Page 65 of Not This Place

Everything slowed to milliseconds as she took in his appearance, her mind moving rapid-time. He looked like Jasper in the strength of his jaws and the blue of his eyes.

But other than that, he was like a cord of steel, his body hardened by a life of physical labor, his face weather-beaten and lined with age. His arms were thick and muscular, veins standing out like knotted ropes. Even in the harsh glare of the flare, she could see the sweat glistening off his forehead, his eyes hard and resolute.

His clothing was nondescript–a tattered flannel shirt rustling under the weight of a worn-out leather jacket–but Rachel's trained eye noticed the telltale bulges where extra ammunition might be hidden. Hargreaves wasn't just prepared for a fight; he'd been expecting one.

The forest - which was once her ally, hiding her in its shadows - now betrayed her, clearly outlining her form under the bright flare. It made her an easy target.

Time paused with a pulse-pounding beat as their gazes locked. Neither blinked, neither made any move to retreat. A predator sizing up its prey, but who was which?

She flung herself to the side, pulling her own trigger.

Both guns erupted simultaneously.

The world erupted into a violent burst of light and sound. An explosion of soil and leaves where her foot had been a split second ago signaled Hargreaves' near miss. Rachel's own bullet sliced through the night.

She didn't pause to gauge the success of her shot. Using the distraction, she dove behind an uneven mound of dirt and rocks, stifling a grunt as sharp stones bit into her palms. She felt the sting of a cut open on her cheekbone, warm liquid trickling down her face.

Tucking herself into a crouch, she pressed her back against the mound, sucking in quick breaths of the damp woodland air. Her ears rang with lingering echoes of gunshots, but beneath it all, she discerned soft crunches of hurried footsteps growing fainter.

Was he fleeing? Or regrouping?

"Move in," she growled into the radio, ethereal blue light from its screen casting an eerie glow on her strained features. "Target heading southeast."

"Copy that,” Ethan’s confirmation crackled back promptly.

She didn't waste time waiting for him. With a swift movement, she was back on her feet, using every bit of shadow available under the dying flare-light as cover. She sprinted towards Hargreaves’ last known location, darting past twisted trees and gnarled shrubs like a ghost through the night.

But Sherlock Hargreaves was no ordinary prey.

A deafening boom echoed through the forest once again.

Another flare shot up.

The sound of the incoming helicopter drew nearer. The blades churning against the sky.

“Ethan? That you?” she shouted into the radio.

“Affirmative—take me in!” This second command was issued to whoever was piloting the chopper.

Now, the sky was illuminated by a second, bright red flare.

Rachel continued racing through the woods, but last minute, she flung herself to the ground, behind a stump, just as it exploded from a gunshot.

Splinters geyser up, a hot wave of debris raining down on Rachel, peppering her back with bits of wood and dirt. She winced, but quickly shook it off.

"Sherlock Hargreaves! You're under arrest!" she bellowed into the night, her voice echoing through the trees. Her announcement was met with chilling silence, save for the distant roar of Ethan's approaching helicopter.

Suddenly, Hargreaves' gruff voice sliced through the stillness. "You're out of your depth, Blackwood!"

Rachel's grip tightened on her gun. His threats were just noise - empty words meant to deter her. She knew many men like Sherlock Hargreaves - men who used fear as a weapon.

"You're cornered, Hargreaves!" she retorted crisply over the crunching sound of Ethan's chopper blades cutting through the dense Texas night air.

Once more, she darted out from behind the stump, moving closer to where Hargreaves' voice had come from. Her shadow stretched alarming long under the twin flares' light; a dark giant charging forth with righteous fury.

She saw him then - an indistinct figure prowling by the thicket not far from her position. The dying glow of his flare cast monstrous shadows across his gravel-lined face, exaggerating every harsh line and scornful twist of his lips.

He was walking towards her, hands raised.

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