Page 33 of Not This Night

She waited for the call to connect, scanning the road and the vehicle. She tried to piece together what must’ve happened:

the sudden shock of an approaching danger, the panic as the Molotov cocktail hit, the desperate scramble to escape as flames swallowed everything.

"Ranger Blackwood?" Dispatch cut back in, a sense of urgency now coloring the dispatcher's voice. "You're going to want to hear this. There was a call."

"Send it." Her command was terse.

"Sending file now."

Rachel's boots crunched over gravel as she navigated the chaos, her eyes locking onto Ethan's silhouette against the flicker of blue and red lights.

"Got something," she said, the moment she was within earshot.

Ethan turned, his expression taut. "What is it?"

"Radio call. Before the blaze." She held up her phone. "Let's listen."

They found a pocket of stillness away from the clamor, Rachel's finger hovering before pressing play. The night air held its breath, the distant hum of generators and murmured conversations fading into insignificance.

The audio crackled to life, a frantic voice piercing through the static. "Dispatch, we got a fire here—"

"Where's that guy?" another voice cut in, panic lacing the words.

"Which guy? Who—it’s him!" the first cop shouted back just as a loud whoosh drowned out the conversation.

The first question had been confused. But the declaration of it’s him seconds later had changed. Had the cop spotted their attacker?”

"Did you hear that?" Ethan leaned in.

"Clear as day," Rachel replied. "They knew him."

"Personal then," Ethan murmured, his thoughts mirroring hers.

"Looks that way."

The audio ended abruptly, a sharp cutoff that left more questions than answers.

She shook her head in frustration, anger mounting. “He’s bold. Super brash. How did he know they’d be on the road?”

“We think it was the same guy?”

“Think it’s a coincidence?”

“Possible.”

Rachel shook her head. She listened to the recording again, but there was scant information. Just terror.

And now two cops on the verge of death.

“Are either of them able to speak?” she said.

“No. Both are unconscious,” Ethan replied, voice grim. “Aken might not live through the next few hours. Super touch and go.”

She cursed under her breath, scowling.

She studied the motionless car once more, standing at a distance to examine the husk. The scorch marks had started in the back seat, evident by

the charred upholstery and melted plastic of the seats. The fire had spread fast, incinerating the interior before leaping out to catch the dry grass around the vehicle. The windshield was blown out, broken glass littering the area like shards of ice. The burnt-out shell of the patrol car sat there, gutted and charred, a grotesque monument to the savage attack.

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