Page 46 of Not This Place

Rachel's pulse quickened. She willed her training to the forefront, her mind racing through scenarios, each more desperate than the last. The line crackled, a voice slicing through the static with authority.

"Take care of it." Three words, detached. Final.

The car sped up, the change in pace pressing Rachel against the hard surface beneath her. The bodies adjacent to her felt like silent witnesses.

“You sure? Alright, on it boss.”

The car jolted to a halt. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as dust settled around the still vehicle. Rachel's heart hammered in her chest, a rapid drumbeat that matched the quickening pace of her thoughts. She knew this was it.

"Sorry, Ranger," a gruff voice muttered from outside the trunk. The sound of metal scraping against a leather holster filled the confined space. A gun clicked, its mechanical noise stark against the hushed backdrop of the surrounding woods.

Rachel released the breath she'd been holding, her trained eyes scanning the darkness for an advantage, an edge. She noted the slivers of light peeking through the cracks, the faint outline of the trunk's latch. Her fingers curled into fists, ready.

The trunk groaned open, stale air rushing in to replace the suffocating atmosphere. Rachel blinked against the sudden intrusion of light, her gaze locking onto the gun barrel pointed at her face. The man behind it wore a ski mask, eyes cold and unyielding.

"Boss said you're done." His words were a death sentence delivered without emotion.

Time slowed. Rachel's senses heightened. The smell of pine and earth infiltrated her nostrils. She heard the distant call of a bird, oblivious to the unfolding drama. The gunman's finger tensed on the trigger, a small movement with lethal intent.

She couldn't see his face, but she could read his body language, predict his next move.

“Get out of the trunk, now!” he snapped.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rachel blinked from where she lay on the carpet of the trunk, her eyes adjusting to the sudden burst of moonlight. A silhouette loomed over her—gun in hand, barrel aimed straight at her forehead.

"Get out," the gunman ordered, his voice a gravelly command.

Rachel stayed put, her back pressed against the cold interior of the trunk. "Shoot me here and you'll paint the car with evidence. Not smart."

He hesitated, his grip on the gun wavering. But it took him a second to realize there were already two bodies in the trunk. Plenty of evidence.

His brief hesitation was all she needed.

In one fluid motion, Rachel sprang forward, seizing the gunman's wrist. She twisted hard. Bones grated under her palms. She heard the weapon clatter to the ground.

She thrust her shoulder into his chest, driving him backwards. They hit the ground together, dust from the barren ground clouding around them. The gunman gasped, struggling beneath her. In the struggle, her left hand slipped free. Her hands now free, she moved with even more violence. Without hesitation, Rachel drew back her fist and hammered it down into his solar plexus.

Merciless, vicious and immediate.

There was no time to play fair. Not that such a concept existed in the wild.

Air whooshed from his lungs. His body went limp for a moment.

Rachel's fingers closed around the cool metal of the fallen gunman's weapon. Her movements were swift, a coiled spring released. She pivoted on the balls of her feet, gun raised and eyes scanning.

"Hey!" one of the gunmen blurted out in shock. His companion's mouth hung open, words lost to disbelief.

Time seemed to slow, the moment stretching thin. Rachel's gaze settled on the pair emerging from the front seats, her stance solid despite the uneven ground beneath her boots. The air hung heavy with dust and tension.

The leftmost gunman, rising from the driver's side, jerked his arm upward, his own gun aiming at Rachel's head. But she was faster. Her index finger squeezed the trigger. A sharp crack rents the air. The bullet found its mark, drilling into the gunman's knee.

He crumpled like a marionette with severed strings, a guttural scream tearing from his throat. His weapon skittered across the dirt, abandoned.

"Damn it!" The remaining gunman's curse sliced through the aftermath. He dropped his gun; it thudded against the earth. Hands rose, shaking slightly, palms exposed to the sky.

"Hands where I can see them," Rachel commanded. Her voice was a blade—sharp.

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