CHAPTER TWENTY

Rachel had spotted the figure on the ridge. She darted from cover, drawing him out.

He aimed. She spotted him tense.

She darted left, taking cover just as he fired.

Crack !

The gunshot went wide, chipping at the sandstone of the ridge wall behind her.

She kept moving, darting from cover to cover. Her own gun raised and she returned fire. Two shots.

A curse. Had she hit?

An answering gunshot caused the log beside her to explode into smithereens as she dove for cover. A spray of dirt and wood chips stung her face. She squinted, teeth gritting as she kept low to the ground, moving swiftly but silently.

The forest was alive with the crackle of gunfire, each echo reverberating in the silence like a predator’s roar.

"Taking fire," she relayed into her radio, her voice a low growl against the thunderous echoes.

“Hold tight, Rachel!” came Ethan's strained reply through the static.

Rachel peered from her cover, trying to spot Hargreaves amidst the brush and shadows. He had played his hand; now he was hiding again, melting back into the night.

Without warning, a piercing whistle cut through the tense silence. She flinched instinctively, just as a flare exploded in the sky above her, bathing the forest in harsh white light.

She squinted against the sudden brightness, shielding her eyes with an arm. The surrounding trees cast long, monstrous shadows that danced and lashed out wildly around her.

Caught off guard, Rachel scrambled back against her cover. Her heart pounded against her ribs in fierce protest.

No more running. No more hiding.

With a determined set to her jaw, she counted three heartbeats before bolting from cover, eyes narrowed as they adjusted to the flare's illuminating glow.

Her boots pounded against the leaf-strewn ground as she sprinted towards where she'd last seen Hargreaves.

Leaves crunched under her weight, and the wind whipped through her hair as she ran. Every instinct inside her screamed at her to take cover, to hide in the shadows. But Rachel Blackwood wasn't one to back down.

A figure emerged from the darkness; Hargreaves was on the move, too. He was fleeing deeper into the forest, his body hunched over as he navigated the uneven terrain. The flare's light reflected off of his rifle, betraying his position.

Rachel gritted her teeth and picked up speed, closing in on him fast. His desperate escape told her all she needed to know.

But a second later, he paused and turned on a dime, his rifle aiming at her.

One moment fleeing, the next turning to face her.

Neither of them wants to back down in this game of chicken.

In a brief moment, as his rifle lifted, and as he aimed, she stared at Sherlock Hargreaves.

The man was in his sixties according to his public information, but he looked as if he were made from granite.

Everything slowed to milliseconds as she took in his appearance, her mind moving rapid-time. He looked like Jasper in the strength of his jaws and the blue of his eyes.

But other than that, he was like a cord of steel, his body hardened by a life of physical labor, his face weather-beaten and lined with age. His arms were thick and muscular, veins standing out like knotted ropes. Even in the harsh glare of the flare, she could see the sweat glistening off his forehead, his eyes hard and resolute.

His clothing was nondescript–a tattered flannel shirt rustling under the weight of a worn-out leather jacket–but Rachel's trained eye noticed the telltale bulges where extra ammunition might be hidden. Hargreaves wasn't just prepared for a fight; he'd been expecting one.

The forest - which was once her ally, hiding her in its shadows - now betrayed her, clearly outlining her form under the bright flare. It made her an easy target.

Time paused with a pulse-pounding beat as their gazes locked. Neither blinked, neither made any move to retreat. A predator sizing up its prey, but who was which?

She flung herself to the side, pulling her own trigger.

Both guns erupted simultaneously.

The world erupted into a violent burst of light and sound. An explosion of soil and leaves where her foot had been a split second ago signaled Hargreaves' near miss. Rachel's own bullet sliced through the night.

She didn't pause to gauge the success of her shot. Using the distraction, she dove behind an uneven mound of dirt and rocks, stifling a grunt as sharp stones bit into her palms. She felt the sting of a cut open on her cheekbone, warm liquid trickling down her face.

Tucking herself into a crouch, she pressed her back against the mound, sucking in quick breaths of the damp woodland air. Her ears rang with lingering echoes of gunshots, but beneath it all, she discerned soft crunches of hurried footsteps growing fainter.

Was he fleeing? Or regrouping?

"Move in," she growled into the radio, ethereal blue light from its screen casting an eerie glow on her strained features. "Target heading southeast."

"Copy that,” Ethan’s confirmation crackled back promptly.

She didn't waste time waiting for him. With a swift movement, she was back on her feet, using every bit of shadow available under the dying flare-light as cover. She sprinted towards Hargreaves’ last known location, darting past twisted trees and gnarled shrubs like a ghost through the night.

But Sherlock Hargreaves was no ordinary prey.

A deafening boom echoed through the forest once again.

Another flare shot up.

The sound of the incoming helicopter drew nearer. The blades churning against the sky.

“Ethan? That you?” she shouted into the radio.

“Affirmative—take me in!” This second command was issued to whoever was piloting the chopper.

Now, the sky was illuminated by a second, bright red flare.

Rachel continued racing through the woods, but last minute, she flung herself to the ground, behind a stump, just as it exploded from a gunshot.

Splinters geyser up, a hot wave of debris raining down on Rachel, peppering her back with bits of wood and dirt. She winced, but quickly shook it off.

"Sherlock Hargreaves! You're under arrest!" she bellowed into the night, her voice echoing through the trees. Her announcement was met with chilling silence, save for the distant roar of Ethan's approaching helicopter.

Suddenly, Hargreaves' gruff voice sliced through the stillness. "You're out of your depth, Blackwood!"

Rachel's grip tightened on her gun. His threats were just noise - empty words meant to deter her. She knew many men like Sherlock Hargreaves - men who used fear as a weapon.

"You're cornered, Hargreaves!" she retorted crisply over the crunching sound of Ethan's chopper blades cutting through the dense Texas night air.

Once more, she darted out from behind the stump, moving closer to where Hargreaves' voice had come from. Her shadow stretched alarming long under the twin flares' light; a dark giant charging forth with righteous fury.

She saw him then - an indistinct figure prowling by the thicket not far from her position. The dying glow of his flare cast monstrous shadows across his gravel-lined face, exaggerating every harsh line and scornful twist of his lips.

He was walking towards her, hands raised.

A smirk creased his wizened face.

She tensed. His hands didn’t drop. “Gun is behind me,” he said quietly. “I’m unarmed.”

She kept her gun fixated on him, tense. “Don’t move.”

He took another step then went still. In the open, under the bright flares, those blue eyes looked like ice. His harsh, firm jaw set in a grim line.

He went still. His features hardened into a defiant mask, the smirk turning into a sneer.

The helicopter was almost on top of them now, the roar of its engines overpowering the pulse of the night. The downwash from its rotors shook the trees, sending leaves and debris swirling around them. Dust stung her eyes but she didn't blink, didn't waver.

Ethan's voice crackled through her radio again. "Hold your position, Rae. We're almost there."

She nodded imperceptibly, never taking her eyes off Hargreaves. She could see the way his eyes darted to the side, calculating possibilities, assessing escape routes. The man was a cornered animal, dangerous and unpredictable.

"Face down on the ground," she ordered, keeping her tone steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Hargreaves only laughed in response, a chilling sound that cut through the noise of the chopper blades. "You won't shoot an unarmed man, Ranger."

Rachel ground her teeth. "Don't test me."

As if on cue, the helicopter burst clear of the tree line into view above them. With a sudden whip-crack of motion, a rope ladder uncoiled from its side, swinging wildly in the turbulence.

"Stand down!" she shouted over the roar of the chopper again.

Sherlock Hargreaves made no such move to comply; instead he continued to hold his ground stubbornly as if he could outwait fate itself.

“I have something to tell you, Ranger,” he said quietly. “And you’re going to want to listen to me.”