CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Rapid pace, Rachel Blackwood marched over the clinic's driveway, the chill night air howling around her and whipping her beaded hair out behind her like some dark specter trailing her steps. The sun bore down, indifferent to the tension knotting her shoulders. Ethan, beside her, had his phone pressed to his ear, lips moving urgently as he called for backup. Around them, cars sat parked, their metal bodies too still against the backdrop of the silent building.

"See anything?" Rachel asked, squinting against the glare.

"Nothing yet," Ethan replied, his voice a low thread amidst the stillness.

Rachel moved first. Quick strides carried her to the clinic's entrance. Her hand shot out, grabbing the door handle with practiced haste. Locked. She rattled it forcefully; it didn't budge. A chain clinked from within, its links tight around the handles. "Chained from inside," she called over her shoulder, her tone clipped.

They were in the right place. Her stomach tightened, and she could feel tension coiling.

Her fingers skimmed to her hip, where the weight of her gun was both a comfort and a promise. The quiet was wrong. Her gaze flicked over the facade of the clinic, searching for breaches, for threats. Then it came—a thin wail, seeping through the walls. Crying. Weeping that echoed faintly from upstairs.

"Up there," she said, tipping her head towards the sound. Her eyes met Ethan's, and without a word, they shared the same foreboding. Something sinister unfolded behind the locked doors and shuttered windows.

Ethan's hand shot out, fingers grazing Rachel's arm. "IED," he hissed, nodding toward the low window where a suspicious package lay nestled against the glass, its wires cruelly winking in the sunlight.

"He's trapped them inside," Rachel whispered.

Ethan's eyes scanning the clinic's shadowed interior through the window. "Movement," he murmured. It was a woman, crouched and bound.

"Thank God," Rachel breathed out, a quicksilver surge of relief fleeting across her face. But no time for relief. She had to move. Miguel Ortiz was here. They'd located his final act of vengeance. Still, they were only chasing theories. Only chasing conjecture.

She needed to get in there.

The doors were trapped and locked, though. No telling what breeching the location would trigger.

Rachel was already moving even as her thoughts swirled like a vortex.

The gravel ground under her boots as she pivoted, sprinting back to their unmarked car. Adrenaline sharpened her focus, every sense attuned to the crisis unfolding.

The trunk popped open at her command, revealing the rifle she'd assembled countless times before. Hands steady, she lifted it, feeling the familiar weight of the scope in her palm. Precision. That was what the moment demanded.

"Get in. Drive. I need height," she ordered, the snap of command in her voice. Her gaze didn't waver from Ethan's as she hoisted herself onto the roof of the car.

Ethan hesitated, the glint of uncertainty in his eyes fleeting. Trust won. He slid into the driver's seat, the engine coming to life with a muted roar.

"Slow," she added, her voice tense and crisp. And then she clambered onto the roof of the vehicle.

"You sure about this?"

"Just need the angle."

Ethan muttered but put the car in gear regardless.

She found her balance atop the vehicle, legs braced, rifle butt snug against her shoulder. Her finger caressed the trigger.

"Move back," she instructed, her tone brokering no argument. Every second mattered. The scope brought the world closer, each breath she took measured, each heartbeat a drum in her ears.

"Stop," she said. The car stilled. Through the magnified lens, the clinic loomed, each detail amplified. She now had an angle on the upper window.

"Wait," she whispered, her eye never leaving the scope, the crosshairs searching the rooms through the windows.

"Need more space. Further," she said quickly.

The vehicle crawled backwards. Ethan's hands were steady on the wheel, guided by Rachel's clipped commands. "Further," she said, her voice a low growl of concentration.

Rachel's fingers worked in deft silence. The bolt slid home with a soft click. Magazine in. Safety off. Her grip on the weapon was an extension of her will—firm, assured, ready. The scope, an ACOG 4x32, was dialed in; eye relief and field of view checked in quick succession. Reticle sharp against the afternoon glare. She needed to hear what was happening inside.

"Audio," she said, her eyes never leaving the building's second story.

Movement? She spotted a curtain shifting. The blinds were closed, though.

Ethan nodded and was out of the car in one fluid motion, radio clutched in hand. Sprinting toward the clinic, he reached the gutter, metal cool and firm beneath his palms. He tried sliding up one of the windows, but it remained lodged.

He then tried another. She watched, heart pounding, running over everything they knew.

Miguel was here.

He was here for vengeance. They had to stop him before he completed what he'd come here for.

"Good," she breathed into her mic as Ethan finally found an open window, shimmying along a gutter's metal fixture, then wedged the radio into place. It fell through the gap in the sill, tumbling from sight.

Ethan's movements had caused the blinds to shift, and Rachel went still.

She saw him.

Six figures with their hands tied in front of them, gags on. And a man marching back and forth, looking the epitome of rage—

A man with a gun in hand.

"I see him," she whispered into the mic.

Ethan was retreating back in her direction, his own gun drawn. No sound of sirens yet. The backup was on its way, but it would take some time to reach the rez.

Now, Rachel could distinguish shouting from inside. Miguel's voice.

He was ranting, screaming. The words, a distorted echo through the radio. Rachel's hand tightened around her rifle.

"Who did it?" he yelled. "Who ruined my Lucy? Who destroyed her life? Tell me! tell me! now!" His voice screeched like a wild animal in its death throes.

Hostages whimpered, their cries tremulously reaching Rachel's ears through the radio. She followed one line of sight to a prone security guard, bathed in an ominous halo of blood. Her stomach clenched, but she steeled herself and continued her surveillance.

Her eyes flicked back to the hostages. Lined up like lambs for slaughter, fear etched into their faces, paralyzing them. Miguel was pacing, his gun swinging wildly as he bellowed his rage.

"I don't know," came a woman's voice, high-pitched and strained with terror.

The only one whose gag was lowered.

Rachel's heart twisted at the plea but her eyes remained locked on target—Miguel Ortiz. She needed to stop him. She needed just one clean shot.

But Miguel was still pacing, still obscuring his body behind the hostages and the terror he wielded around him like a cloak. His eyes were wild, wide with fury and grief. His words were a garbled torrent of rage, punctuated by the sharp whip-crack of his gun being cocked.

"Someone did this to her! Which one of you was it?" His shouting echoed through her earpiece, the sound a jagged edge of raw pain and madness. Victims whimpered, their cries muffled, but terror was a language that needed no translation.

Rachel's grip tightened on her rifle, knuckles white as she scanned the room.

Miguel's voice clawed through the airwaves, each word a serrated edge, growing more and more desperate.

What was his endgame? Find the specific doctor or nurse and just kill them? Was this just a sick interlude before finishing them all off? Rachel doubted anyone tied in that room would survive without their intervention.

Rachel crouched on the car roof, the rifle cold and steady in her grip. Small tremors of weeping seeped from the radio, threading the atmosphere with dread.

"Tell me!" Miguel's scream punctured the fragile silence.

Rachel's finger rested near the trigger, a whisper away from steel. Her eyes swept the clinic interior, the scope a narrow window into the unfolding nightmare. She scanned room by room, seeking—

There. Gasoline cans huddled like specters against the wall, their silver bodies scarred with use. A dark sheen marred the carpet, winding around chairs, desks, abandoned.

"Damn it," Rachel muttered, the words barely escaping her lips. She adjusted her position.

He was going to burn the place to the ground.

Miguel's shadow danced across the blinds as he paced back and forth. Rachel's finger hovered over the rifle's trigger, her gaze locked through the scope. The crosshairs followed his every step, seeking a moment of stillness. His voice, a torrent of anger and accusation, filtered through the earpiece.

"Come on," she whispered, a silent plea for Miguel to pause. To give her that one clean shot. Hostages huddled in the corner, their bodies shrinking with each of his thunderous steps. Time was running out. The gasoline fumes rose in invisible plumes, ready to ignite at the smallest spark.

"Stand still," Rachel commanded through gritted teeth. But Miguel was a tempest, erratic and wild.

He was getting violent. His voice rising.

"You did this. It was you, wasn't it? Wasn't it?"

"She doesn't work here anymore!" a voice suddenly blurted out. "None of them do. The staff is new. We don't know anything about—"

But the bold woman's cries were cut off as he struck her across the face and sent her reeling.

Rachel grimaced.

Miguel screamed, a long and torturous sound like a child having a meltdown. His victims quaked and screamed in response, muted by their gags, but terrified of the madman's rage.

He had something in his hand. A lighter? Was he going to burn himself too? It was possible. All too commonly, killers with specific targets would turn their murderous means on themselves once their goals were achieved.

He would kill them all, ablaze and burning like some funeral pyre—like a smoke signal for his suffering.

She needed him distracted. She needed to buy time. But more than that she needed him to stop moving.

Only one thought occurred to Rachel. She cursed, and shouted into her earpiece, transmitting to the radio Ethan had slipped upstairs.

A split-second decision. Her voice broke through, stern and unyielding. "Miguel, this is Ranger Blackwood. Stand down."

His rant was cut short. Confusion etched across his face as he spun toward the radio's origin. The hostages flinched. Silence clawed at the room, filled only by the pounding of Rachel's pulse.

"Listen to me, Miguel," she continued. "You're surrounded. It's over."

Miguel's eyes darted to the radio nestled against the cracked window sill, a small black interloper in his otherwise meticulously orchestrated chaos. The color drained from his face, replaced by a twisted mask of terror and rage. His hand shot out like a striking snake, closing around the arm of a trembling woman huddled with the others.

He had stopped moving, but not long enough. He was quick; she had to give him that.

"Who is this? Where are you?" Miguel's voice thundered, his gun pressed cold and unyielding against the hostage's temple. Her sobs became the metronome of dread ticking in the background, a sharp counterpoint to the heavy thuds of Rachel's heartbeat.

Rachel lay motionless on the car roof, the metal having warmed beneath her. She held her breath, the scope a narrow window into the unfolding terror. Her finger hovered over the trigger, the rifle an extension of her will.

"Ranger Blackwood," she said, her tone stripped of warmth, every syllable a leaden weight. "I'm right here. I know what they did to Lucy. I know they sterilized her."

Miguel was staring at the radio now, but with a sudden violent twist, he looked and his eyes found her across the parking lot.

She didn't move. Didn't flinch. But she could feel his eyes on her, those cold, mad eyes.

Suddenly he was shouting again, his voice bouncing off the walls of the clinic, a ricocheting bullet of rage and despair. "She was innocent! She was just a girl!" His strangled cry pierced the quiet, sobbing followed, echoing from the radio in Rachel's hand.

Rachel froze, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. This was it. She could see him clearly now. His face contorted in rage. His body rigid with aggression. She swallowed hard, gripping her rifle tighter.

He kept the trembling hostage in front of him, his gun pressed against her head.

His face was gaunt, sweat slipping down the scar on his chin. His bristly, dark black hair jutted erratically, only adding to the appearance of madness.

Miguel's scream echoed through her earpiece, a guttural roar that sent chills racing down her spine. She saw him yank the woman closer, her terror-stricken face covered in tears. He pressed the gun harder against her temple as if to punctuate his threat. The woman's muffled cries rose in pitch and intensity.

"She was scared, wasn't she?" Rachel said. "For you. You were older than her. She was underage."

"It wasn't like that! We were in love. None of that mattered. We were both teenagers."

"But she was trying to protect you, Miguel, don't you see?" Rachel insisted, trying to keep her voice level, calm. "You're throwing it away."

"She slit her throat," he whimpered. "She did it. I didn't even know. He… that bastard came to our house. To blackmail us! To blackmail her! I could see her break. I didn't know!" he screamed. "I didn't know what had happened to her. Didn't know. I thought we were trying to have kids. She didn't tell me! He broke her! He did! They all did!"

"And your friends?" Rachel said, trying to keep him talking. Backup had to arrive soon. "They helped hide it?"

"They lied to me. For years. They lied. They signed off on it. They ruined her. Broke her. Killed her! I didn't know," he whimpered. "I… I didn't know."

She heard the crack in his voice, a perceptible sign of his crumbling resolve. Her eyes scanned the scene, the potential variables. The hostages were motionless, frozen by fear. But Miguel was stalled, his rage momentarily replaced by the gnawing pain of betrayal.

He had loved Lucy, and she had loved him. And now he was here, driven to the brink by his own guilt and despair.

Rachel felt the weight of her duty pressing against her chest. As a Texas Ranger, she was sworn to uphold justice—to protect innocent lives at any cost. And right now, that cost seemed all too steep.

Rachel let out a slow breath, trying to steady her nerves. Her gaze remained resolute on Miguel, her finger twitching against the cold metal of the rifle's trigger.

"Miguel," she said softly into her earpiece. "I understand your pain. What happened to Lucy... It's not fair. It's not right. But this? Hurting these people won't bring Lucy back."

His lip twitched slightly as he snarled at the radio, a low growl rumbling from his chest.

"No! You don't understand!" he roared back at her through gritted teeth. His hold tightened on the hostage, sending another wave of terror through the other prisoners. "You can't understand what they did!"

Rachel kept her voice steady despite the rising tension knotting her stomach.

"I don't claim to," she said truthfully. "But these aren't the doctors who hurt her. They're not the ones who did it."

"They're all the same!"

"Your friends were just trying to help a scared young girl."

"It doesn't matter."

Rachel felt herself willing Miguel to lower the gun. She didn't want to.

"Don't make me," she whispered.

He let out a faint sniff. "Lucy… I'm coming…"

He raised the gun, fast.

And squeezed the trigger.

A loud gunshot sounded, and he toppled backwards.

Rachel stared through her scope, stunned, unable to move, a slow, grim frustration settling in her gut.

Screams rose from the gagged victims while the echoes of the gunshot receded into the distance, leaving behind a hollow emptiness that resonated within Rachel. And for several seconds, she remained rooted in her position on the car roof, staring through her scope at Miguel's lifeless body sprawled on the clinic floor.

The woman he'd been holding staggered away, tripping over her own feet in her haste to escape. She crumbled into a shaking heap near the others who were slowly beginning to move, their faces reflecting shock and relief in equal measure.

She let out a slow, shaking breath. "Everyone just remains calm," she said into the microphone. "We're going to get you out safely but stay where you are and remain calm. Help is coming."