Page 64 of Not This Place

And now here she was, hunting him on his own land.

He raised his gun, aimed…

Fired.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rachel had spotted the figure on the ridge. She darted from cover, drawing him out.

He aimed. She spotted him tense.

She darted left, taking cover just as he fired.

Crack!

The gunshot went wide, chipping at the sandstone of the ridge wall behind her.

She kept moving, darting from cover to cover. Her own gun raised and she returned fire. Two shots.

A curse. Had she hit?

An answering gunshot caused the log beside her to explode into smithereens as she dove for cover. A spray of dirt and wood chips stung her face. She squinted, teeth gritting as she kept low to the ground, moving swiftly but silently.

The forest was alive with the crackle of gunfire, each echo reverberating in the silence like a predator’s roar.

"Taking fire," she relayed into her radio, her voice a low growl against the thunderous echoes.

“Hold tight, Rachel!” came Ethan's strained reply through the static.

Rachel peered from her cover, trying to spot Hargreaves amidst the brush and shadows. He had played his hand; now he was hiding again, melting back into the night.

Without warning, a piercing whistle cut through the tense silence. She flinched instinctively, just as a flare exploded in the sky above her, bathing the forest in harsh white light.

She squinted against the sudden brightness, shielding her eyes with an arm. The surrounding trees cast long, monstrous shadows that danced and lashed out wildly around her.

Caught off guard, Rachel scrambled back against her cover. Her heart pounded against her ribs in fierce protest.

No more running. No more hiding.

With a determined set to her jaw, she counted three heartbeats before bolting from cover, eyes narrowed as they adjusted to the flare's illuminating glow.

Her boots pounded against the leaf-strewn ground as she sprinted towards where she'd last seen Hargreaves.

Leaves crunched under her weight, and the wind whipped through her hair as she ran. Every instinct inside her screamed at her to take cover, to hide in the shadows. But Rachel Blackwood wasn't one to back down.

A figure emerged from the darkness; Hargreaves was on the move, too. He was fleeing deeper into the forest, his body hunched over as he navigated the uneven terrain. The flare's light reflected off of his rifle, betraying his position.

Rachel gritted her teeth and picked up speed, closing in on him fast. His desperate escape told her all she needed to know.

But a second later, he paused and turned on a dime, his rifle aiming at her.

One moment fleeing, the next turning to face her.

Neither of them wants to back down in this game of chicken.

In a brief moment, as his rifle lifted, and as he aimed, she stared at Sherlock Hargreaves.

The man was in his sixties according to his public information, but he looked as if he were made from granite.

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