Page 62 of Not This Place

Rachel's hand slid to the radio clipped at her hip. It had been given some time to dry now.

“Come on,” she whispered.

A thumb pressed the power button. A tiny click, almost lost in the forest's ambient noises, signaled life. The screen flickered, then steadied. A soft glow bathed her fingers—subdued but defiant against the darkness. She exhaled, not realizing she'd been holding her breath. Working. The word echoed in her mind like a silent victory chant.

She angled the radio away from the ridge, shielding the light with her body. No chances taken. Not tonight. Fingers, trained and steady despite the adrenaline threading through her veins, found the volume control. A faint beep accompanied each press, the sound decrescendoing until it was barely audible. Only then did she stop, the volume at its lowest setting.

Eyes lifted to pierce the darkness once more. Rachel's grip on the radio tightened. Communication was restored, yet her position remained a secret. Every sense stayed alert, waiting for the next move in this deadly quiet chess game.

Rachel’s fingers danced over the radio's keypad. She entered Ethan's number, digits familiar as her own heartbeat. Her thumb hovered over the send button for a fraction of a second before she pressed it. The radio crackled softly in her palm.

She waited. The forest around her seemed to hold its breath. Even the nocturnal creatures paused their chorus. Seconds stretched like hours, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. Anticipation twisted in her gut, sharp and demanding.

"Blackwood." Ethan's voice cut through the static, clear despite the low volume. “Where the hell are you?”

“Found him.”

“Wait, who?”

“Simon.”

“Is that the thug’s name?”

“Yeah. Found him.”

“Where is he? text me your coordinates.”

“Catch-and-release,” she said simply. “He’s gone.”

A long, staticky pause. “Why? Where are you, Rachel?”

“It's Sherlock Hargreaves," Rachel said without preamble. Facts, not feelings. That was what mattered now.

“Wait, the dad? He’s on a trip, isn’t he?”

“Check airports.”

“On it. Hang on. Shouldn’t take long, I’m at the command center. One sec.”

She heard the sound of

keys tapping in the quiet background, a steady rhythm broken only by Ethan's occasional murmurs of affirmation as he worked. Rachel's eyes stayed fixed on the ridge, noticing every subtle shift in its shadowy outline. The adrenaline coursing through her veins refused to let her relax, even as her partner's familiar voice offered a thread of normalcy in the silent forest.

"Rachel," Ethan's voice echoed back into their channel. His tone harbored a thread of disbelief. "You're right. His flight to Mexico was cancelled last moment."

Her fingers tightened on the radio. The quiet words crawled up her spine, a cold affirmation of what she already knew.

"He never left," she stated, not bothering to hide the grim satisfaction in her voice.

“Stay there, Rachel,” Ethan commanded. “Keep your eyes open. Backup is on its way.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she tucked the radio back onto her belt and rose ever so carefully from her crouch, eyes never leaving the ridge. She gripped her weapon tighter as she approached it.

The ridge loomed ahead, a silhouette against the charcoal sky. Dark shapes melded with shadows, indistinguishable yet threatening. Rachel's gaze did not waver; her eyes, sharp as arrowheads, dissected every inch of darkness.

A branch snapped. Subtle. Perhaps a deer, perhaps not. Rachel's hand moved to her holster, fingertips brushing the butt of her service weapon. Her thumb flicked off the safety, a click swallowed by the forest’s whispers.

"Movement at ten o'clock," she informed Ethan, her words clipped.

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