Page 66 of Not This Place

A smirk creased his wizened face.

She tensed. His hands didn’t drop. “Gun is behind me,” he said quietly. “I’m unarmed.”

She kept her gun fixated on him, tense. “Don’t move.”

He took another step then went still. In the open, under the bright flares, those blue eyes looked like ice. His harsh, firm jaw set in a grim line.

He went still. His features hardened into a defiant mask, the smirk turning into a sneer.

The helicopter was almost on top of them now, the roar of its engines overpowering the pulse of the night. The downwash from its rotors shook the trees, sending leaves and debris swirling around them. Dust stung her eyes but she didn't blink, didn't waver.

Ethan's voice crackled through her radio again. "Hold your position, Rae. We're almost there."

She nodded imperceptibly, never taking her eyes off Hargreaves. She could see the way his eyes darted to the side, calculating possibilities, assessing escape routes. The man was a cornered animal, dangerous and unpredictable.

"Face down on the ground," she ordered, keeping her tone steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Hargreaves only laughed in response, a chilling sound that cut through the noise of the chopper blades. "You won't shoot an unarmed man, Ranger."

Rachel ground her teeth. "Don't test me."

As if on cue, the helicopter burst clear of the tree line into view above them. With a sudden whip-crack of motion, a rope ladder uncoiled from its side, swinging wildly in the turbulence.

"Stand down!" she shouted over the roar of the chopper again.

Sherlock Hargreaves made no such move to comply; instead he continued to hold his ground stubbornly as if he could outwait fate itself.

“I have something to tell you, Ranger,” he said quietly. “And you’re going to want to listen to me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Moonlight filtered through the dense canopy of the Texas forest, casting long, wavering shadows on the ground. Rachel Blackwood stood near the river, the gentle burble of water a stark contrast to the pounding of her heart. Her eyes, hard as flint, locked onto the man before her: Sherlock Hargreaves.

A smirk curled the corners of Hargreaves’ lips, the moonlight catching the malice in his gaze. “You think you have me cornered?” His voice was a blade sliding over silk.

She shifted her weight slightly, boots digging into the soft earth. No words left her lips. She didn’t need them; her stance spoke volumes.

He took a step forward, his Italian leather shoes incongruous against the untamed ground. “Your life is in my hands,” he taunted, “Just like your parents’. Remember them?” His laughter was a low rumble in the stillness of the night. “I’ve done my research too. Know thine enemy… And you are my enemy, aren’t you?”

The river whispered beside them. Rachel’s expression remained stone.

The helicopter above was having difficulty avoiding the low branches, and it lifted again.

Hargreaves prowled closer. “I can ruin you. I can hurt those you care about. And with my resources...” He paused to let the implications hang in the air.

Rachel’s fingers tensed, but her aim never wavered. The forest held its breath. The river slowed its course. The world narrowed to the space between predator and prey.

She watched him. Waited. The law was hers.

The rotor blades slashed through the night, their thump a steady heartbeat in the forest’s eerie silence. Rachel's gaze didn’t waver from Hargreaves' face. The man before her was still talking, his voice a quiet menace that promised pain and destruction. But over his shoulder, high above them, the helicopter danced with the shadows, a dark figure descending rapidly on a ladder.

"Your end is inevitable, Rachel," Hargreaves sneered, indifferent to the approaching help.

The figure on the ladder was Ethan, her partner, her backup. For a moment, the helicopter jerked upward, the pilot expertly maneuvering to avoid a tree that loomed like a specter out of the darkness. Branches brushed against the undercarriage, a harsh whisper against metal. The sound sent a jolt of urgency pulsing through the scene.

Rachel's finger remained curled around the trigger, the cold metal familiar against her skin.

"Go ahead, pull the trigger," Hargreaves taunted, mistaking her silence for hesitation. “Do you know what I’ll do to you? To everyone you love? I’ll tell you… You’re nothing. A pawn. Don’t you see? Just a pawn! This is my land. I own thousands of acres. Tens of thousands. You’re an intruder—a trespasser. Money is power. Might is power. You’re just a flea. A nothing. A distraction.”

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