Page 32 of Not This Night

Gravel crunched under the tires of Rachel's SUV as she navigated the chaotic tableau that had erupted along the remote stretch of Texas backroad. The flashing red and blue lights painted an eerie dance of shadows on the dust-laden landscape, while the harsh glare of floodlights unveiled the severity of the scene ahead. She parked at a distance, her boots kicking up fine silt as she strode toward the nucleus of the emergency response.

"Rae," called a voice tinged with urgency.

She turned, her piercing gaze landing on Ethan. His figure cut through the swirl of uniformed bodies, his approach hurried, his face etched with lines deeper than any case file. His eyes held a storm that hadn't yet broken, but the dark clouds were there, ready to burst.

"Any leads?" Her question was direct, slicing through the ambient noise of radio chatter and distant sirens.

"Nothing clear-cut." Ethan's reply came tight-lipped, his grim expression a silent testament to the gravity of the situation. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture born of frustration rather than vanity.

Amber waves from the paramedics' lights painted a grim tableau. Rachel's boots crunched on gravel, her shadow stretching long and distorted across the churned earth. She fixed her eyes on the scorched skeleton of the police cruiser, the heart of the inferno now reduced to smoldering remains.

Its once sleek, polished exterior was now warped and charred beyond recognition. The vehicle's shattered windshield lay scattered around it, glinting in the unnatural glow of the emergency lights. The heat from the fire had melted the car's tires into black pools of rubber that seeped into the cracks and crevices of the gravel beneath.

The skeletal frame jutted out at awkward angles against the stark landscape, each scrap of surviving metal twisted by the merciless flames. Dark streaks of soot and ash smeared across what remained of the law enforcement symbol painted on its side. The scent of burnt oil and scorched metal filled the air, an acrid tang that stung her nostrils as she drew closer.

She knelt alongside one end of the vehicle, close to where tire tracks interrupted the patterns in the dust. Her gloved fingers traced along them briefly before she stood again, snapping a few photos with her phone for later reference.

“The cops were in the car?”

"Two down," Ethan said, his voice clipped. "They’re in critical condition—burns... it's bad. One might not make it through the night."

"Damn." The word came out half-formed, lodging like a stone in her throat. She swallowed hard, her mind cataloguing the cost. "Did they get a visual? Anything on the radio?"

"Unsure." He shook his head, the set of his jaw betraying his concern. "Comms were chaotic. We're still piecing it together."

Rachel nodded, her gaze never leaving the blackened car. Behind the professional mask, something primal recoiled at the thought of flames consuming flesh and bone. Her fingers itched for her notepad, for the semblance of control notes could provide.

Rachel circled the husk of the cruiser, her eyes darting from one detail to the next. The air was acrid, stinging her nostrils, heavy with the scent of char and ruin. She pulled a flashlight from her belt, the beam slicing through the twilight.

the warped metal frame, the exploded remnants of the windows, the tortured twist of seatbelts that hadn't been enough to save their occupants. Her gaze narrowed as she noticed tire treads etched into the dirt road leading away from the scene.

"Get me Forensics," she ordered briskly, not looking away from the tire marks.

The ground was littered with shards of shattered glass, glittering beneath the harsh glare of overhead lights.

She approached what she’d spotted, feeling Ethan’s eyes on her.

There—on the road's edge—a pattern. Distinct. Tire treads. Rachel crouched, studying their outline in the dirt, the unique signature left by rubber on earth.

"Here," she said, her voice steady, betraying nothing of the fury that simmered within. "Photographs. I want angles and distances."

Ethan nodded, stepping away to flag down a forensic photographer.

"Make it quick," she added, knowing time was as much of an enemy as the faceless arsonist they hunted.

The camera's flash strobed, freezing the marks in stark relief against the darkening sky.

Rachel flipped open her phone with one hand, the other still resting on the holster at her hip. Numbers punched in, she brought the device to her ear, the line crackling to life.

"Dispatch, this is Blackwood. Badge 2279."

"Go ahead, Ranger Blackwood," a calm voice answered through the static.

"Need a check on any radio traffic for unit 54-Baker-12 before they were hit." She rattled off the car's details, her tone crisp, businesslike.

"Stand by," came the reply.

She paced the perimeter, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the emergency lights' reach. Every second mattered, every detail a thread in a larger tapestry of crime and motive.

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