Page 53 of Not This Place

Lazarus watched until the last echo of footsteps faded away. Then he answered the call, pressing the phone to his ear. "What is it? Speak," he commanded, voice rasping like dry leaves against pavement.

As he listened, his free hand rose unconsciously to his neck. Fingers traced the ridges of scar tissue, a harsh landscape of healed wounds that marred his throat.

Lazarus. He’d returned back from the dead. The scars felt like braille under his calloused fingertips, a story he could read in the dark.

His eyes narrowed, brows drawing together while the voice on the other end trembled. Lazarus's grip on the phone tightened, the plastic creaking a protest. His pulse throbbed in his temples.

"What happened?" His voice was gravel, rough-hewn from years of shouting orders and breathing in the dank air of hidden places.

A pause stretched over the line. Ragged breaths punctuated the silence, each inhalation a sharp stab of sound against Lazarus's ear. The caller's exhales were tremulous whispers.

"Mattie... Leroy..." The voice fractured, a splintered thing barely holding together. "I think they’re dead."

"Dead? How?"

"That Texas Ranger who’s been sniffing around.”

"Where are you?" Lazarus demanded. The farm's humid air clung to his skin, suffocating as a shroud. He needed to move, to act.

"Running... Barker's farm..." The voice trailed, breathless. "No vehicle."

Barker's farm. Miles of open land, a no man's land for the hunted. Lazarus's mind raced. He saw the fields, the dirt roads, the hiding spots that weren't there. Vulnerability painted in broad strokes across a landscape too familiar.

"Stay off the road," Lazarus instructed, his tone sharp as a blade. "Hide. Wait for me."

“Already moving, boss. I think they… shit. I think I hear dogs.”

Lazarus's fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening. "Don't get caught. Whatever you do. Don't get caught," he said, his voice a low growl, every syllable a command. The line cut, leaving only a hollow click in its wake.

The subterranean farm’s artificial lights cast long shadows across Lazarus's hardened features. He moved, each step purposeful, silent despite the urgency that thrummed through his veins. The gun cabinet loomed ahead. His hand found the handle, cold to the touch, and pulled it open with a soft creak of protest.

Lazarus reached for the rifle, fingers tracing the familiar contours of the stock.

Lazarus's eyes scanned the rifle, his movements clinical and precise. He pulled back the bolt, a metallic click echoing in the quiet. A brief glance inside confirmed it was clean, no blockage. He released the magazine with practiced ease, fingers verifying each round before slamming it back into place. He checked the safety, ensuring it gave resistance against his thumb—on, then off. Satisfied, he shouldered the weapon and hastened up the stairs two at a time.

It was a race. Who could reach the quarry first?

The man in his employ wasn’t a tough type. He would chat. Lazarus knew he’d tell tales.

He had to be stopped, silenced.

One way or another.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rachel's boots crunched softly over the carpet of leaves blanketing the forest floor. Shadows clung to the trees, her flashlight beam cutting through them like a machete. The cold, crisp air bit into her skin as she moved.

Nearby, the growling barks of a police dog echoed. The hound was on the scent. Rachel followed behind with two officers at her flanks, their breaths puffing out in visible bursts in the chilling night air.

She stopped, crouched low. Her eyes scanned the ground ahead where moonlight filtered down through the canopy. A broken twig here. Disturbed soil there. Human or animal? Her fingers brushed the earth, feeling for clues in the cool dirt and detritus.

"Human," she murmured under her breath. The pattern was off for any four-legged creature, even a large one. No deer or coyote led her on this chase. The subtle signs of displaced stones and a faint scuff on a nearby tree trunk spoke of someone passing through in haste. Someone not concerned with covering their tracks. Someone like a gunman on the run.

The night air grew colder, the silence of the woods occasionally broken by the distant hoot of an owl. Rachel’s hand went to her radio, pressing the button with a deliberate thumb. "Ethan," she whispered into the device, the static crackling before his voice responded.

"Go for Ethan."

"Found signs of passage. Looks recent." She kept her voice low, eyeing the stretch of darkness ahead. Her grip on the radio tightened just enough to betray the anticipation building within her.

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