Page 28 of Not This Night

They passed under an overpass, the echo of their passage a dull roar in Reaper's ears. The city's skeleton gave way to less traveled paths, the urban sprawl thinning out like a receding tide. Buildings became fewer, spaces wider.

Here… this is where he picked up speed. His headlights off. They hadn’t spotted him yet.

The road unraveled, a black ribbon slicing through the desert. Reaper's grip on the steering wheel was vise-like, each knuckle whitened by the strain. Miles of nothingness stretched ahead, the reservation's boundary a line drawn in the sand.

A coyote darted across the road, its eyes caught in the headlights before vanishing into the night. Reaper didn't flinch. His gaze was locked on the red glow of the police vehicle's taillights, an ember he was hellbent on following to the source.

Pebbles pinged against the undercarriage. The car wove through the desolation, a silent hunter. Tension coiled in Reaper's stomach as the anticipation of what lay ahead brewed like a storm on the horizon.

He could almost taste the confrontation, metallic and sharp on his tongue.

The sparse landscape offered no cover, yet Reaper needed none. Out here, darkness was an ally, the vast expanse a shroud for his deadly intentions. The hum of the engine was a whisper against the silence of the open plains, the rhythm of the tires on asphalt providing a rising sense of courage.

Reaper's pulse quickened. The stage was set.

He slid a hand beneath the seat, fingers closing around cold glass. The bottle felt heavy with promise. He pulled it closer, fabric of the rag rough against his skin. Chemicals stung his nostrils.

Ready.

He pulled alongside the cops, gripping the bottle tight.

They still hadn’t spotted him.

But even if they had, it was now too late.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gravel crunched under Rachel's boots as she approached the solitary house. A rusty chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire, attempted to ward off uninvited guests. She scanned the perimeter; "No Trespassing" signs clung to the fence at intervals, their red letters faded but legible against the sun-bleached background.

"Mr. Kelley?" Her voice cut through the stillness, assertive, carrying across the yard. She rapped sharply on the door, her knuckles making a solid thud against the weathered wood.

No answer.

She glanced at her phone, studying the frowning face of the parole officer staring back at her.

Mark Kelley.

Scott Hawkeye’s parole officer and now his alibi.

She looked up again, eyes narrowed. She’d driven nearly an hour on winding, desert roads.

If Hawkeye had been all the way out here, there was no way he could’ve killed anyone back in the valley.

“Kelley?” she called, louder. “Ranger Blackwood!”

She knocked on the door again.

The silence of the Texan desert swallowed her words, leaving nothing but a hollow echo. Squinting under her hat at the moon, she circled the property, footsteps crunching gravel underfoot. The house was as quiet as the grave.

She approached one of the windows, peering through the dust-coated glass into a sparsely furnished room. A quiet sigh left her lips; it looked like Kelley wasn't home.

As she began to turn away, something flickered in her peripheral vision. She jerked back to the window, squinting into the dim interior. The flicker came again—a television.

She knocked on the window.

“Mr. Kelley!” she called, louder.

The TV went suddenly silent.

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