Page 54 of Not This Night

Sometimes, all it took was one match. And that’s how this had all started, hadn’t it? One small choice. One moment of misplaced trust.

The Reaper's hand was steady as he brought it to the gasoline-soaked truck, the orange glow casting sinister shadows across the sharp angles of his face. There was a brief moment where fire met fuel, a split second of hesitation in the universe before obedience.

And then it roared.

Fire engulfed the truck with ravenous hunger, voracious flames licking the night sky, crackling with insatiable fury. Heat blasted in waves, fierce and unforgiving. The light from the conflagration threw an eerie glow onto the Reaper's visage, painting him with the colors of destruction. Shadows danced wildly over his features, but his eyes remained cold—two chips of ice reflecting a burning inferno.

He watched, expressionless, as the fire claimed its victim. It gnawed through metal and glass. This was his silent testimony, the funeral pyre for his previous existence.

Then, without a word, he turned. His silhouette cut a stark figure against the fiery tableau behind him. He walked away, boots crunching on gravel, the heat at his back now just another part of the night.

And what came next would shock the world.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

They had their first solid lead, and they shot like an arrowhead towards it.

Rachel hadn’t wanted to sleep on the five-hour drive south, but Ethan had insisted.

Now, yawning and waking, the morning sun pierced through the windshield, casting a glare on the dashboard as Ethan maneuvered the unmarked car along the winding road. Ethan yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Both were silent, the hum of the engine and the occasional thump of tires over a seam in the pavement the only sounds.

"Charlie Withersnow," Rachel muttered, thumbing her phone. Her fingers danced across the screen, tapping into databases and scrolling through records. The tight lines around her eyes spoke of focus, a trait born of years sifting through the darkest parts of humanity's closet.

And what she’d found in the Ortiz’ closet still echoed in her consciousness.

"Got something?" Ethan leaned in, his gaze flickering between her phone and the road ahead.

"More than just something." Her voice was even, devoid of surprise. "Armed robbery. Assault charge. And that's what's been filed."

"Charming resume," Ethan quipped, but his light tone didn't mask the concern etching deeper into his features.

"Seems our friend Charlie likes trouble. Looks like he hit a gas station late at night, few years back. Took the cash and left the attendant with a broken nose." Rachel's voice was impersonal, detached as she recited the details from Charlie's arrest report. "Cops found him a few blocks away, high as a kite and grinning like an idiot. Seems he didn't resist arrest."

"Sounds like a real prince," Ethan grumbled, steering the car onto a gravel driveway that ended abruptly at an imposing wooden structure.

The halfway house loomed ahead, an unassuming beast of knotted wood and sunlight-dappled stone. It harbored men like Charlie, giving them a second chance to reintegrate into society—or so it promised.

The car rolled to a stop, gravel crunching beneath its weight. Rachel's hand was already on the door handle before the engine's rattle died. She stepped out, Ethan close behind, both squinting in the harsh morning light.

"Place looks dead," Ethan commented, scanning the drab exterior of the halfway house.

"Let's hope it's just appearances," Rachel replied, approaching the weathered front door. Her knock was firm, echoing hollowly against the silence that hung over the small, southern Texas town like a shroud.

Seconds stretched into a small eternity. Then the door creaked open. A mountain of a man filled the frame, his bulk casting a shadow that fell cold across Rachel's face. His eyes—deep-set and unreadable—fixed on her, unblinking.

She took a step back, cast in the shadow of the giant in the door.

His shoulders were so wide, he almost had to turn sideways to fit through, and a scattering of intricate tattoos were inked into the taut skin of his exposed arms, each symbol etched with primordial stories from forgotten tribes. His square cut jaw was peppered with a thick stubble that matched the grizzled hair, pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of his head. Cuts and bruises mottled his toughened knuckles—signs of a brawling life, maybe, or clues to more recent struggles. His shirt hung loose on his barrel-like chest, an old flannel plaid, stretched thin over the layers of solid muscle.

The jarring juxtaposition of traditional Native attire and modern ruggedness looked entirely natural on him, telling tales of an individual trapped between two worlds, a notion Rachel was not unfamiliar with. His imposing physique was all the more intimidating given Rachel's slighter frame, and even Ethan seemed dwarfed by this enormous figure.

But what caught Rachel’s attention, what made her heart pound and her blood rush with anticipation, were the beads.

Intricately handcrafted turquoise, they hung around his neck, striking against his dark sun-beaten skin—they clinked softly as he shuffled his feet. Beaded bracelets adorned his wrists, rattling in time with every movement, while an eagle feather was tucked behind his ear, just peeking out from beneath the cascade of raven-black hair.

She blinked, staring at the giant.

But he just stared back, a moment of silence passing between them where a coyote cried in the distant darkness.

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