CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Gravel crunched under the tires of Rachel's SUV as she navigated the chaotic tableau that had erupted along the remote stretch of Texas backroad. The flashing red and blue lights painted an eerie dance of shadows on the dust-laden landscape, while the harsh glare of floodlights unveiled the severity of the scene ahead. She parked at a distance, her boots kicking up fine silt as she strode toward the nucleus of the emergency response.

"Rae," called a voice tinged with urgency.

She turned, her piercing gaze landing on Ethan. His figure cut through the swirl of uniformed bodies, his approach hurried, his face etched with lines deeper than any case file. His eyes held a storm that hadn't yet broken, but the dark clouds were there, ready to burst.

"Any leads?" Her question was direct, slicing through the ambient noise of radio chatter and distant sirens.

"Nothing clear-cut." Ethan's reply came tight-lipped, his grim expression a silent testament to the gravity of the situation. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture born of frustration rather than vanity.

Amber waves from the paramedics' lights painted a grim tableau. Rachel's boots crunched on gravel, her shadow stretching long and distorted across the churned earth. She fixed her eyes on the scorched skeleton of the police cruiser, the heart of the inferno now reduced to smoldering remains.

Its once sleek, polished exterior was now warped and charred beyond recognition. The vehicle's shattered windshield lay scattered around it, glinting in the unnatural glow of the emergency lights. The heat from the fire had melted the car's tires into black pools of rubber that seeped into the cracks and crevices of the gravel beneath.

The skeletal frame jutted out at awkward angles against the stark landscape, each scrap of surviving metal twisted by the merciless flames. Dark streaks of soot and ash smeared across what remained of the law enforcement symbol painted on its side. The scent of burnt oil and scorched metal filled the air, an acrid tang that stung her nostrils as she drew closer.

She knelt alongside one end of the vehicle, close to where tire tracks interrupted the patterns in the dust. Her gloved fingers traced along them briefly before she stood again, snapping a few photos with her phone for later reference.

"The cops were in the car?"

"Two down," Ethan said, his voice clipped. "They're in critical condition—burns... it's bad. One might not make it through the night."

"Damn." The word came out half-formed, lodging like a stone in her throat. She swallowed hard, her mind cataloguing the cost. "Did they get a visual? Anything on the radio?"

"Unsure." He shook his head, the set of his jaw betraying his concern. "Comms were chaotic. We're still piecing it together."

Rachel nodded, her gaze never leaving the blackened car. Behind the professional mask, something primal recoiled at the thought of flames consuming flesh and bone. Her fingers itched for her notepad, for the semblance of control notes could provide.

Rachel circled the husk of the cruiser, her eyes darting from one detail to the next. The air was acrid, stinging her nostrils, heavy with the scent of char and ruin. She pulled a flashlight from her belt, the beam slicing through the twilight.

the warped metal frame, the exploded remnants of the windows, the tortured twist of seatbelts that hadn't been enough to save their occupants. Her gaze narrowed as she noticed tire treads etched into the dirt road leading away from the scene.

"Get me Forensics," she ordered briskly, not looking away from the tire marks.

The ground was littered with shards of shattered glass, glittering beneath the harsh glare of overhead lights.

She approached what she'd spotted, feeling Ethan's eyes on her.

There—on the road's edge—a pattern. Distinct. Tire treads. Rachel crouched, studying their outline in the dirt, the unique signature left by rubber on earth.

"Here," she said, her voice steady, betraying nothing of the fury that simmered within. "Photographs. I want angles and distances."

Ethan nodded, stepping away to flag down a forensic photographer.

"Make it quick," she added, knowing time was as much of an enemy as the faceless arsonist they hunted.

The camera's flash strobed, freezing the marks in stark relief against the darkening sky.

Rachel flipped open her phone with one hand, the other still resting on the holster at her hip. Numbers punched in, she brought the device to her ear, the line crackling to life.

"Dispatch, this is Blackwood. Badge 2279."

"Go ahead, Ranger Blackwood," a calm voice answered through the static.

"Need a check on any radio traffic for unit 54-Baker-12 before they were hit." She rattled off the car's details, her tone crisp, businesslike.

"Stand by," came the reply.

She paced the perimeter, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the emergency lights' reach. Every second mattered, every detail a thread in a larger tapestry of crime and motive.

She waited for the call to connect, scanning the road and the vehicle. She tried to piece together what must've happened:

the sudden shock of an approaching danger, the panic as the Molotov cocktail hit, the desperate scramble to escape as flames swallowed everything.

"Ranger Blackwood?" Dispatch cut back in, a sense of urgency now coloring the dispatcher's voice. "You're going to want to hear this. There was a call."

"Send it." Her command was terse.

"Sending file now."

Rachel's boots crunched over gravel as she navigated the chaos, her eyes locking onto Ethan's silhouette against the flicker of blue and red lights.

"Got something," she said, the moment she was within earshot.

Ethan turned, his expression taut. "What is it?"

"Radio call. Before the blaze." She held up her phone. "Let's listen."

They found a pocket of stillness away from the clamor, Rachel's finger hovering before pressing play. The night air held its breath, the distant hum of generators and murmured conversations fading into insignificance.

The audio crackled to life, a frantic voice piercing through the static. "Dispatch, we got a fire here—"

"Where's that guy?" another voice cut in, panic lacing the words.

"Which guy? Who—it's him!" the first cop shouted back just as a loud whoosh drowned out the conversation.

The first question had been confused. But the declaration of it's him seconds later had changed. Had the cop spotted their attacker?"

"Did you hear that?" Ethan leaned in.

"Clear as day," Rachel replied. "They knew him."

"Personal then," Ethan murmured, his thoughts mirroring hers.

"Looks that way."

The audio ended abruptly, a sharp cutoff that left more questions than answers.

She shook her head in frustration, anger mounting. "He's bold. Super brash. How did he know they'd be on the road?"

"We think it was the same guy?"

"Think it's a coincidence?"

"Possible."

Rachel shook her head. She listened to the recording again, but there was scant information. Just terror.

And now two cops on the verge of death.

"Are either of them able to speak?" she said.

"No. Both are unconscious," Ethan replied, voice grim. "Aken might not live through the next few hours. Super touch and go."

She cursed under her breath, scowling.

She studied the motionless car once more, standing at a distance to examine the husk. The scorch marks had started in the back seat, evident by

the charred upholstery and melted plastic of the seats. The fire had spread fast, incinerating the interior before leaping out to catch the dry grass around the vehicle. The windshield was blown out, broken glass littering the area like shards of ice. The burnt-out shell of the patrol car sat there, gutted and charred, a grotesque monument to the savage attack.

"We need to find this guy fast," Rachel muttered, her gaze cutting through the flickering crime scene lights. She walked over to the surrounding area, where tufts of burnt grass were still smoking, small licks of flames dancing in the darkness.

She paced around the smoldering police car, knee sinking into slightly damp soil as she bent closer to inspect the ground.

"Photograph here," she called. No, please. No, thank you. Just direct.

Rachel's boots crunched on scorched earth as she approached the forensics tent. The night air, thick with acrid smoke, did little to mask the sharp tang of gasoline. She ducked under the yellow tape.

"Talk to me about the accelerant," she said, voice cutting through the hush that enveloped the team huddled around the blackened skeleton of the police cruiser.

A tech in blue gloves held up a charred glass bottle, remnants of a liquid still sloshing inside. "Standard petrol mix," he replied.

She leaned in, studying the bottle.

"What's that?" she asked.

His eyes cast down towards a stained portion of the glass. "Oh… umm, charred label tape? Glue?"

"I think it's paint," said another.

"Paint?" Rachel echoed, peering closer at the dried, burnt flecks. A forensic puzzle piece falling into place. Paint…

It tickled at her mind.

Hadn't Scott Hawkeye been known for vandalism? With the two initial victims, Heather Sinclair and Jenna Amos…

And now…

Now paint on the murder weapon. The same type of paint used in the vandalism? She couldn't know that. Not yet. But it troubled her all the same.

She moved from one portion of the scene to the next, hastening like a pinball between bumpers. She couldn't stop. And the killer wouldn't either. That much was clear. Three dead. Two in critical condition, cops caught up as collateral with no hesitation.

This was a madman, and there was no saying where he'd strike next.

Rachel spotted Ethan and gestured at him.

"What is it?"

"Paint," she said, her voice low. "On the fragments of the Molotov."

"Paint?"

"Yeah. And when I stopped at Hawkeye's parole officer, he said he knew Scott."

"Right."

"No, hang on. He knew him a decade and a half ago. Said Scott was running with Jenna and Heather."

"Wait, hang on, what?"

"Said the three of them were friends. And there were a couple of others in that group."

Ethan just stared at her, his eyes flaring for a moment as the connection took root. "What are the odds of that?" he murmured. "Why didn't Scott tell us?"

"Maybe he's involved."

"His alibi, though?"

Rachel shook her head. "It checked out."

Ethan cursed, tugging at the baseball cap jammed in his back pocket.

Ethan looked startled. "You think the killer is targeting people from Scott's past?"

She rubbed her temples, feeling the day's exhaustion creeping up on her.

They both fell silent, soaking in that chilling thought.

"But why?"

"I don't know," Rachel said. "But that's where we need to start. Two other names Kelley gave me. Friends of our victims fifteen years ago."

"Local?"

"He said they moved out of town."

"Maybe we can find out if they moved back?"

"At least we can chat with them."

"But…" Rachel trailed off. "Those bumps—the small scars on their legs from the ritual marks. The coroner said they were from years ago. Maybe this is how. Maybe Scott was the one who taught them how."

"That might explain why he's posing them."

"The killer?"

"Yeah. Maybe he's connected to their past."

"Let's go," she said. "Have them send the scene photos."

"Will do."

The two of them moved grim-faced away from the vehicle as Ethan abruptly lifted his phone. As they walked, Ethan cursed under his breath.

"What?"

"He died. At the hospital. Aken died."

Rachel's heart sank. The night had turned from bad to worse. "How's his partner?" she asked, her voice slightly strained.

"Still hanging on," Ethan replied. "But it's not looking good."

The grim news tightened a knot in Rachel's stomach. Her gaze wandered over the sea of flashing lights, settling upon the burnt-out skeleton of the patrol car.

Silently, they got into their own vehicle. Rachel started the engine, her fingers tight around the steering wheel. The inside of the car felt cold, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken concern. She pulled away from the crime scene, leaving behind the chaos and descending deeper into the silence that hung between them.

They needed a lead.

It was well past midnight now, and her exhaustion hung heavy upon her.

But there was no rest for the ranger.

And the killer was likely only just getting started.