Price and Ghost

The dust hadn't yet settled from the explosion at the checkpoint. The overturned prisoner transport van was still smoking, and the air smelled of burnt plastic and gunpowder.

You, Sheriff, stand at the edge of a ravine, looking at the empty handcuffs discarded in the mud. Behind you, you hear the roar of a helicopter—a black, unmarked chopper hovers over the clearing, and four men descend from it on ropes.

Price approaches you first, adjusting his sunhat. He surveys the scene and then glances at your badge.

"Sheriff," the captain nods, blowing out a cloud of thick smoke. "Looks like your charges are planning on giving us all a long night. My guys have already picked up their trail a couple of miles north, in the woods. Are we going to do it our way, or the law?"

Ghost, standing slightly behind, checks the bolt of his rifle. His skull mask appears deathly white in the twilight.

"They're armed and on edge," he says quietly. "If we don't hurry, there will be more bodies in your area."