Page 62 of Not This Way

Rachel rocked on her heels. Suddenly, the man perked up. “I drive a tourist van,” he said. “And it’s equipped with GPS. Look, my phone tracks my whereabouts.”

He eagerly tapped an app on his phone and turned it so she could see.

Part of Rachel found she didn’t want to look. Dread was now crawling up inside her.

She knew before she looked it would check out. This man and his wife were tired and cranky.

But they weren’t guilt-ridden.

Shit.

She checked the app all the same, watching as he pulled up data logs of his GPS coordinates on site. She’d have to double-check with the company in the morning, but he was in the city, more than an hour away, when the bodies would’ve been dumped, and when the mechanic had been contacted by the killer to drop the corpses in the oil fields.

It wasn’t him.

Rachel took a screenshot of the data, then nodded at them both.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said. “Do you recognize this number?”

She showed the number she’d found. But both of the figures on the couch shook their heads.

Suddenly, the silence was peeled back by a ringing sound.

She jolted, but realized her phone was buzzing. She hesitated only briefly before giving a curt nod to the couple and turning on her heel, hastening back toward the door.

Stepping back out into the driveway, she answered quickly, hoping for good news on her partner’s end. “Ethan, what did you find?”

“Rachel, my guy is missing,” he said, his voice tense and urgent. “Neighbors say they haven’t seen him for days. I’m starting to think we might be too late.”

“Damn it,” Rachel cursed under her breath, her determination flaring anew. “Stay put, Ethan. I’m on my way,” she said, already climbing into her car and starting the engine.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The moon hung low, casting a ghostly silver glow over the desolate Texas highway as Rachel’s black SUV devoured miles of asphalt. The rhythmic hum of tires on the road was interrupted only by the crackle of static from the police radio. Rachel’s gaze darted between the rearview mirror and the dark expanse ahead.

“Any update, Ethan?” she asked, her voice steady and focused as she gripped the wheel with one hand and held the phone to her ear with the other.

“Dammit, Rachel,” came the reply through the speakers, a mix of frustration and urgency. “APB got a hit, guy named Allen Boyd lives at the address I was going to, but when I showed up, Boyd saw me. He’s taken off in his Corvette, headed east.”

“Copy that. I’ll intercept him,” she said, her jaw set.

Rachel pressed down on the accelerator, urging her vehicle to close the distance.

“Stay on his tail, Ethan. Keep me posted on his speed and position,” she commanded, her eyes narrowing with resolve.

“Got it,” Ethan replied, the sound of his engine roaring in the background.

As the SUV’s headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the foreboding landscape, Rachel felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Every muscle in her lithe runner’s build tensed, ready for action.

The desolate Texas highway stretched out before her, an ebony ribbon slicing through the darkness, illuminated only by the fierce beams of her headlights.

“Rachel, he’s taken a left onto Route 64,” Ethan’s voice crackled over the radio, his breath heavy with exertion. “He’s really gunning it now.”

“Alright, I’m coming up on the intersection at County Road 9,” she replied, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. Every muscle in her body screamed for action, urging her to reach that crucial crossroads. Her mind raced, calculating distances and speeds in a frenetic dance of logistics. To catch Allen Boyd, she had to be precise, fearless, and above all else, fast. She could hear the undercurrent of urgency in her own voice, but there was no room for doubt or hesitation.

“Copy that,” came Ethan’s terse response, the sound of screeching tires faintly audible in the background. “Speed’s around 110, heading east.”

“Okay, I’m almost at the intersection. Get ready to box him in,” Rachel said, her heart pounding like a tribal drum.

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