CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cold bit into Rachel’s skin, the shock of the plunge seizing her breath. Water filled her ears, a disorienting eruption of bubbles and currents. She fought to break the surface, kicking against the weight of her boots, the drag of her vest.

Water pressed in from all sides, embedding its icy tendrils into her clothing. She struggled, the world shifting and tilting, a disorienting kaleidoscope of darkness and faint moonlight filtering through the water's surface. Panic scratched at her composure. Hold on.

Both of them were underwater, carried by the current. Upside down, spinning. Heels over head.

Rachel's hand grazed the gunman's arm. He was flailing, panic seizing control of his movements. He lunged at her in his desperation, his fingers wrapping around her ankle with a vice-like grip. She kicked out at him, grappling for distance. Bubbles swirled past them, the water gripping them.

Her lungs burned, the demand for air escalating into a desperate plea as she clawed towards the surface. But which direction was up?

The bubbles. She followed the trail of bubbles tickling past her skin, fleeing towards the surface.

Up.

Rachel kicked hard, fighting the weight of her soaked clothes. Needles of cold seized her muscles. She twisted, trying to pull free from the gunman's grip. His hand slipped, fingers clawing at her boot as she surged upward. Finally, his grasp broke away.

Her head broke the surface. She gasped for air - a desperate intake that left her coughing. The river was swift, its icy grip pulling at her, trying to drag her back under. She treads water, her limbs growing heavy from effort and cold. But she kept moving, kept fighting.

This was survival stripped bare: air, wet, life. Breath fogged out in misty clouds as Rachel scanned the tree-lined bank. Shapes morphed in the darkness—trees to shadows, shadows to threats.

Rachel turned; the gunman surfaced a yard away, his panic an animal thing — wild and flailing. Terror contorted his features as he grappled with the current's pull.

In that moment Rachel’s training kicked back in. She was not just a tracker; she was a lifeguard, a medic, a peace officer sworn to protect—even if the individual in question was a criminal on the run.

With powerful strokes, she reached him quickly. "Stop struggling!" she snarled over the rush of water. She lashed out with one arm while she used the other to keep them both afloat. Her fingers closed around his jacket collar tightly.

He stilled under her grip, finally understanding that more struggle meant quicker sinking. Rachel didn't let go.

Cold air stung her wet skin as she sucked in breaths of life-giving oxygen. Her gaze darted around the dark forest, scanning for the silver gleam that had triggered this cascade of events.

The river was deep and wide, forging its path through Barker’s land like an untouched highway. The roar of the rushing water drowned out any sound from above. It carried them swiftly downstream.

Rachel angled herself towards the nearest riverbank, her muscles straining against the relentless rush of water.

The current pushed back, a tangible force, testing her resolve. She held firm, navigating the swirling water while clutching the gunman. She took a final look over her shoulder before they reached the river bank, ready for any sign of the sniper. Nothing but treacherous darkness and whispering leaves met her gaze.

"Move," Rachel commanded, half-dragging the shivering man out of the water and onto the muddy bank.

He sputtered and coughed, gasping for air as if it were a scarce commodity. Rachel didn't pause to comfort him. She scanned their surroundings, her body poised and ready for any sudden attack.

Guttural sounds echoed from the distance— a call of the wild or another human out in the vast wilderness? She couldn’t tell in the darkness swallowing them whole. She needed to reach Ethan. Their only chance at survival was their coordinated efforts.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a radio— thankfully waterproof— clicking it on with wet fingers.

"Ethan," she said into the device, her voice hushed but firm. "I’ve got him."

Rachel's words hung in the air for a moment.

No response.

She frowned, glancing down.

The screen was dead. She stared. Waterproof, wasn’t it? Shit. She tried turning it on again, shaking it.

But the screen remained blank.

Rachel swore under her breath. The radio was their lifeline, their only means of communication in this vast wilderness. She examined it once more, but the screen remained unflinchingly blank. Broken, perhaps due to their tumble down the gulley.

She stuffed the useless radio back into her pocket, casting a glance at the captive gunman. The man was visibly shaking from cold and apprehension, his body drawn into a defensive huddle.

"Stay here," she directed him sternly.

He grunted in response, a sound somewhere between relief and resignation.

Rachel took a few steps away from him, keeping an eye fixated on him. But he seemed too exhausted to fling himself back in the river.

Instead, he just sat hunched, trembling and dripping on the shore.

Her own gaze returned to the tree line. The river had moved fast, carrying them far, far down the wilderness.

The terrain was steep, and the trees lining the shore provided a nearly unpassable barricade.

“Shit,” she whispered under her breath.

A hunter was still out there, and he had a scope. They needed to keep moving. But if they head back up the river bank, they’d be spotted.

If they kept going south, though, they would go deeper into the wilderness.

They had to circle around. Cross the river and cut into a highway where they could flag a ride.

She nodded, reaching a decision.

“To your feet,” she snapped, aiming her gun at the man on the ground. “Move. Now!”

Reluctantly, he struggled to his feet.

Casting a wary glance at Rachel, he followed her as she moved away from the bank, back into the dark forest. Her senses were heightened, every shadow a potential threat. But she kept moving, one eye on their path and the other on her captive.

As they pressed on, Rachel felt the unmistakable rumbling of thunder in the distance. A storm was rolling in. The air tasted of wet earth and rain, and the first droplets were soon hitting the leaves overhead, drumming out a staccato rhythm that echoed across the dense woodland.

Despite her circumstances, Rachel felt a familiar chill of anticipation. She had always been good under pressure—thrived

on it even. Her mind was clear and focused; her every thought was how to stay alive and outmaneuver their pursuer. They had to move fast and silently, with no room for mistakes.

Her eyes flickered again to the gunman trudging along beside her. He was quiet now, subdued by their dire predicament. His previous bravado had deserted him, leaving a raw fear that prickled at Rachel's own nerves.

"Listen carefully," she murmured to him without slowing their pace. Her tone left no room for doubt or disobedience. "We need to cross this river. We're being hunted."

The man looked at her, his eyes wide in the gloom. He was already shaking from their earlier dunking—Rachel could see the visible tremors wracking his body—but he gave a small nod of understanding.

A sharp crack of thunder shattered the silence around them as they reached a narrow part of the river. The water was moving swiftly.

"Which way?" he stammered, his gaze darting around nervously.

"Over," Rachel answered, pointing to the opposite bank. She gave him a hard look. "And no funny business."

His lips twitched in what might have been a smirk under different circumstances. But here and now, it was just a grimace. He nodded and began to move toward the river once more.

Rachel watched him, every muscle ready to react in case of any sudden moves. The man was scared but desperation had a way of pushing people into unexpected bravery. She wasn't about to lower her guard.

They waded back into the water, the current pulling at their feet. Rachel kept her gun trained on him as they waded across the shallows. Her eyes constantly flickered between him and their surroundings— never knowing when the sniper might appear again.

Once they reached the opposite bank, Rachel motioned for the man to keep moving. They needed to put as much distance between themselves and the unidentified shooter as possible.

As they moved through the wilderness again, Rachel could hear animals rustling in the bushes and leaves crunching beneath their boots. With every broken twig or rustling leaf, her body tensed, ready for a fight that didn't come.

She glared at the dead radio in her hand once more before shoving it back in her pocket angrily. They had to find a way back to Ethan— and quickly— because out here in the wilderness, they were nothing more than easy targets.

The night seemed to stretch on endlessly as they trudged through mud and overgrown vegetation in silence, their breath foggy whispers against the chilly air.

“It isn’t too late for you,” the gunman was muttering. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m a Texas Ranger,” she said simply. “I do my job. You’re a murdering asshole.”

“I didn’t kill those folks.”

“Who did?”

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking around the forest as if searching for an escape. "I...I can't say," he stuttered.

Rachel frowned, her grip on the gun tightening. "Why not? Scared of what they'd do to you?"

"I'm scared of what they'll do to my family."

She paused at that, taking in the fear and desperation writ large across his face. He was a criminal, no doubt about it. But he was also a pawn, trapped in a game much larger than himself.

"What's your name?" she asked, her voice softer.

He glanced at her warily. "Why?"

"Because I want to know who I'm dealing with."

The man took a deep breath before answering. "It's...it's Simon."

"Well, Simon. We've got a long way to go, and it looks like we're stuck together. So how about we make a deal?"

Simon looked at her skeptically, but nodded for her to continue.

"You help me get back to my partner and bring down whoever's pulling your strings, and I promise to do everything in my power to protect your family."

He was silent for a moment, considering her offer. Finally, he nodded. "Alright," he agreed reluctantly.

“So who’s your boss?”

But again, his lips just tightened.

The man gave her a wary look. "I can't say."

"You're running out of chances to make this easier on yourself," she warned him, her tone icy.

He sighed, looking down at the wet earth beneath their feet. "I was hired to clean up," he admitted. "That’s all. It was supposed to be a simple job."

“I think you’re lying.”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” he insisted, more firmly. He ran a hand through his short-cut hair, bristles sending flecks of water flying.

Rachel said nothing as they continued their trudge through the wilderness, the only sounds the crunch of leaves under their boots and their shared heavy breathing. There was no time for sympathy or relief - she had a mission to complete and a life to preserve.

Suddenly, she stopped, her body going rigid as her ears picked up the faintest of sounds - branches breaking in the distance. "Down!" she hissed, shoving the man to the ground and laying flat on her own stomach.

The silence enveloped them once more, stretching out into an eternity as Rachel waited with bated breath, one hand clutching her gun and the other holding down her captive.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Simon muttered, his cheek pressed against some toadstools.

But Rachel ignored him, still listening intently. The sound had faded now.

A part of her wanted to confront the predator, to find him in the woods. Another part of her wanted to reach safety, and to take Simon in for questioning.

Which path?

She hesitated briefly, scowling at her captive.

“Tell me his name,” she whispered.

He swallowed, staring at her. “Y-you don’t understand. He’s powerful. Very powerful. They don’t spare their own kids. These people are psycho.”

Rachel stared at him now, her mind spinning.

“Say that again.”

“They’re psychos!”

She could no longer hear the sound of movement. She let out a slow, shaking exhale.

“Their own kids?” she whispered. “Plural?”

A pause.

He looked stunned now. Hesitant. He grimaced, shifting in the mud by the log, his hair brushing at clumps of lichen, sending bits of green tumbling to the ground.

Rachel considered his words, her own mind racing rapidly.

Kids. Their own kids. Cheryl was dead. Jake Shields was dead… but his was happenstance, wasn’t it?

His body left on Jasper Hargreaves’ land…

To frame him?

Their own kids.

Like Cheryl. Cheryl Danvers and Jasper Hargreaves. Both colluding against their parents.

And the one figure she had yet to meet. The patriarch of the Hargreaves oil dynasty. Jasper’s father.

“Sherlock Hargreaves,” she said suddenly.

Simon flinched. "It's him, isn't it? He's the one behind all of this, isn't he? He killed Cheryl. He wanted to frame Jasper. What is it, rich daddy's version of teaching his kid a lesson? A few years in the clink, and then maybe his big-shot lawyers bust Jasper free?"

Simon was shaking now.

“That’s why it was so easy to speak with Jasper. I was wondering. Did daddy’s lawyers get instructions to stand down. Is that it?”

She rattled off the information now, studying Simon’s terrified expression.

“Why kill the Barkers, though? I don’t get it.”

“We didn’t,” Simon said weakly.

“You did!” she retorted. “You did.”

“We didn’t!”

“He did, then. Why?”

“He… he doesn’t like backstabbers. Loyalty matters… Look, I didn’t say anything. You can’t tell him I said anything. I didn’t! Oh, God… my family.”

Rachel took a deep breath, forcing herself not to react to Simon's panicked rambling. She pressed her hand over his mouth, silencing him.

"Quiet," she hissed. "Now is not the time for a breakdown."

"But-"

"No buts," she cut him off sharply.

Simon swallowed noisily, his eyes wide and frightened.

"Good," Rachel said curtly, relief flooding through her at his compliance. She had a name, a lead to follow. But first things first, they needed to get out of there.

Ignoring the ache in her bones and the weariness threatening to pull her under, Rachel got up, pulling Simon with her. Underneath the stifling blackness of the night sky, they stumbled through the underbrush in near silence, their only company the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind or the hoot of an owl.

“I don’t understand why a billionaire oil tycoon would need to get into the weed business,” she said suddenly. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Simon didn’t speak. He looked ghostly pale, but as they walked, he muttered, “If you knew him, it would make perfect sense.”

“What does that mean?”

"Means Sherlock doesn't think like the rest of us. I mean, damn—look at his name. His parents were damn prophets. It's about the land."

“What do you mean?”

He trailed off again.

Rachel turned, moving quickly now, grabbing him by the throat and sending him stumbling to the ground.

“Think, asshole. I’m the one keeping you alive. Who do you think just took a shot at you, hmm? Who just tried to kill you? And you’re being loyal to that asshole?” she pointed off through the trees with a demanding finger, her eyes blazing.

Simon choked on his words, clawing at her hand. He gasped for air as she released him, rolling onto his side and coughing violently. "He'll kill me," he finally spat out, eyes wide with fear.

"Only if he gets to you first," Rachel retorted coldly. She had no sympathy for Simon, not when he was more concerned about his own skin than the lives of those who had been lost. She reached out and grabbed his arm, yanking him back onto his feet. "Now start talking.”

Simon’s dark eyes flickered with an internal debate before finally relenting. “They’ve been doing it for years,” he stuttered out. “Growing weed on their land, hidden away.”

Rachel’s brows furrowed in confusion. “But they’re billionaires…”

“They use the money to fund…other things.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know!” He cried out defensively under her intense gaze.

Rachel stared at him silently as the puzzle pieces clicked into place in her mind. The weed wasn't the main business.

“He wants to kill you,” she repeated, trying to allow this nugget of knowledge to worm it’s way into his mind.

And finally, it seemed to crack him.

Simon looked scared still, breathing heavily. He had tears in his eyes. “Dammit… I was a science teacher. At his kid’s school. I didn’t know what job he was offering until it was too late. A cleaner… That’s all I do. I don’t kill. I clean. But he kills… this… this is his land. He leases it to farmers. Barker wanted more money. He saw that as disloyal. Jasper wanted his own business. Same deal. He'd never kill his son, but he killed the woman he loves…" Simon bit his tongue as he spoke, as if he couldn't believe what he was saying. "It's the land. It's his land. His legacy. It was going to Jasper. But Jasper has been looking into other deals for a few months low. So now it's going to Jameson, his other boy."

“I still don’t understand.”

“Nothing wasted,” Simon said simply. “The oil, the weed… the opium.”

“He’s involved in opium?”

“And armaments.”

She stared.

“Exactly how rich is this asshole?”

“You called him a billionaire? That’s just his oil… and it’s not even a quarter of his business.”

Simon was shaking his head fervently. But now that he’d decided to talk, that he’d realized his life was forfeit, he didn’t seem willing to hold back the gush of words.

“Why doesn’t anyone know about these other businesses?” Rachel asked, her mind working in overdrive as she continued navigating through the dense forest.

Simon shrugged, "He's very careful. Has people everywhere. Money can buy lots of loyalty.”

"Or fear," Rachel added grimly.

“And silence,” Simon whispered.

The pair fell into another silence, punctuated only by their ragged breaths and the distant hoot of owls.

“He’s protected,” Simon said simply. “You won’t get to him. He’s got an army of lawyers. And if not that, he funds actual armies in other countries. He’ll just move. He knows wardens, police captains, governors, politicians. He’s surrounded by allies… He plays podunk, old-timey farmer. But he’s a mobster.”

Simon spat to the side now.

Rachel considered these words. “So I can’t reach him.”

“No. You can’t.”

“He’ll shield himself?”

“That’s right.”

She considered this a moment longer, then turned. She began marching back in the direction they’d come from.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“He’s not protected now,” she said simply, her eyes narrowed. “He took a shot. He’s coming after you. For now, it’s just me and him.”

Simon’s eyes bugged. “W-what about me?”

“Follow the river,” she said. “Bridge in a few miles.”

“M-miles?”

“Yeah. Get going.”

He stared after her. “You’re just letting me go?”

“You didn’t kill anyone, right?”

“No!” he exclaimed.

She found she believed him. He’d been at the cabin hiding the bodies. But that was it. And he hadn’t been the one to put a gun to her head.

"Then go!" She shouted, turning her attention back to the forest. "Run!"

She watched as Simon stumbled off, half-running, half-wading through the river. She didn’t trust him fully, but that was a concern for another day. She was alone now, and she had a killer to catch.

Taking a deep breath, she doubled back into the woods. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom.

She didn’t watch Simon anymore.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. She felt a rush of adrenaline tingling in her fingertips and spreading out to her toes. The wind rustled through the trees, the leaves whispering secrets as they quivered in the night air. Rachel moved forward, purposeful and determined, the crunch of leaves under her boots echoing in the silent forest.

She was aware of every rustling leaf, every shifting shadow, every distant hoot of an owl. Her senses were heightened, her body primed. She was no longer just a ranger; she was a hunter on a chase.

With each step, she mentally inventoried her surroundings – a thicket to the right that could hide a man lying low, a large oak tree with branches sturdy enough to support someone climbing up to get a better vantage point, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves.

Feeling the cold metal of her gun against her palm brought an odd sense of reassurance. The familiar weight of it in her hand grounded her amidst the uncertainty and danger. She checked it again - fully loaded, safety off.

The snapping of twigs brought her attention back to her surroundings. The noise wasn't coming from ahead but from her side. Cautiously, she moved towards it, shadows and moonlight playing tricks on her eyes.

Piercing eyes scanned the darkness expectantly, but nobody came charging out. No gunshot rang in the quiet night.

But he was out there. A killer was stalking her in the dark.

The only question remained: who would find the other first?