Page 73 of Not This Night

“Just need the angle.”

Ethan muttered but put the car in gear regardless.

She found her balance atop the vehicle, legs braced, rifle butt snug against her shoulder. Her finger caressed the trigger.

"Move back," she instructed, her tone brokering no argument. Every second mattered. The scope brought the world closer, each breath she took measured, each heartbeat a drum in her ears.

"Stop," she said. The car stilled. Through the magnified lens, the clinic loomed, each detail amplified. She now had an angle on the upper window.

"Wait," she whispered, her eye never leaving the scope, the crosshairs searching the rooms through the windows.

“Need more space. Further,” she said quickly.

The vehicle crawled backwards. Ethan's hands were steady on the wheel, guided by Rachel's clipped commands. "Further," she said, her voice a low growl of concentration.

Rachel's fingers worked in deft silence. The bolt slid home with a soft click. Magazine in. Safety off. Her grip on the weapon was an extension of her will—firm, assured, ready. The scope, an ACOG 4x32, was dialed in; eye relief and field of view checked in quick succession. Reticle sharp against the afternoon glare. She needed to hear what was happening inside.

"Audio," she said, her eyes never leaving the building's second story.

Movement? She spotted a curtain shifting. The blinds were closed, though.

Ethan nodded and was out of the car in one fluid motion, radio clutched in hand. Sprinting toward the clinic, he reached the gutter, metal cool and firm beneath his palms. He tried sliding up one of the windows, but it remained lodged.

He then tried another. She watched, heart pounding, running over everything they knew.

Miguel was here.

He was here for vengeance. They had to stop him before he completed what he’d come here for.

"Good," she breathed into her mic as Ethan finally found an open window, shimmying along a gutter’s metal fixture, then wedged the radio into place. It fell through the gap in the sill, tumbling from sight.

Ethan’s movements had caused the blinds to shift, and Rachel went still.

She saw him.

Six figures with their hands tied in front of them, gags on. And a man marching back and forth, looking the epitome of rage—

A man with a gun in hand.

“I see him,” she whispered into the mic.

Ethan was retreating back in her direction, his own gun drawn. No sound of sirens yet. The backup was on its way, but it would take some time to reach the rez.

Now, Rachel could distinguish shouting from inside. Miguel’s voice.

He was ranting, screaming. The words, a distorted echo through the radio. Rachel's hand tightened around her rifle.

"Who did it?" he yelled. "Who ruined my Lucy? Who destroyed her life? Tell me! tell me! now!" His voice screeched like a wild animal in its death throes.

Hostages whimpered, their cries tremulously reaching Rachel's ears through the radio. She followed one line of sight to a prone security guard, bathed in an ominous halo of blood. Her stomach clenched, but she steeled herself and continued her surveillance.

Her eyes flicked back to the hostages. Lined up like lambs for slaughter, fear etched into their faces, paralyzing them. Miguel was pacing, his gun swinging wildly as he bellowed his rage.

"I don't know," came a woman's voice, high-pitched and strained with terror.

The only one whose gag was lowered.

Rachel’s heart twisted at the plea but her eyes remained locked on target—Miguel Ortiz. She needed to stop him. She needed just one clean shot.

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