Page 11 of Not This Place

Some men, some lucky few—like him—resurrected.

And others?

Others remained buried.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dust swirled as the black four-door sedan rolled to a halt before the towering wrought-iron gates of the estate. The midday sun bore down unforgivingly on the expanse of Texas land, its rays glinting off the car's polished hood. Rachel Blackwood stepped out, boots crunching on the gravel drive, Ethan Morgan unfolding his tall frame from the passenger side.

The sound of electric motors cut through the stillness as a golf cart trundled towards them, kicking up dust in its wake. Two guards, uniformed in beige and green, sat at the helm, expressions unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses. They brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop, tires crunching to a standstill.

"Gate's busted," the larger guard announced, his voice devoid of warmth. "Got to leave the car."

"Only enough room for one," added the other, jerking his thumb towards the back seat of the cart, barely wide enough for a single person.

“Convenient,” Ethan muttered under his breath.

Rachel couldn’t help but agree.

Ethan shot a glance at Rachel, a silent conversation passing between them.

"Fine," Rachel said tersely. Her hand rested momentarily on the butt of her service weapon, reassurance in its familiarity. She moved towards the cart, senses heightened, mind cataloging every detail—the guards' stance, the sweat glistening on their brows despite the breeze, the subtle tension in their shoulders.

"Keep your eyes open," she instructed Ethan over her shoulder, her tone carrying the weight of authority and concern mingled into one.

“Hang on,” he muttered. “You sure?”

She glanced back. “Wait… I misread your look.”

"Which look?"

“You gave me a look.”

He snorted. “My look said we should wait.”

“Oh. Well…” she trailed off. “My look said, I’ll go. You stay.”

“Why am I always the one staying?” Ethan asked, sounding a bit petulant. But she knew he was just worried on her behalf.

She smiled sweetly at him, reaching out and patting him on the cheek.

Then she turned. “Just keep an eye out. I’ll be fine. We’ll be quick.”

Ethan muttered darkly as she approached the

golf cart, the guards facing her with stony expressions. One of them was taller, built like a linebacker with bulging arms and a neck that seemed to blend into his skull, his nametag read 'Bruno'. The other guard was leaner, but there was an unmistakable firmness about him that suggested he was not to be trifled with - his nametag identified him as 'Thomas'.

She hoisted herself onto the back seat of the golf cart. Narrow fingers adjusted the beads in her hair, the native turquoise sparkling under the relentless Texan sun. Rachel's gaze lifted to take in the house as they pulled away from Ethan and her car.

The golf cart's wheels crunched gravel under its weight as Rachel scanned the horizon. The Texas sun hung low, a giant eye casting long shadows across the estate. She sat rigid, the fabric of her jacket pulling tight across her shoulders.

"Name's Hank," grunted the guard driving the cart, nodding toward his nametag with a grim set to his mouth.

"Dan," said the other, his eyes fixed ahead, hands folded over a utility belt that strained against his waist.

She glanced at their nametags which read “Thomas” and “Bruno,” wondering if they were providing last names or just playing with her.

Rachel noted the names, etching them into memory. She shifted, the holster at her hip pressing against the cart's edge. The grand house loomed closer, its windows like blind eyes to the world outside.

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