24. The Hunt

THE HUNT

T he forest swallowed sound differently at night. Every snap of twigs under our boots felt like a gunshot, every rustle of leaves a warning. Rio and Smith moved like shadows beside me, their training showing in how they placed each step. Been tracking Ramirez's ghost all day, following whispers and maybes until Mrs. Henderson's tip led us here.

"Movement, two o'clock," Smith breathed, barely audible. His flashlight beam caught something metallic through the trees - reflection off a window maybe, or something worse.

The old Johnston cabin. Hadn't thought about that place in years, not since we'd cleared out the last bunch of teenagers using it for parties. But now it sat there in the darkness like it had been waiting for us, like it knew something we didn't.

Hand signals moved us forward - Rio left, Smith right, me taking point. Standard procedure except nothing felt standard about this. The cabin's outline grew clearer with each step, moonlight painting its broken edges in silver and shadow.

Fresh footprints in the mud. Recent. Maybe hours old. Someone big, moving with purpose. Ramirez's size, Ramirez's stride length. Son of a bitch had been here.

Food wrappers scattered near the porch told more stories - protein bars, those specific energy drinks he always kept in the break room. Fucker hadn't gone far, was probably watching us right now from somewhere in the darkness.

"Sheriff." Rio's whisper carried urgent. His flashlight beam caught more prints leading around back. Blood mixed with the mud there, not much but enough to know someone was hurt.

The porch steps creaked under my weight, wood protesting years of neglect. Door hung crooked on its hinges, like someone had forced it recently. Smith took up position on my six, Rio covering our flank. Good men. Solid men. The kind you wanted beside you when walking into darkness.

"Ramirez?" My voice carried command even as my heart tried to punch through my ribs. "Come out with your hands where we can see them."

Silence answered. Not the natural quiet of an empty building, but the held-breath kind that meant someone was listening.

"It's over." Kept talking as we moved inside, flashlight beams cutting through years of dust and decay. "We know about the New York connection. About the payments. Make it easier on yourself."

The floorboards protested under our weight, each step releasing decades of dust into the stale air. Our flashlight beams caught cobwebs dancing, shadow puppets on rotting walls. Something about this place felt wrong. Not just abandoned-wrong, but wrong-wrong. The kind that makes the hair on your neck stand up even before you know why.

"Clear left," Rio whispered, his beam sweeping the kitchen area. Ancient dishes still sat in a sink, like whoever lived here had just stepped out for a minute. Forty years ago.

But things were off. Fresh marks scarred the dust on the counter. Recent footprints broke through years of grime on the floor. Someone had been here, moving with purpose.

The living room stretched before us, furniture draped in sheets gone yellow with age. Smith took point, weapon ready, while I studied the room. Ramirez had police training. Would know how to cover his tracks, how to set up ambush points.

A coffee cup sat on a side table, dark liquid still wet around the rim. Fresh. Couldn't have been here more than an hour.

The stairs looked solid but I knew better. Old houses like this, they had weak spots. Trick was knowing where to step. Third stair always creaked. Fifth one had a nail loose. Knowledge from teenage years sneaking around here came in handy now.

Something crashed upstairs - glass breaking, maybe a lamp. Could be Ramirez getting clumsy. Could be him wanting us to look up while he moved below.

"Check it," I motioned to Rio. He started up, careful on those treacherous stairs, while Smith covered the main floor.

The smell hit stronger now. Copper and salt. Blood, but not fresh enough to be minutes old. Hours maybe.

My flashlight caught something odd - drag marks in the dust. Recent. Leading toward that corner where the owner used to keep her sewing table.

"Sheriff." Smith's voice barely carried. "Floor's different here."

Moved closer, studying where his light pointed. The ancient rug looked undisturbed, but the boards underneath. Something about the pattern was wrong.

Pulled the rug back slow, careful. Dust clouds rose, caught in our beams like ghost stuff. But there it was. A seam in the floorboards. Too clean to be random.

Smith found the handle first, nearly hidden in the wood grain. A hatch. One that wasn't on any building plans I'd ever seen.

The metallic smell leaked up stronger through the cracks. Fresh enough to mean trouble. Old enough to mean we were too late.

Rio rejoined us, shaking his head about upstairs. All clear. Which meant whatever waited below was our only lead.

Grabbed the handle, metal cold against my palm. Everything in me screaming that opening this door would change things. Change our town. Change me.

The hinges fought back, years of rust protesting as we pulled. What lay below was darker than the cabin dark. Hungry dark. Waiting dark.

Stairs disappeared into that blackness, each one old enough to be a death trap. The smell rose up like a physical thing, carrying stories none of us wanted to hear.

"I'll take point," I said, already starting down.

Each step threatening to give under our weight. The basement air hit thick - mud and copper and something worse. Something final.

My flashlight found them first. The Winslows.

"No no no." The words came without permission. Because I knew them. Everyone knew them. Margaret Winslow who still baked pies for the church social. Tom who fixed kids' bikes for free. Part of my town. My people.

Now they lay crumpled together, holding each other even in death. The blood had stopped flowing but wasn't old. Hours maybe. If we'd been faster, if we'd found this place sooner

"Jake." Rio's hand landed on my shoulder, steadying. "This isn't on you."

But it was. All of it. My deputy, my town, my failure to see what was happening under my nose.

"Call it in." My voice came from somewhere far away. "Full forensics. And get the coroner. They deserve better than this place."

Smith radioed while Rio secured the scene. Professional distance taking over because it had to. Because falling apart wouldn't help find whoever did this.

But fuck if my hands weren't shaking as I studied the room. Looking for signs, for proof this was Ramirez. For anything to explain why two gentle people had to die in this dark place.

No prints. No casings. Just blood and questions and the weight of responsibility crushing down.

"Found this." Smith held up a piece of paper, carefully bagged. An address in New York.

Not a coincidence. Nothing about this was random.

The forensics team arrived in a blur of lights and cameras. Watching them work felt surreal - like this kind of thing happened in other places, bigger cities. Not here. Not in my town.

Had to get out. Had to breathe.

The night air hit cold, carrying pine scent that couldn't quite mask what waited in that basement. My phone felt heavy as I pulled it out. Needed to hear his voice. Needed something real to hold onto.

"Jake?" Elliot answered on the first ring, worry clear even through the static. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The lie tasted bitter. "Just needed to hear your voice. How's New York?"

"Good." A pause, like he knew I was holding back but wouldn't push. "Told the crew about us. About everything."

"Yeah?" Something in my chest loosened slightly. "How'd that go?"

"Better than I expected. Mike said he'd known for years." His laugh carried warmth I desperately needed. "Guess I wasn't as subtle as I thought back then."

"Subtle isn't really your style, El."

"Says the man who pulled me over just to flirt."

Had to smile at that, even with death at my back. "That was professional law enforcement."

"Sure it was." His voice went softer. "Seriously though, you okay? You sound off."

"Just a rough night." Couldn't tell him about the Winslows. Not yet. Not over the phone. "Miss you."

"Miss you too." Simple words carrying so much. "Coming home soon. Whatever's happening there, we'll handle it together."

Together. The word steadied something in me. Because yeah, this was my burden as sheriff. But having someone to come home to, someone who saw past the badge to the man underneath - that made it bearable.

"Be safe." My voice caught. "New York's got its own dangers."

"You too." A pause heavy with everything unsaid.

The paperwork blurred in front of me, crime scene details mixing with Rio's careful handwriting. TV droned in the background - some racing commentator getting excited about drift angles and pit strategy. Found myself watching more than reading, picking up terms I'd never cared about before. Inside lane. Drafting. Things that mattered to Elliot.

"And Blue's absence is still felt on the circuit," the announcer said, making my head snap up. "His aggressive style in turn three"

I memorized that detail. Turn three. Something to ask Elliot about later, show him I was trying to understand his world like he was trying to understand mine.

The house felt too quiet without him. Too empty. Even with case files spread across the coffee table and the TV filling space with engine roars, something was missing. Someone.

The doorbell shattered my thoughts.

Midnight. Nobody rang doorbells in Oakwood Grove at midnight. Not unless something was wrong.

I drew my weapon before approaching the door. Years of training kicking in as I checked angles, stayed out of direct sight lines. But the porch stood empty under the security light.

Just a box.

Small. Plain. Lightweight when I lifted it with gloved hands. The kind of package that screamed trouble to anyone with a badge.

Brought it inside, every instinct screaming trap. But couldn't leave it out there, risk some kid finding it tomorrow.

The watch inside looked ordinary at first. Then recognition hit like a punch to the gut.

Jimmy's watch. The one he never took off, said his grandfather gave him. Face cracked now, band stained dark with what could only be blood.

The note underneath felt like fire in my hands: "The man needs to be taken back."

Fuck fuck fuck.

The phone was in my hand before conscious thought. "Smith. Hospital. Now. Ramirez is making his move."

I didn't wait for acknowledgment. Already running for my cruiser, heart trying to punch through my ribs. The watch kept flashing in my mind - broken glass, bloodstained leather. A message and a promise.

Not this time, you bastard.

The hospital corridors stretched endless, fluorescent lights making everything feel surreal. Found Liam and Caleb in the waiting room, their faces going pale at whatever they saw in mine.

"What's wrong?" Liam stepped forward, always the brave one. "Jake?"

"Ramirez." The name tasted like copper in my mouth. "Anything unusual tonight? Anyone who shouldn't be here?"

I watched the color drain from his face. "The orderly. About thirty minutes ago. Said he was doing med checks but Jimmy's nurse had already"

I didn't hear the rest. Already moving, gun drawn, badge forgotten because this wasn't about law anymore. This was personal.

The door to Jimmy's room stood half-open. Wrong. Protocol kept them closed at night.

Then I saw him.

Ramirez. Bent over Jimmy's bed like some nightmare come to life. Pillow pressed down where it shouldn't be.

Time slowed. Stretched. Snapped.

"Get the fuck away from him."

He turned, eyes wild, nothing left of the man who'd worn my badge. Just darkness wearing a stolen uniform.

"Should've stayed away, Jake." His voice came rough, desperate. "Some stories need to end."

"Only story ending is yours." Kept my gun steady even as rage made my vision blur red. "Step back. Now."

He moved faster than I expected. The pillow dropped but something metallic flashed in his hand. Not playing anymore. Coming for blood.

I met him halfway. His weight slammed into me but training took over. Redirected, absorbed, countered. His blade caught my cheek - sharp bright pain that barely registered through the adrenaline.

We crashed into monitors, equipment screaming protests. His fist found my ribs but I had him now. Had the angle, had the leverage born from righteousness and rage.

"You don't understand." He spat blood as we grappled. “Jimmy needed to taken care of or else he’ll come for me instead.”

"Don't care." Slammed him harder against the wall, feeling something give. "You're done hurting my people."

Smith and Rio burst in like avenging angels, weapons drawn. Ramirez saw it too - saw the end coming. Made one last desperate move.

The syringe appeared from nowhere, aimed at Jimmy's IV line. Not happening. Not on my watch.

My fist connected with his jaw, satisfaction singing through my knuckles. He went down hard, needle skittering across floor tiles.

"Clear!" Rio's voice carried command as Smith cuffed our former brother. Former friend. Former everything.

Only then did I let myself look at Jimmy. Still breathing. Still fighting. Still ours to protect.

Medical staff swarmed in, all efficient movement and urgent voices. Pushed us back, took control, did what they were trained to do.

Watched them work through a haze of fading adrenaline and rising pain. My cheek burned where his blade caught me. Ribs screamed from that lucky punch. But we'd won.

For now.

"Jake." Liam's hand landed on my shoulder, grounding. "You're bleeding."

"Worth it." Meant it with everything in me. Because that's what being sheriff meant. Taking the hits so others didn't have to.

"Sheriff Thompson." One of the nurses approached, all business. "We need to check that cut."

"In a minute." Couldn't take my eyes off Ramirez as they led him away. Needed to see it happen. Needed to know it was real.

He turned at the door, something like respect mixing with the hatred in his eyes. "You got me, Jake. But this isn't over. What's coming"

"Save it." Cut him off clean. "Only thing coming is a cell with your name on it."

Watched until they loaded him into a transport car. Until the taillights disappeared into darkness. Until the night settled back into something almost normal.

Only then did I let the nurse clean my face, stitch what needed stitching. Let the adrenaline fade into bone-deep exhaustion.