He hears me at the last second—turns, starts to raise the weapon.
Violence Mastery activates. I see the pattern. The weight distribution. The split second before he commits.
My hand catches the barrel, pushes it aside. My elbow hits his temple. Not hard enough to kill—enough to shut down consciousness. He drops.
I catch the rifle. Check the chamber—loaded, safety off. Sloppy. I clear it, pocket the magazine, set it aside.
Radio: "Siobhan, one down. Rear entry secured. Moving interior."
"Copy. Be careful."
The hallway is empty. Voices ahead—the main floor. Three more suspects. Unknown number of hostages. I move quiet, weapon drawn.
The break room door is open. I peek through.
Main floor visible. Three masked men. Two holding ARs, covering maybe eight hostages on the ground. The third is at the counter, stuffing cash into a duffel. Military efficiency. These aren't amateurs like the guard.
The layout is clear. Suspect One: by the teller counter, focused on money. Suspect Two: center floor, watching hostages. Suspect Three: near the entrance, watching the street.
I have maybe three seconds before someone glances back and sees me.
My Criminal Instinct is still screaming. This is wrong. This is too exposed. They're not here for money.
But they're here. And they have guns on civilians.
I step into the main floor.
"Sheriff's department. Weapons down."
Three heads turn. Surprise. Then training kicks in.
Suspect Two swings his AR toward me. Suspect Three does the same. Suspect One reaches for his sidearm.
Violence Mastery floods my awareness. Three threats. Three angles. Three patterns unfolding.
I move.
Suspect Two is closest. I'm inside his firing arc before he completes the turn. My hand catches his weapon, redirects it up. The burst goes into the ceiling. Plaster rains down. My knee hits his groin. He folds.
Suspect Three is firing. Three rounds. I'm already moving. They miss—one close enough I feel the displacement.
Then pain.
Fourth round catches my left arm. Graze. Hot line of fire across the tricep.
And something else happens.
The pain doesn't slow me. It fuels me.
Clarity sharpens. Movement accelerates. The world becomes pure information. I close the distance to Suspect Three in two steps—faster than I should move. My hand is on his weapon before his next shot. I rip it away. Strike his throat with controlled force. He goes down gasping.
Suspect One has his pistol out. Aiming at hostages.
"Move and I shoot them!"
I freeze. Assess. He's fifteen feet away. Clear line of fire to three hostages. His hand is steady—professional, not panicked.
"Put it down," I say. Calm. Level.
"You put yours down or I execute—"
I throw Suspect Three's rifle.
It's not a clean throw. The weapon tumbles, off-balance. But it doesn't need to be clean. It just needs to be distracting.
Suspect One's eyes track the movement. Reflexive. Quarter-second loss of focus.
I'm already moving. Cross the fifteen feet. His pistol swings back toward me—too slow. My hand catches his wrist. Twists. The pistol fires—round goes wild. I drive my palm into his elbow. Hyperextension. He screams. The weapon drops.
I kick it away. Put him on the ground. Kneel on his back.
"Clear!" I shout. "Suspects down. Need medical."
Siobhan enters through the front. Weapon up. She sweeps the room. Finds me kneeling on Suspect One, the other two groaning on the floor, the guard still unconscious in back.
"Jesus Christ," she breathes. "You took all four?"
"Didn't have a choice."
The hostages are moving—shocked, crying, scrambling toward the exit. A woman grabs her daughter. They run.
Siobhan radios for ambulance and backup. Starts securing the suspects. I stay on Suspect One until she cuffs him.
My arm burns. I look down. Blood soaking my sleeve. The graze is deeper than I thought.
Siobhan sees it. "You're hit."
"It's minor."
"That's not minor. That's bleeding." She reaches for her radio. "I need medical—"
"I'm fine." I press my hand over the wound. Feel something underneath. The flesh is already starting to knit. Faster than it should. Too fast.
Siobhan's eyes narrow. She saw something. The wound, the blood, the—
I pull my hand away. Adjust my sleeve to cover it better. "See? Just a graze."
She doesn't look convinced. Her eyes linger on the blood—there's a lot of it—but when she glances at where the wound should be, confusion flickers.
"You need medical attention," she says firmly.
"After we secure the scene."
Backup arrives. Brock, two other deputies, EMTs. The suspects get medical attention and transport. The hostages give statements. Brock does a walk-through, documenting.
I stand outside, letting the adrenaline fade. The arm throbs, but less than it should. The healing is happening. I can feel it. Flesh regenerating. Blood clotting. Pain converting to something else—energy, focus, clarity.
Pain makes me stronger.
The thought should disturb me. Doesn't.
Lucas arrives. Takes in the scene—four suspects in custody, no civilian casualties, one deputy bleeding but functional.
"What happened?"
"They took the bank. I ended it."
"You ended it." He looks at Siobhan. She nods confirmation. Lucas's expression shifts. "Four armed suspects. Solo."
"Wasn't planning to. Worked out that way."
An EMT approaches. "Deputy, I need to check that arm."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding through your sleeve."
I let him examine it. He cuts the sleeve away. The wound underneath is—
Smaller than it should be. The graze is there, but shallow. Mostly clotted. Like it's hours old instead of twenty minutes.
The EMT frowns. "That's... not as bad as the blood suggested."
"Told you. Minor."
"Still needs cleaning and bandaging."
He works quickly. Alcohol wipe—I don't flinch. Bandage, secure. Done.
"Keep it dry. Change the dressing tomorrow. You got lucky."
"Yeah. Lucky."
Siobhan watches the whole process. Her eyes are thoughtful. Calculating.
When the EMT leaves, she approaches.
"Four armed men," she says quietly. "Solo engagement. One minor injury. That's not standard deputy work."
"It's what was necessary."
"Where'd you learn to fight like that, Marcus?"
The question hangs. I could deflect. Make excuses. Give her more reasons to doubt.
Instead: "Training. Experience. Survival instinct. Take your pick."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
She holds my stare. Then nods slowly. "Okay. For now."
She walks away. Starts coordinating with Brock.
Lucas pulls me aside. "You took a round."
"Graze. Barely."
"And you're fine. Already." He's not asking.
"Already."
"That's not normal."
"I know."
He searches my face. Looking for what—fear? Uncertainty? He won't find it.
"We need to talk about what you are," he says.
"Later. Right now, we're deputies who stopped a bank robbery."
"Right." He doesn't sound convinced. "Deputies."
The scene clears over the next hour. Suspects transported to county lockup. Hostages released to family. Media arrives—local reporter wanting the story.
Lucas handles the interview. Deflects to me. "Deputy Webb's actions saved lives today."
The reporter turns. "Deputy, how does it feel to be a hero?"
"I'm not a hero. Just doing my job."
"Four armed men—"
"It was a team effort. Deputy Kelly covered exterior, I handled interior. Sheriff Hood coordinated response. That's how law enforcement works."
Professional. Humble. Deflective. The reporter eats it up.
By early afternoon, it's done. We return to the station. I type my report mechanically. Engagement timeline. Suspect positions. Use of force justification. Clean. Simple. Completely inadequate to describe what actually happened.
The pain conversion. The acceleration. The perfect clarity. The way I enjoyed it.
None of that makes it into the official record.
Siobhan files her report. I watch her write. She pauses at "injuries sustained." Looks at my arm—the bandage visible under the torn sleeve.
She writes "minor abrasion."
Our eyes meet across the bullpen. She knows something's wrong. The blood volume didn't match the wound size. The healing is too fast. But she's choosing not to push.
Yet.
"Good work today," she says.
"You too."
She nods. Returns to her report.
I finish mine. Submit it. Go home.
The apartment is empty. Lucas still at the station, handling administrative aftermath.
I remove the bandage. The wound underneath is almost gone. Thin pink line. By tomorrow, it'll be invisible.
I sit at the kitchen table. Pour bourbon. Study my arm.
Three things happened today:
One: I stopped a robbery. Saved lives. Did actual good.
Two: My powers manifested in combat. Violence Mastery handled the tactics. Pain Conversion turned injury into advantage. Regeneration erased the evidence.
Three: People noticed. Siobhan especially.
The cover is fraying. Every display of ability pulls more threads. Eventually, the whole thing unravels.
But what's the alternative? Let hostages die to protect a secret?
No.
I drink. The bourbon burns. Good pain. Normal pain. Human pain.
I'm becoming less human every day.
And I'm okay with that.
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