Page 44 of Not This Place

Before she could turn, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her skull, a stark interruption to her strategy. Metal kissed skin, no room for error. Rachel stilled.

"Hands where I can see them. Now," the voice behind her commanded. It was deep, muffled by a mask or maybe just distance.

She complied with measured movements. One hand lifted, then the other, both rising level with her shoulders.

"Good girl," the voice sneered, close, breath ghosting over her ear.

Rachel's pulse throbbed in her neck, a drumbeat of survival instincts. Sweat beaded her brow, but her training anchored her, kept her from succumbing to panic. Her mind raced, options dwindling with each passing second.

She tried to turn to see the threat, but the man snarled.

“Don’t. Move!”

He jammed the gun into her spine, sending her stumbling forward around the side of the cabin.

She didn’t resist, her mind moving rapidly, the cold metal of the weapon like ice on her skin.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dust particles scattered in the slanted light, piercing through the gaps in the wooden walls. The cabin, once a sanctuary of rural life, now reeked of death and gunpowder. Rachel's knees pressed hard against the worn floorboards, the grain etched into them as deep as the lines of worry furrowed on her brow. She shifted, her muscles tense, eyes locked onto the black bags that held more than just the weight of human remains.

The zipper on one body bag was undone, cruelly revealing what she had feared. Barker. Old man with hands that knew the soil, face forever frozen beneath the shadow of the cabin's dim interior. His dead eyes met hers, a silent accusation.

Boots scuffed behind her, the gunmen's presence oppressive. They spoke in whispers, words muffled by their masks and the thick tension hanging like smoke in the air. Their hands restless on the grips of their weapons, adjusting straps, itching for action.

Rachel's gaze flickered towards them, searching for any clue, any slip that might give her leverage. One caught her eye, his posture rigid with anger. Quick as a rattlesnake, he stepped forward, finger pointed squarely at her.

"Keep your damn eyes down, cop."

His voice, a serrated blade—harsh, unforgiving. The threat in it coiled around Rachel like barbed wire, but she didn't flinch. The other two shuffled, their unease palpable even as they tried to calm their companion. The cabin felt smaller with every passing second, a cage made of old wood and looming shadows.

"Shut it. Boss'll have our hides if we mess this up," another growled, a warning laced within the gruff syllables.

"Boss ain't here, is he?" the furious one spat back, voice barely controlled.

Rachel's hands curled into fists, the dirt from the floor embedding itself under her nails. She catalogued every sound—their breathing, the creak of leather, the click of a safety being flicked off and on. She memorized the pitch and timbre of their voices, anything that might reveal an identity or intention.

"Enough!" The third man's command cut through the murmurs like a gunshot. "We do what we came for. That's it."

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. Rachel's throat tightened. She took in a slow, measured breath, the scent of blood and pine mixing in her nostrils. Her mind raced, piecing together fragments of information, discarding none. Every detail mattered. Every second counted.

She kept her head bowed, giving the illusion of submission, while inside, the fire of resistance blazed hotter than ever.

The cabin air was still, heavy with the stench of death and the latent threat of violence. Rachel's eyes darted from the slumped shapes in the body bags to the three looming figures. They were faceless enigmas behind their ski masks, voices muffled but laden with malice.

"Boss has rules. No witnesses," one of them muttered, his voice a guttural whisper that skittered across the wooden floorboards.

Rachel's pulse quickened. She knew these men were not just messengers of death; they were its harbingers, ready to deliver her to the same fate as Barker—unless she could find a way to turn the tables. Her gaze fixed on the worn boots stepping closer, the crunch of debris underfoot breaking the silence.

"Maybe we should take her to him," the tallest thug suggested, his words slicing through the tension like a blade. "Let him decide if he wants to feed her to the hogs."

"Or do it ourselves," another proposed.

A shiver ran down Rachel's spine—their casual discussion of her demise a clear sign of their detachment, their experience with such grim deeds. But beneath her fear, a smoldering anger ignited.

"Move," the first gunman commanded, motioning with the barrel of his gun for her to stand.

Rachel complied, her muscles tensing for action. Her mind raced, calculating the distance to the door, the weight of the air, the possibility of escape.

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