Page 55 of Not This Place

The man complied slowly, raising his arms in surrender. He was panting, breaths coming out in ragged bursts. His knees were shaking visibly as he met her gaze.

Suddenly, Rachel's focus shifted from the man in front of her. A gleam in the distance caught her eye, a tiny gleam that should not have been there amidst the forest's darkness. Time seemed to slow down for a moment as she recognized what it was - the glint of moonlight reflecting off metal.

"Crap," she hissed under her breath.

Without wasting a second, Rachel dropped her flashlight and lunged at the gunman. She tackled him just as the sharp crack of a gunshot echoed through the quiet forest.

"Down!" The command was all she managed before her shoulder slammed into the gunman's stomach.

Gravity took hold, unforgiving. They tumbled, bodies entangled, down the gulley's slope. Rocks and earth blurred in a chaotic dance with flesh and bone.

Air rushed past them. The world spun in a dizzying tumble as Rachel clung to the gunman, her fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. They were in freefall.

Then, the sharp report of a rifle shattered the night. A sniper’s shot pierced through the canopy. The sound was clinical, final—a punctuation mark.

Then they hit the river.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cold bit into Rachel’s skin, the shock of the plunge seizing her breath. Water filled her ears, a disorienting eruption of bubbles and currents. She fought to break the surface, kicking against the weight of her boots, the drag of her vest.

Water pressed in from all sides, embedding its icy tendrils into her clothing. She struggled, the world shifting and tilting, a disorienting kaleidoscope of darkness and faint moonlight filtering through the water's surface. Panic scratched at her composure. Hold on.

Both of them were underwater, carried by the current. Upside down, spinning. Heels over head.

Rachel's hand grazed the gunman's arm. He was flailing, panic seizing control of his movements. He lunged at her in his desperation, his fingers wrapping around her ankle with a vice-like grip. She kicked out at him, grappling for distance. Bubbles swirled past them, the water gripping them.

Her lungs burned, the demand for air escalating into a desperate plea as she clawed towards the surface. But which direction was up?

The bubbles. She followed the trail of bubbles tickling past her skin, fleeing towards the surface.

Up.

Rachel kicked hard, fighting the weight of her soaked clothes. Needles of cold seized her muscles. She twisted, trying to pull free from the gunman's grip. His hand slipped, fingers clawing at her boot as she surged upward. Finally, his grasp broke away.

Her head broke the surface. She gasped for air - a desperate intake that left her coughing. The river was swift, its icy grip pulling at her, trying to drag her back under. She treads water, her limbs growing heavy from effort and cold. But she kept moving, kept fighting.

This was survival stripped bare: air, wet, life. Breath fogged out in misty clouds as Rachel scanned the tree-lined bank. Shapes morphed in the darkness—trees to shadows, shadows to threats.

Rachel turned; the gunman surfaced a yard away, his panic an animal thing — wild and flailing. Terror contorted his features as he grappled with the current's pull.

In that moment Rachel’s training kicked back in. She was not just a tracker; she was a lifeguard, a medic, a peace officer sworn to protect—even if the individual in question was a criminal on the run.

With powerful strokes, she reached him quickly. "Stop struggling!" she snarled over the rush of water. She lashed out with one arm while she used the other to keep them both afloat. Her fingers closed around his jacket collar tightly.

He stilled under her grip, finally understanding that more struggle meant quicker sinking. Rachel didn't let go.

Cold air stung her wet skin as she sucked in breaths of life-giving oxygen. Her gaze darted around the dark forest, scanning for the silver gleam that had triggered this cascade of events.

The river was deep and wide, forging its path through Barker’s land like an untouched highway. The roar of the rushing water drowned out any sound from above. It carried them swiftly downstream.

Rachel angled herself towards the nearest riverbank, her muscles straining against the relentless rush of water.

The current pushed back, a tangible force, testing her resolve. She held firm, navigating the swirling water while clutching the gunman. She took a final look over her shoulder before they reached the river bank, ready for any sign of the sniper. Nothing but treacherous darkness and whispering leaves met her gaze.

"Move," Rachel commanded, half-dragging the shivering man out of the water and onto the muddy bank.

He sputtered and coughed, gasping for air as if it were a scarce commodity. Rachel didn't pause to comfort him. She scanned their surroundings, her body poised and ready for any sudden attack.

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