CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rachel blinked from where she lay on the carpet of the trunk, her eyes adjusting to the sudden burst of moonlight. A silhouette loomed over her—gun in hand, barrel aimed straight at her forehead.

"Get out," the gunman ordered, his voice a gravelly command.

Rachel stayed put, her back pressed against the cold interior of the trunk. "Shoot me here and you'll paint the car with evidence. Not smart."

He hesitated, his grip on the gun wavering. But it took him a second to realize there were already two bodies in the trunk. Plenty of evidence.

His brief hesitation was all she needed.

In one fluid motion, Rachel sprang forward, seizing the gunman's wrist. She twisted hard. Bones grated under her palms. She heard the weapon clatter to the ground.

She thrust her shoulder into his chest, driving him backwards. They hit the ground together, dust from the barren ground clouding around them. The gunman gasped, struggling beneath her. In the struggle, her left hand slipped free. Her hands now free, she moved with even more violence. Without hesitation, Rachel drew back her fist and hammered it down into his solar plexus.

Merciless, vicious and immediate.

There was no time to play fair. Not that such a concept existed in the wild.

Air whooshed from his lungs. His body went limp for a moment.

Rachel's fingers closed around the cool metal of the fallen gunman's weapon. Her movements were swift, a coiled spring released. She pivoted on the balls of her feet, gun raised and eyes scanning.

"Hey!" one of the gunmen blurted out in shock. His companion's mouth hung open, words lost to disbelief.

Time seemed to slow, the moment stretching thin. Rachel's gaze settled on the pair emerging from the front seats, her stance solid despite the uneven ground beneath her boots. The air hung heavy with dust and tension.

The leftmost gunman, rising from the driver's side, jerked his arm upward, his own gun aiming at Rachel's head. But she was faster. Her index finger squeezed the trigger. A sharp crack rents the air. The bullet found its mark, drilling into the gunman's knee.

He crumpled like a marionette with severed strings, a guttural scream tearing from his throat. His weapon skittered across the dirt, abandoned.

"Damn it!" The remaining gunman's curse sliced through the aftermath. He dropped his gun; it thudded against the earth. Hands rose, shaking slightly, palms exposed to the sky.

"Hands where I can see them," Rachel commanded. Her voice was a blade—sharp.

The gunman complied, fear etched into the lines of his face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples.

Rachel kept the gun trained on him, every muscle taut, ready to respond.

"Stay down," she ordered the whimpering man on the ground, his hands clutching his wounded knee.

He nodded, teeth gritted against the pain, dark eyes wide with the knowledge of his vulnerability.

"Good." Rachel's nod was curt, her attention never wavering from the surrendered man before her.

Dust swirled around Rachel's boots as she maneuvered the groaning gunman in front of her, a living barrier between her and any further threat. The steel in her voice left no room for argument. "Up. Now." Her command to the others was terse, punctuated by the click of the safety being switched off.

The remaining pair exchanged a glance—one of calculation, one of dread—then slowly rose to their feet, their movements stiff with reluctance. Rachel's eyes flickered between them, the gun unwavering in her steady grip.

"Walk," Rachel said, pushing the human shield forward with measured force.

“We under arrest?” spat the man at her fingertips, still wheezing from where she’d struck him in the solar plexus.

"Not yet," she replied. "You're taking me to your boss."

The three men exchanged frightened glances.

The gunmen moved, the gravel crunching beneath their shifting weight. The sound scraped against the heavy silence that enveloped the scene.

A sudden rustle—a sharp pivot of booted feet on rough terrain. One gunman bolted, a blur of desperation streaking across Rachel's peripheral vision. She swung around, the weapon raised. A single shot cracked the air, a warning that echoed off the sparse trees.

He didn't stop. His figure grew smaller, fear propelling him faster than her bullet had flown. The idea of confronting his boss was more terrifying to him than the idea of lead in his spine.

"Damn," Rachel muttered under her breath, her focus snapping back to the remaining two. The escapee was lost to her, but these two weren't going anywhere. They stood frozen.

"Inside," she barked, herding them toward the vehicle with the authority rooted deep in her bones. Her steps were measured, her gaze never leaving their backs.

The one with the wounded knee kept cursing and spitting, groaning as he moved.

"Their compliance was begrudging, but it was there.

The car's interior was stifling, the leather of the front seats cracked from sun. Rachel's eyes fixed on the two men as they settled into them, hands shaking ever so slightly. She slid into the back seat, the muzzle of her gun a cold promise aimed at the backs of their heads.

"Start the engine," she said. They flinched, but obeyed. The car roared to life, a vibration that traveled through the chassis and into Rachel's bones.

At her side, her confiscated items.

She reached for the radio, fingers closing around its familiar shape. A hiss of static burst from the speaker before she pressed the button, her thumb steady despite the adrenaline that thrummed through her veins.

"Ethan, it's Rae."

"Rae? Where are you?" Ethan's voice crackled, concern threading each syllable.

"Followed a lead to a farm out by Barker’s plot. There's been a murder. Two, actually." Her report was succinct, each fact laid out with precision.

"God, Rae, are you—"

"Two gunmen in custody. Was three. One got spooked, took off across the fields." She kept her tone level, clinical.

"Are you hurt?"

"Negative," she replied. But she didn't elaborate.

"Stay put, I'm bringing backup."

"Can't do that." Her gaze never wavered from the rear-view mirror, where she could see the whites of the gunmen's eyes. "They're taking me to their boss.”

"Rae, that’s not—"

She clicked off the transmission.

The gunmen shifted a rustle of fabric against leather. Nervous. Good. Her grip on the gun remained firm. No room for error.

"Drive," she ordered again, and the car lurched forward, tires crunching over gravel.

"Who's the boss?" Rachel's voice sliced through the silence like a blade.

The gunmen, hands on the wheel and the passenger seat, exchanged a loaded glance. Neither spoke. Their jaws set, eyes forward. The dark interior of the car felt like a pressure cooker, every second ratcheting up the tension.

The one in the passenger seat was wrapping his wounded leg with a torn portion of his shirt, his forehead glistening with sweat and fear. The driver gripped the wheel, knuckles white beneath the harsh cabin light. Dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight that penetrated through the windshield, adding to the surreal tableau.

"Who is he?" Rachel repeated, her tone icy. "Your boss?"

Silence. A stubborn wall of defiance met her question. Their loyalty to their boss clearly ran deep. Deeper than their fear of a bullet from her gun—maybe not by much, but enough to keep them silent.

Fine.

Rachel adjusted her grip on the radio, depressing the communication button. "Ethan." Her voice crackled through the silence. "I'm heading west on Farm to Market Road 170."

The car rumbled on, swallowed by the inky blackness of the desolate Texan landscape. Rachel divided her attention between keeping her gun trained on the two men and scanning their surroundings: fences blurring into endless fields, nothing but darkness beyond.

"Copy that," Ethan's voice cut through the silence again, tension clear in his tone despite his attempt at remaining calm. He was on his way, she knew it—there was comfort found in that knowledge. Comfort but not complacency; she had far from forgotten who were behind those wheels and what they were capable of.

"Talk," she said. The word was a bullet fired into the space between them. No response.

Ethan's voice crackled over the radio, a lifeline fraying with worry. "Rae, you got a name?"

"Working on it." Her reply was granite-hard. She pressed the transmitter button again. "Coordinates coming your way."

The road ahead unfurled, flanked by the vast Texas landscape. The sky was a wide expanse, but freedom was a mirage here. The gunmen’s resentment simmered in the confined space.

Rachel could feel her frustration growing. There was no guarantee these men were taking her to their boss.

For all she knew, they were going to drive her in circles.

“You need a hospital,” she said suddenly, looking at the man with the wounded knee.

“Yeah? Get me to one,” he spat through gritted teeth. He’d removed his ski mask now, and he looked young with a scar along

his stubbled jawline. Not far from being a kid, really. A kid who’d chosen the wrong path.

“We’ll go to a hospital,” she said softly. “After. First, take me to your boss.”

He stared at her. Then at his companion gripping the steering wheel.

“Come on… dammit, look at this,” he said, moaning. “I’m losing blood fast. Mattie,” he said, looking at his companion.

"Shut up, Leroy."

“Leroy?” Rachel said. “You from around here.”

He leaned back now, wheezing and groaning as he stared at the ceiling. “Oh, God,” he whimpered. “Please! I need a doctor.”

“You know, the human body holds

approximately 1.2 to 1.5 gallons of blood," Rachel said, her tone clinical. "You lose more than 40% of your blood volume, that's when you're in real trouble."

“C-ch—God, please!” he exclaimed.

“About 5.5 liters of blood, in case you needed help with that." Rachel's voice was still steady, but she could hear the edges soften a shade. "Loss of 750 ml or more - that's when hypovolemic shock can set in."

Leroy let out another groan, his eyes glassy when he looked back at Rachel. He glanced at his companion again. The man named Mattie held his gaze for a long moment before grunting, his hands clenching around the wheel.

“She’s bluffing,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s a cop.”

"We'll stop at a hospital, but first—you take me to your boss." Her words hung in the car like a judge’s sentence.

Leroy swallowed hard, nodding.

"You heard her, Mattie." His voice was shaky as he glared at his silent companion.

The car veered off the road hastily, sending dust clouds billowing in its wake. As it rumbled back onto the road.

She glanced out at the sprawling black silhouette of Texas landscape flashing by. Cacti and desert scrub darted in and out of view, warped by the broken beam from the headlight.

"We're close," Mattie grunted finally—his voice rough as sandpaper. The vehicle swerved onto an unmarked dirt path hidden amongst tall Joshua trees.

The car lumbered over a rocky terrain, headlights bouncing off jagged rocks and plants lining the narrow path. Suddenly up ahead loomed an enormous hacienda-style building, bathed in moonlight with gnarled shadows clinging to its ancient stone walls.

She frowned. No cars in the driveway. No sign of life. The building was silent, and windows darkened.

“Mattie,” moaned his friend. “Mattie… come on.”

“Do you want the hospital or not?” Rachel demanded. “This isn’t it. Is it? This isn’t anything.”

“No! No, this is the decoy. It’s… it’s in case we’re caught. This is nothing. Please… Look, look. I need a hospital. God, please. Look at my leg! Look! Mattie, Mattie, please!”

"Shut it, Leroy!" Mattie barked, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. His eyes then flickered back to Rachel, a trepidation creeping into his gaze. "Alright. Alright. We're going to the hospital."

"No," Rachel snapped, her grip tightening around the gun. "Not yet. Where’s your boss?”

She knew she couldn’t hold out much longer. He really had lost a lot of blood. She needed to get him to a hospital.

But Ethan was on the way, and the closest hospital was further than the distance between the incoming paramedics and themselves.

Time was not on Leroy’s side.

“I’ll tell you!” he exclaimed suddenly. “I’ll tell you. Our boss is—”

But Mattie moved even faster. Rachel shouted. She spotted the knife in his hand a second too late.

He jammed the blade into Leroy’s neck

with a final, desperate grunt. Blood spurted onto the windshield, splashing in red streaks across the glass and painting a sickening mural. Leroy's eyes bulged, his hands clawing at the blade embedded in his throat. He collapsed against the seat with an agonized gurgling sound.

Rachel lunged forward and caught Mattie’s wrist before he could withdraw the bloodied blade. The metallic scent of blood filled the already taut air.

"Drop it," she ordered, her voice echoing louder than thunder in the enclosed space of the car. Mattie glanced at her, but remained defiant – his hand convulsing around the weapon's hilt.

The car swerved sharply once more, jarring Rachel from her tense standoff. Her hold slipped, and Mattie capitalized on that momentary lapse by shoving her back with all his waning strength. Rachel hit the roof of the car due to a sudden jolt over a large bump. They were no longer on the road. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as pain seared through her shoulder.

Quick as lightning, she recovered and whirled on Mattie again. Any semblance of mercy had evaporated in that gut-churning instant.

Mattie was trying to keep the car straight. But they’d veered off into the desert, and clouds of dust now

choked the windshield as they barreled forward. She twisted in her seat, vision blurred by pain and grit. The car was out of control, shaking wildly as it crashed through the scrubland.

Her grip tightened on the gun, her index finger poised over the trigger as she aimed at Mattie's head.

"Pull over!" she shouted above the roar of the engine. Mattie swung his gaze to meet hers, eyes wide with terror or defiance, she couldn't tell.

Too late.

He swung his knife, trying to jam it into her throat again.

The car skipped, hitting an embankment, sending them both jolting forward.

She wasn’t sure when or how, but the trigger depressed.

A gunshot echoed through the confined space. A spray of red misted the front windshield as Mattie's lifeless body slumped onto the steering wheel. The car bucked and lurched, veering hard right as it skidded over rough terrain before finally coming to a jolting halt.

Rachel's breath hitched and her body slammed hard against her seatbelt, the air knocked from her lungs in a painful rush. Head spinning, she fumbled for the door handle then rolled out onto rocky ground.

The night air was cool against her flushed skin, and for a moment she lay there, breathing heavily as her thoughts played catch up. Leroy was dead. Mattie was dead. She was alone in an unfamiliar stretch of Texan desert with no idea where their boss' hideout might be.

And now, in the distance, she heard the sound of approaching sirens.

Backup. But too late.

Shit.

Still, as she lay there, gasping at the stars, a thought occurred to her.

A thread.

There was still a chance. But they had to move fast.

She cursed, pushing slowly to her feet, breathing heavily and spitting dust that layered her tongue.

Rachel tried to shake off the dizziness, but her vision swam as she got to her feet. The world tipped alarmingly, a hallucinatory desert landscape bathed in an ethereal moonlight that was just too sharp, too bright. She stumbled forward, clutching at the battered car for support.

She gritted her teeth and reached into the back seat. Her fingers closed around the cold length of her radio, bringing it up to her lips.

"Rachel!" Ethan's voice cut through the quiet static. "Rachel, talk to me!"

"Ethan," she gasped out. "Two men down... gunfire."

"What's your location? Rachel, are you hit?"

"No, I... I'm fine." Rachel wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. Sweat and dust mixed into a grimy paste on her skin. "See that cloud of dust? That’s me.”

She let the radio drop from her hands onto the sandy ground next to the car. She needed a few seconds to gather herself. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a caged bird trying to break free— adrenaline still pumping through her veins like molten lava.

The dirt path looked different now that it was bathed in red and blue lights, carving out harsh lines of shadows on the rough terrain.

Cursing under her breath for what felt like the thousandth time that night, Rachel moved to examine Mattie’s body still slouched grotesquely in the driver's seat.

She checked his pockets. Empty. NO wallet. NO identification. She checked the glove compartment—also empty.

She felt her anger mounting now.

These two, they were ghosts. No traces, nothing. They had planned it well. Their boss must be a ghost too. She checked the back seat, found a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Nothing more.

A sharp static cut through the silence, and she picked up the radio.

"Rachel," Ethan's voice was strained. "Backup's almost there."

"Nothing here," she muttered into the radio. "No traces, no IDs..."

Her voice trailed off as her gaze drifted to Leroy's lifeless form in the passenger seat.

She moved around the car to the passenger side and opened the door. The smell of blood and guts hit her like a punch, but she swallowed down the bile that rose to her throat. She had seen worse.

Leaning in, she began to check Leroy’s pockets —shirt, pants, jacket— methodically. It was a long shot, but it was all they had now.

Her fingers closed on something small and hard in his jacket pocket. She pulled out a tarnished rock from his pocket.

Just a stupid rock kicked up by the car and the crash.

She flung it at a cactus, striking the thing.

“Ethan,” she said. “There’s a third.” She held the radio tight. “A third gunman. He ran. He won’t have any car. On Barker’s property. If we can get to him…”

“Where are you? Oh, shit… Rachel, I see you. Dammit, what the hell happened?”

She spotted a car veer off from the procession of emergency vehicles, recklessly skipping over the rough terrain as it came straight at her.

Her clothes were stained, her hands slick with dirt and blood. She stumbled over to the still form of Mattie, prodding his body with her boot. His glazed eyes stared back at her, lifeless and vacant. A pulsating red stain spread across his chest, soaking through his shirt to pool around him.

The car speeding towards her veered off, a lanky, sandy-haired figure lurched from the seat.

Ethan’s eyes fixated on her, wide and panicked.

He sprinted, leaving the car in gear, but indifferent to the vehicle slowly idling forward.

"Ethan," she gasped out. "Ethan, I need you." Her voice was raw, layered with exhaustion and urgency. There was a beat of silence before Ethan reached her side, footsteps thudding against the ground.

"Rachel?" His tone was filled with alarm. "Rachel! What happened? Are you alright?"

She exhaled in relief. "Ethan," she repeated. "Leroy and Mattie... they're dead." The words tumbled from her lips like bricks, heavy and unyielding.

Ethan's voice returned softer, steadier. "Alright Rachel, we need to get you out of here.”

His hand wrapped around her shoulders.

"No," she interrupted, her voice reverberating through the emptiness around her. "No! The boss... they have a boss... we need to find him."

"Rachel," Ethan's voice held a certain firmness now, a desperate plea wrapped in authority. "You're injured.”

"I'm not!" she said, but she didn't push his hand away.

For a brief moment, Ethan was like a crutch. She leaned on him, recovering, allowing her breathing to regularize.

But she pushed off him, shaking her head. "There was a third gunman," she said. "He ran on foot. If we find him…"

Ethan shot a look towards the open trunk, wincing at the two bodies in the back.

“Barker,” she said softly. “His wife. I think.”

“And the thugs?”

“I didn’t do it. Well, not on purpose. Driver silenced the other before he could give up his boss’ name.”

She didn’t mention the fact that she’d been playing fast and loose with her duty to render aid. She thought she’d had time. Thought she was bluffing. The paramedics were already pulling up, even as they spoke.

They would’ve arrived in time…

But she hadn’t expected the knife.

“Barker’s property,’ Rachel insisted. ‘We need to go there. Search teams. We need to find the third gunman.”

“What about these guys?”

"Print and ID. It might take some time. We need to find out who they work for."

"This… this boss ?”

She nodded, grim, limping away towards Ethan’s car which had finally slowed.

“I have a suspicion they won’t be in our system. This guy is careful. Really careful.”

Ethan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Alright… So we find this guy. This third gunman.”

“Yeah. That’s the play. The only play. You drive.”