Page 34 of Not This Way

“Give it another second,” Rachel whispered, her ears straining for any sign of movement behind the door.

And then, almost imperceptibly, they heard it: the faint sound of shuffling, followed by the creak of floorboards under shifting weight.

“Someone’s in there,” Ethan murmured, his eyes meeting Rachel’s.

She nodded, her mind working quickly as she considered their options. A thousand questions swirled in her head, but one thing was for certain—they couldn’t let this opportunity slip away.

“Let’s give it one more shot,” she decided, raising her hand to knock again. “If they don’t answer, we’ll have to think of another way in.”

Ethan nodded, his expression serious and resolute.

“Rangers! Police!” Rachel shouted louder this time, pounding her fist on the door. “Open up! We need to talk!”

Again, the response was nothing more than quiet, muffled movement. Whoever was inside clearly had no intention of willingly answering the door. Rachel’s thoughts raced as she considered their next move, her instincts and training guiding her through the possibilities.

“Alright,” she said, turning to Ethan with a determined look. “We’re going to have to find another way in. Let’s circle around and see if there’s a window or something.”

“Right behind you,” Ethan agreed.

They moved along the side of the unit and approached a window about eight feet off the ground.

Unable to contain her growing impatience, Rachel reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather case containing a ratchet and pick. The worn case was a testament to the countless times she had relied on these slim metal instruments in her line of work. With a nod from Ethan, she began to work on the lock, her fingers expertly maneuvering the picks as if they were extensions of her hands.

“Cover me,” she whispered, her focus entirely on the task at hand.

“Got it,” Ethan replied softly, positioning himself beside her and blocking her from the view of the sparse parking lot.

Rachel’s pulse raced as she felt the first tumbler click into place, followed by another and then another.

“Almost… got it,” she muttered, feeling the final tumbler give way. With a quiet click, the lock disengaged, and the open window beckoned them forward into the unknown.

They slipped into a small bathroom, one at a time. Rachel first, dropping onto the cold, wet tile floors. Ethan came a second later.

Both on the alert, they approached the door to the bathroom, ears attentive, hands on their weapons.

They shared a look. “Ready?” she mouthed.

He nodded once.

They burst into the room, guns drawn and senses on high alert. Every fiber of their being was tuned in to the environment around them, searching for the slightest hint of danger or deception.

“Rangers! Don’t move!” Rachel barked, scanning the dimly lit space for any sign of the elusive worker.

“Hands where we can see them!” Ethan added, his weapon trained on the shadows that danced across the walls.

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they took in the sparse, dingy room. It reeked of desperation and despair.

“Over there!” Ethan suddenly called out, pointing toward a corner where the shadows seemed to shift ever so slightly.

“Show yourself! Now!” Rachel demanded, her voice firm and commanding.

Silence filled the air, heavy with tension and fear. And then, as if sensing the futility of further concealment, the hidden figure emerged slowly from the darkness—hands raised in surrender, but eyes filled with defiance.

The room was suffocating; the dim light cast by the flickering bulb seemed to gather in the corners, all but swallowed by the shadows. Rachel’s fingers twitched at her side as her eyes swept over the sparse furnishings. A single bed, rumpled and worn, sat against the far wall, its sheets stained with the weight of countless forgotten stories. Beside it, a small table listed precariously, one leg shorter than the others. The few personal belongings scattered about only served to amplify the emptiness of the space.

The denizen of the gloomy establishment emerged cautiously from behind the curtain where he’d been hiding.

He was wearing a white T-shirt and boxers. His shirt was stained, his face unkempt. His appearance was that of a man who had given up on himself and the world around him. He stood there, hands still raised, eyes locked on the Rangers with defiance.

---