Page 72 of Not This Night

“Maybe they encouraged her. Helped her. Took her. Hid it from Miguel—maybe that’s why he’s hunted them.”

“Still just conjecture.”

“It makes sense. It fits.”

"Charlie could've known about Lucy's sterilization and used that information as leverage... Then she killed herself, and it all comes out. That's enough motive for Miguel to retaliate," Ethan voiced out.

“And it all started in one place,” Rachel whispered.

“The reservation clinic?” Ethan leaned in, trying to catch every detail in Rachel's theory.

"Exactly." Rachel’s jaw was set. She tossed the phone onto the dash and accelerated, the car’s headlights slicing through the twilight haze.

"Where are we going?"

"The clinic."

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Rapid pace, Rachel Blackwood marched over the clinic's driveway, the chill night air howling around her and whipping her beaded hair out behind her like some dark specter trailing her steps. The sun bore down, indifferent to the tension knotting her shoulders. Ethan, beside her, had his phone pressed to his ear, lips moving urgently as he called for backup. Around them, cars sat parked, their metal bodies too still against the backdrop of the silent building.

"See anything?" Rachel asked, squinting against the glare.

"Nothing yet," Ethan replied, his voice a low thread amidst the stillness.

Rachel moved first. Quick strides carried her to the clinic's entrance. Her hand shot out, grabbing the door handle with practiced haste. Locked. She rattled it forcefully; it didn't budge. A chain clinked from within, its links tight around the handles. "Chained from inside," she called over her shoulder, her tone clipped.

They were in the right place. Her stomach tightened, and she could feel tension coiling.

Her fingers skimmed to her hip, where the weight of her gun was both a comfort and a promise. The quiet was wrong. Her gaze flicked over the facade of the clinic, searching for breaches, for threats. Then it came—a thin wail, seeping through the walls. Crying. Weeping that echoed faintly from upstairs.

"Up there," she said, tipping her head towards the sound. Her eyes met Ethan's, and without a word, they shared the same foreboding. Something sinister unfolded behind the locked doors and shuttered windows.

Ethan's hand shot out, fingers grazing Rachel's arm. "IED," he hissed, nodding toward the low window where a suspicious package lay nestled against the glass, its wires cruelly winking in the sunlight.

“He’s trapped them inside,” Rachel whispered.

Ethan’s eyes scanning the clinic's shadowed interior through the window. "Movement," he murmured. It was a woman, crouched and bound.

"Thank God," Rachel breathed out, a quicksilver surge of relief fleeting across her face. But no time for relief. She had to move. Miguel Ortiz was here. They'd located his final act of vengeance. Still, they were only chasing theories. Only chasing conjecture.

She needed to get in there.

The doors were trapped and locked, though. No telling what breeching the location would trigger.

Rachel was already moving even as her thoughts swirled like a vortex.

The gravel ground under her boots as she pivoted, sprinting back to their unmarked car. Adrenaline sharpened her focus, every sense attuned to the crisis unfolding.

The trunk popped open at her command, revealing the rifle she'd assembled countless times before. Hands steady, she lifted it, feeling the familiar weight of the scope in her palm. Precision. That was what the moment demanded.

"Get in. Drive. I need height," she ordered, the snap of command in her voice. Her gaze didn't waver from Ethan's as she hoisted herself onto the roof of the car.

Ethan hesitated, the glint of uncertainty in his eyes fleeting. Trust won. He slid into the driver's seat, the engine coming to life with a muted roar.

"Slow," she added, her voice tense and crisp. And then she clambered onto the roof of the vehicle.

“You sure about this?”

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