CHAPTER TWELVE

Midnight draped the police station in shadows, a cloak for the Reaper's silent rage.

And that's what he was. A reaper.

They didn't know—they couldn't. But it was only just beginning. He prowled its perimeter, a ghost among men, his footsteps soundless against the concrete. Every nerve fired with tension, a live wire hidden beneath the nondescript garb of night's anonymity.

He'd followed them here.

How had they known?

His eyes narrowed in rage. They'd found him on the cliff… and then they'd reached Scott Hawkeye first.

A patrol car coasted by, headlights sweeping over dumpsters and empty spaces. Reaper pressed flat against the building's cold brick, becoming part of the dark, his breath a controlled whisper. The cruiser passed, its radio chatter fading into the distance; he was invisible once more.

The back door creaked open, spilling light into the alleyway. The ranger with the white hat appeared, followed by her loyal hanger-on.

His fist clenched, nails digging into his palm. They didn't know him, not really. Not the depths of his vendetta, the lengths he'd go to see it through. Scott Hawkeye, their charge, their responsibility, was his alone to punish.

He stared as the two rangers moved along the alley. The woman scared him.

There was a sweeping, all seeing quality to her gaze. And she wore that hat of hers, feather fluttering as her gaze cast side to side.

The Reaper leaned back against the brickwork, staying still, quiet and motionless.

The two rangers moved on. But Scott wasn't with them.

They'd be taking him back to a rez holding cell—that's how they always did it. An attempt at cooperation, but always culminating in a bad compromise.

And he knew a thing or two about compromise.

Back pressed against the brick wall, he edged away from the window, stealth guiding his movements. The back of the building beckoned, a safer route, away from those prying eyes. He moved with purpose, every step calculated, silent. The night air was crisp, carrying distant sounds that he filtered out, focusing only on the task at hand.

He reached the corner and paused, listening. The faint echo of footsteps inside told him figures were moving.

Crouching low, he skirted around to the rear exit, the one less guarded, less expected. A shadow among shadows, his presence dissolved into the night.

He found a recessed doorway, darker than the rest, and melted into it. From here he could see the back door, anticipate their next move.

He knew the reservation. Knew these cops.

Knew what came next. They'd take Hawkeye home.

And he'd be waiting.

Reaper's breaths came measured, silent. Shadows concealed him as he watched the rear door with predatory stillness. The police station's dim lights flickered occasionally, and somewhere a siren wailed a mournful lament to the night. But Reaper's focus remained sharp, unwavering.

A metallic click echoed, subtle but clear in the hush. The back door swung open, spilling artificial light into the alley. Two uniformed officers appeared, their faces set in grim lines. Between them, Scott Hawkeye shuffled, handcuffs glinting coldly. His head was bowed, his expression dark with anger and resentment.

Scott's lips moved, muttering curses or pleas—Reaper didn't care which.

The cops' voices were low grumbles, snippets of conversation slipping out like threads unraveling from frayed fabric. They were cautious, eyes scanning the surroundings, but they didn't see Reaper. He was nothing more than a wraith, his presence as negligible as the breeze that whispered through the crumbling alleyway.

As the trio moved past, Reaper's fingers twitched, itching for action. But this wasn't the time. Not yet. He let the moment pass.

Reaper's shadow peeled away from the darkness. The cops' cruiser, red and blue lights dormant, idled at the curb—a beast unaware of its stalker. He slid behind the wheel of his nondescript sedan, muscles coiled.

Reaper's grip on the steering wheel was ironclad. His eyes, narrow slits of determination, locked onto the taillights of the police cruiser ahead. The engine's hum was a whisper against the night's silence as he eased the car into motion, keeping a buffer of darkness between them.

Streetlights flickered overhead, casting pools of light that played over his windshield. His sedan was a ghost gliding through the night, unnoticed and unremarkable—a predator in plain sight.

He measured each breath, counted each heartbeat. Distance kept—close enough to pounce, far enough to blend with the shadows. Patience was his co-conspirator, timing his ally. He had always been good at waiting, watching.

He'd waited for all of this, hadn't he?

The road ahead twisted; Reaper anticipated every turn, his mind mapping routes and exits. A left here, a swift right there.

They passed under an overpass, the echo of their passage a dull roar in Reaper's ears. The city's skeleton gave way to less traveled paths, the urban sprawl thinning out like a receding tide. Buildings became fewer, spaces wider.

Here… this is where he picked up speed. His headlights off. They hadn't spotted him yet.

The road unraveled, a black ribbon slicing through the desert. Reaper's grip on the steering wheel was vise-like, each knuckle whitened by the strain. Miles of nothingness stretched ahead, the reservation's boundary a line drawn in the sand.

A coyote darted across the road, its eyes caught in the headlights before vanishing into the night. Reaper didn't flinch. His gaze was locked on the red glow of the police vehicle's taillights, an ember he was hellbent on following to the source.

Pebbles pinged against the undercarriage. The car wove through the desolation, a silent hunter. Tension coiled in Reaper's stomach as the anticipation of what lay ahead brewed like a storm on the horizon.

He could almost taste the confrontation, metallic and sharp on his tongue.

The sparse landscape offered no cover, yet Reaper needed none. Out here, darkness was an ally, the vast expanse a shroud for his deadly intentions. The hum of the engine was a whisper against the silence of the open plains, the rhythm of the tires on asphalt providing a rising sense of courage.

Reaper's pulse quickened. The stage was set.

He slid a hand beneath the seat, fingers closing around cold glass. The bottle felt heavy with promise. He pulled it closer, fabric of the rag rough against his skin. Chemicals stung his nostrils.

Ready.

He pulled alongside the cops, gripping the bottle tight.

They still hadn't spotted him.

But even if they had, it was now too late.