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 NOT THIS ROAD

(A Rachel Blackwood Suspense Thriller—Book Four)

B LAK E P I E R C E
 Blake Pierce

Blake Pierce is the USA Today bestselling author of the RILEY PAGE mystery series, which includes seventeen books.
Blake Pierce is also the author of the MACKENZIE WHITE mystery series, comprising fourteen books; of the AVERY BLACK
mystery series, comprising six books; of the KERI LOCKE mystery series, comprising five books; of the MAKING OF RILEY
PAIGE mystery series, comprising six books; of the KATE WISE mystery series, comprising seven books; of the CHLOE FINE
psychological suspense mystery, comprising six books; of the JESSIE HUNT psychological suspense thriller series,
comprising thirty-five books (and counting); of the AU PAIR psychological suspense thriller series, comprising three books; of
the ZOE PRIME mystery series, comprising six books; of the ADELE SHARP mystery series, comprising sixteen books, of the
EUROPEAN VOYAGE cozy mystery series, comprising six books; of the LAURA FROST FBI suspense thriller, comprising
eleven books; of the ELLA DARK FBI suspense thriller, comprising twenty-one books (and counting); of the A YEAR IN
EUROPE cozy mystery series, comprising nine books, of the AVA GOLD mystery series, comprising six books; of the
RACHEL GIFT mystery series, comprising thirteen books (and counting); of the VALERIE LAW mystery series, comprising
nine books; of the PAIGE KING mystery series, comprising eight books; of the MAY MOORE mystery series, comprising
eleven books; of the CORA SHIELDS mystery series, comprising eight books; of the NICKY LYONS mystery series,
comprising eight books, of the CAMI LARK mystery series, comprising ten books; of the AMBER YOUNG mystery series,
comprising seven books (and counting); of the DAISY FORTUNE mystery series, comprising five books; of the FIONA RED
mystery series, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the FAITH BOLD mystery series, comprising eleven books (and
counting); of the JULIETTE HART mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); of the MORGAN CROSS mystery
series, comprising nine books (and counting); of the FINN WRIGHT mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); of
the new SHEILA STONE suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the new RACHEL
BLACKWOOD suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting).
ONCE GONE (a Riley Paige Mystery--Book #1), BEFORE HE KILLS (A Mackenzie White Mystery—Book 1), CAUSE
TO KILL (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1), A TRACE OF DEATH (A Keri Locke Mystery—Book 1), WATCHING (The
Making of Riley Paige—Book 1), NEXT DOOR (A Chloe Fine Psychological Suspense Mystery—Book 1), THE PERFECT
WIFE (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book One), IF SHE KNEW (A Kate Wise Mystery—Book 1),
MURDER (AND BAKLAVA) (A European Voyage Cozy Mystery—Book 1), LEFT TO DIE (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book
One), A MURDER IN PARIS (A Year in Europe—Book 1), CITY OF PREY (An Ava Gold Mystery—Book One), and HER
LAST WISH (A Rachel Gift FBI Suspense Thriller—Book One) are each available as a free download on Amazon!
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Blake loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit
www.blakepierceauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2024 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any
form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given
away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 BOOKS BY BLAKE PIERCE

RACHEL BLACKWOOD SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT THIS WAY (Book #1)
NOT THIS TIME (Book #2)
NOT THIS CLOSE (Book #3)
NOT THIS ROAD (Book #4)
NOT THIS LATE (Book #5)

SHEILA STONE SUSPENSE THRILLER

SILENT GIRL (Book #1)
SILENT TRAIL (Book #2)
SILENT NIGHT (Book #3)
SILENT HOUSE (Book #4)
SILENT SCREAM (Book #5)

FINN WRIGHT MYSTERY SERIES

WHEN YOU’RE MINE (Book #1)
WHEN YOU’RE SAFE (Book #2)
WHEN YOU’RE CLOSE (Book #3)
WHEN YOU’RE SLEEPING (Book #4)
WHEN YOU’RE SANE (Book #5)

MORGAN CROSS MYSTERY SERIES

FOR YOU (Book #1)
FOR RAGE (Book #2)
FOR LUST (Book #3)
FOR WRATH (Book #4)
FOREVER (Book #5)
FOR US (Book #6)
FOR NOW (Book #7)
FOR ONCE (Book #8)
FOR ETERNITY (Book #9)

JULIETTE HART MYSTERY SERIES

NOTHING TO FEAR (Book #1)
NOTHING THERE (Book #2)
NOTHING WATCHING (Book #3)
NOTHING HIDING (Book #4)
NOTHING LEFT (Book #5)

FAITH BOLD MYSTERY SERIES

SO LONG (Book #1)
SO COLD (Book #2)
SO SCARED (Book #3)
SO NORMAL (Book #4)
SO FAR GONE (Book #5)
SO LOST (Book #6)
SO ALONE (Book #7)
SO FORGOTTEN (Book #8)
SO INSANE (Book #9)
SO SMITTEN (Book #10)
SO SIMPLE (Book #11)

FIONA RED MYSTERY SERIES

LET HER GO (Book #1)
LET HER BE (Book #2)
LET HER HOPE (Book #3)
 LET HER WISH (Book #4)
LET HER LIVE (Book #5)
LET HER RUN (Book #6)
LET HER HIDE (Book #7)
LET HER BELIEVE (Book #8)
LET HER FORGET (Book #9)
LET HER TRY (Book #10)
LET HER PLAY (Book #11)

DAISY FORTUNE MYSTERY SERIES

NEED YOU (Book #1)
CLAIM YOU (Book #2)
CRAVE YOU (Book #3)
CHOOSE YOU (Book #4)
CHASE YOU (Book #5)

AMBER YOUNG MYSTERY SERIES

ABSENT PITY (Book #1)
ABSENT REMORSE (Book #2)
ABSENT FEELING (Book #3)
ABSENT MERCY (Book #4)
ABSENT REASON (Book #5)
ABSENT SANITY (Book #6)
ABSENT LIFE (Book #7)

CAMI LARK MYSTERY SERIES

JUST ME (Book #1)
JUST OUTSIDE (Book #2)
JUST RIGHT (Book #3)
JUST FORGET (Book #4)
JUST ONCE (Book #5)
JUST HIDE (Book #6)
JUST NOW (Book #7)
JUST HOPE (Book #8)
JUST LEAVE (Book #9)
JUST TONIGHT (Book #10)

NICKY LYONS MYSTERY SERIES

ALL MINE (Book #1)
ALL HIS (Book #2)
ALL HE SEES (Book #3)
ALL ALONE (Book #4)
ALL FOR ONE (Book #5)
ALL HE TAKES (Book #6)
ALL FOR ME (Book #7)
ALL IN (Book #8)

CORA SHIELDS MYSTERY SERIES

UNDONE (Book #1)
UNWANTED (Book #2)
UNHINGED (Book #3)
UNSAID (Book #4)
UNGLUED (Book #5)
UNSTABLE (Book #6)
UNKNOWN (Book #7)
UNAWARE (Book #8)
MAY MOORE SUSPENSE THRILLER
NEVER RUN (Book #1)
NEVER TELL (Book #2)
NEVER LIVE (Book #3)
NEVER HIDE (Book #4)
NEVER FORGIVE (Book #5)
NEVER AGAIN (Book #6)
NEVER LOOK BACK (Book #7)
NEVER FORGET (Book #8)
NEVER LET GO (Book #9)
NEVER PRETEND (Book #10)
NEVER HESITATE (Book #11)

PAIGE KING MYSTERY SERIES

THE GIRL HE PINED (Book #1)
THE GIRL HE CHOSE (Book #2)
THE GIRL HE TOOK (Book #3)
THE GIRL HE WISHED (Book #4)
THE GIRL HE CROWNED (Book #5)
THE GIRL HE WATCHED (Book #6)
THE GIRL HE WANTED (Book #7)
THE GIRL HE CLAIMED (Book #8)

VALERIE LAW MYSTERY SERIES

NO MERCY (Book #1)
NO PITY (Book #2)
NO FEAR (Book #3)
NO SLEEP (Book #4)
NO QUARTER (Book #5)
NO CHANCE (Book #6)
NO REFUGE (Book #7)
NO GRACE (Book #8)
NO ESCAPE (Book #9)

RACHEL GIFT MYSTERY SERIES

HER LAST WISH (Book #1)
HER LAST CHANCE (Book #2)
HER LAST HOPE (Book #3)
HER LAST FEAR (Book #4)
HER LAST CHOICE (Book #5)
HER LAST BREATH (Book #6)
HER LAST MISTAKE (Book #7)
HER LAST DESIRE (Book #8)
HER LAST REGRET (Book #9)
HER LAST HOUR (Book #10)
HER LAST SHOT (Book #11)
HER LAST PRAYER (Book #12)
HER LAST LIE (Book #13)

AVA GOLD MYSTERY SERIES

CITY OF PREY (Book #1)
CITY OF FEAR (Book #2)
CITY OF BONES (Book #3)
CITY OF GHOSTS (Book #4)
CITY OF DEATH (Book #5)
CITY OF VICE (Book #6)
 A YEAR IN EUROPE
A MURDER IN PARIS (Book #1)
DEATH IN FLORENCE (Book #2)
VENGEANCE IN VIENNA (Book #3)
A FATALITY IN SPAIN (Book #4)

ELLA DARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

GIRL, ALONE (Book #1)
GIRL, TAKEN (Book #2)
GIRL, HUNTED (Book #3)
GIRL, SILENCED (Book #4)
GIRL, VANISHED (Book 5)
GIRL ERASED (Book #6)
GIRL, FORSAKEN (Book #7)
GIRL, TRAPPED (Book #8)
GIRL, EXPENDABLE (Book #9)
GIRL, ESCAPED (Book #10)
GIRL, HIS (Book #11)
GIRL, LURED (Book #12)
GIRL, MISSING (Book #13)
GIRL, UNKNOWN (Book #14)
GIRL, DECEIVED (Book #15)
GIRL, FORLORN (Book #16)
GIRL, REMADE (Book #17)
GIRL, BETRAYED (Book #18)
GIRL, BOUND (Book #19)
GIRL, REFORMED (Book #20)
GIRL, REBORN (Book #21)

LAURA FROST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

ALREADY GONE (Book #1)
ALREADY SEEN (Book #2)
ALREADY TRAPPED (Book #3)
ALREADY MISSING (Book #4)
ALREADY DEAD (Book #5)
ALREADY TAKEN (Book #6)
ALREADY CHOSEN (Book #7)
ALREADY LOST (Book #8)
ALREADY HIS (Book #9)
ALREADY LURED (Book #10)
ALREADY COLD (Book #11)

EUROPEAN VOYAGE COZY MYSTERY SERIES

MURDER (AND BAKLAVA) (Book #1)
DEATH (AND APPLE STRUDEL) (Book #2)
CRIME (AND LAGER) (Book #3)
MISFORTUNE (AND GOUDA) (Book #4)
CALAMITY (AND A DANISH) (Book #5)
MAYHEM (AND HERRING) (Book #6)

ADELE SHARP MYSTERY SERIES

LEFT TO DIE (Book #1)
LEFT TO RUN (Book #2)
LEFT TO HIDE (Book #3)
LEFT TO KILL (Book #4)
LEFT TO MURDER (Book #5)
LEFT TO ENVY (Book #6)
 LEFT TO LAPSE (Book #7)
LEFT TO VANISH (Book #8)
LEFT TO HUNT (Book #9)
LEFT TO FEAR (Book #10)
LEFT TO PREY (Book #11)
LEFT TO LURE (Book #12)
LEFT TO CRAVE (Book #13)
LEFT TO LOATHE (Book #14)
LEFT TO HARM (Book #15)
LEFT TO RUIN (Book #16)

THE AU PAIR SERIES

ALMOST GONE (Book#1)
ALMOST LOST (Book #2)
ALMOST DEAD (Book #3)

ZOE PRIME MYSTERY SERIES

FACE OF DEATH (Book#1)
FACE OF MURDER (Book #2)
FACE OF FEAR (Book #3)
FACE OF MADNESS (Book #4)
FACE OF FURY (Book #5)
FACE OF DARKNESS (Book #6)

A JESSIE HUNT PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE SERIES

THE PERFECT WIFE (Book #1)
THE PERFECT BLOCK (Book #2)
THE PERFECT HOUSE (Book #3)
THE PERFECT SMILE (Book #4)
THE PERFECT LIE (Book #5)
THE PERFECT LOOK (Book #6)
THE PERFECT AFFAIR (Book #7)
THE PERFECT ALIBI (Book #8)
THE PERFECT NEIGHBOR (Book #9)
THE PERFECT DISGUISE (Book #10)
THE PERFECT SECRET (Book #11)
THE PERFECT FAÇADE (Book #12)
THE PERFECT IMPRESSION (Book #13)
THE PERFECT DECEIT (Book #14)
THE PERFECT MISTRESS (Book #15)
THE PERFECT IMAGE (Book #16)
THE PERFECT VEIL (Book #17)
THE PERFECT INDISCRETION (Book #18)
THE PERFECT RUMOR (Book #19)
THE PERFECT COUPLE (Book #20)
THE PERFECT MURDER (Book #21)
THE PERFECT HUSBAND (Book #22)
THE PERFECT SCANDAL (Book #23)
THE PERFECT MASK (Book #24)
THE PERFECT RUSE (Book #25)
THE PERFECT VENEER (Book #26)
THE PERFECT PEOPLE (Book #27)
THE PERFECT WITNESS (Book #28)
THE PERFECT APPEARANCE (Book #29)
THE PERFECT TRAP (Book #30)
THE PERFECT EXPRESSION (Book #31)
THE PERFECT ACCOMPLICE (Book #32)
 THE PERFECT SHOW (Book #33)
THE PERFECT POISE (Book #34)
THE PERFECT CROWD (Book #35)

CHLOE FINE PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE SERIES

NEXT DOOR (Book #1)
A NEIGHBOR’S LIE (Book #2)
CUL DE SAC (Book #3)
SILENT NEIGHBOR (Book #4)
HOMECOMING (Book #5)
TINTED WINDOWS (Book #6)

KATE WISE MYSTERY SERIES

IF SHE KNEW (Book #1)
IF SHE SAW (Book #2)
IF SHE RAN (Book #3)
IF SHE HID (Book #4)
IF SHE FLED (Book #5)
IF SHE FEARED (Book #6)
IF SHE HEARD (Book #7)

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE SERIES

WATCHING (Book #1)
WAITING (Book #2)
LURING (Book #3)
TAKING (Book #4)
STALKING (Book #5)
KILLING (Book #6)

RILEY PAIGE MYSTERY SERIES

ONCE GONE (Book #1)
ONCE TAKEN (Book #2)
ONCE CRAVED (Book #3)
ONCE LURED (Book #4)
ONCE HUNTED (Book #5)
ONCE PINED (Book #6)
ONCE FORSAKEN (Book #7)
ONCE COLD (Book #8)
ONCE STALKED (Book #9)
ONCE LOST (Book #10)
ONCE BURIED (Book #11)
ONCE BOUND (Book #12)
ONCE TRAPPED (Book #13)
ONCE DORMANT (Book #14)
ONCE SHUNNED (Book #15)
ONCE MISSED (Book #16)
ONCE CHOSEN (Book #17)

MACKENZIE WHITE MYSTERY SERIES

BEFORE HE KILLS (Book #1)
BEFORE HE SEES (Book #2)
BEFORE HE COVETS (Book #3)
BEFORE HE TAKES (Book #4)
BEFORE HE NEEDS (Book #5)
BEFORE HE FEELS (Book #6)
BEFORE HE SINS (Book #7)
BEFORE HE HUNTS (Book #8)
 BEFORE HE PREYS (Book #9)
BEFORE HE LONGS (Book #10)
BEFORE HE LAPSES (Book #11)
BEFORE HE ENVIES (Book #12)
BEFORE HE STALKS (Book #13)
BEFORE HE HARMS (Book #14)

AVERY BLACK MYSTERY SERIES

CAUSE TO KILL (Book #1)
CAUSE TO RUN (Book #2)
CAUSE TO HIDE (Book #3)
CAUSE TO FEAR (Book #4)
CAUSE TO SAVE (Book #5)
CAUSE TO DREAD (Book #6)

KERI LOCKE MYSTERY SERIES

A TRACE OF DEATH (Book #1)
A TRACE OF MURDER (Book #2)
A TRACE OF VICE (Book #3)
A TRACE OF CRIME (Book #4)
A TRACE OF HOPE (Book #5)
 CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
 PROLOGUE

Mud squelched beneath Anna's feet, cold and invasive, as she propelled herself forward. Her breaths came in ragged
gasps, each one a desperate snatch at the stale air that hung heavy in the tunnel. She was barefoot, her soles numbed by the chill
of the wet earth, but she couldn't stop—not even to glance at the cuts she felt blossoming along her feet with every step.
"Keep moving," Anna whispered to herself, the words barely escaping her lips. The echo of her own voice seemed to mock
her, a haunting reminder that she was not alone in this subterranean hellhole.
Her head snapped back, eyes wide, searching the darkness behind her. Nothing but shadows greeted her, yet every instinct
screamed that she wasn't alone. Maybe it was the way the silence seemed too complete, or how the air felt charged with a
threat that had no form yet.
"Who's there?" Her voice broke the oppressive quiet, betraying her position, but she couldn't help it. The need to confront
her unseen pursuer was overwhelming.
No answer came, just the drip of water from the tunnel walls, rhythmic like a metronome to her flight. She moved again,
heart pounding, the slick mud almost claiming her with each precarious stride. She couldn't shake the feeling—the certainty—
that something was coming for her.
"Please," she begged the empty air, "please don't let it catch me."
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, a primal alert system that needed no confirmation from her other senses. It was
an ancestral warning, one that spoke of predators and prey, hunter and hunted. Every cell in her body tensed, anticipating an
assault from the void.
"Can't—can't be nothing," she panted, the words punctuated by the slap of her feet against the ground.
But the darkness held its secrets tightly. She'd seen it before... him... it? Anna tried to clear her head, but her mind was in
opposition to sanity.
Her breaths, ragged and sharp against the damp night air, caught as she burst from the tunnel's mouth onto a deserted road.
The ground here was harder, unforgiving, and her bare feet slapped against the asphalt, caked mud flaking away with each
punishing step.
"Okay," Anna murmured to herself, a feeble attempt to inject courage into her trembling form. "Okay."
The quiet of the night shattered, a low growl in the distance pricking her ears—the sound of an engine, far yet approaching.
Instinctively, she searched for cover, but the barren roadside offered no sanctuary.
"Can't be..." Her voice trailed off, the rumble growing distinct, a harbinger of something new to fear or perhaps a
newcomer heralding salvation. She couldn't decide which it would be.
She grimaced again, clutching at her head. It ached...
This was such a far cry from what she'd been doing Monday... Monday seemed so far away. Shopping, a visit to the ATM,
an angry talk on the phone with...
With him?
No...
Why couldn't she remember?
Her head throbbed, and she knew she didn't want to remember.
Her eyes darted towards the road once more. She didn't dare look back towards the tunnel, as if peering in that direction
might only realize her fears.
Like a child trembling under covers, she'd decided it best to leave the monster unseen beneath the bed.
She stared in desperate hope towards the approaching vehicle on the slick road.
Twin beams pierced the darkness, slicing through the night and thin tendrils of fog. The headlights crept closer, the truck's
rumbling syncing with her own erratic pulse.
"Please," she whispered, not to the approaching vehicle but to some unseen deity. She'd grown up religious, and it had been
a simpler, quieter time. It had been years since she'd stepped foot in church, and now she was wishing she'd kept lines of
communication open a bit longer... She needed help... from somewhere. "Don't let it be them."
She stood frozen, a statue carved of panic and indecision, as the headlights swallowed her shadow, casting her in a harsh,
unwelcome spotlight. The roar of the engine crescendoed, now a beast unleashed, its vibrations traveling up her legs, a
physical manifestation of her pounding heart.
"Move!" The command ricocheted within her skull, her mind grappling with the primal urge to flee once more. Each thud of
her heartbeat was a drumroll, counting down to the moment of revelation—of life or death encased in steel and gasoline.
"Can't stop..." Her thoughts fractured, splintered by the escalating noise, the blinding light. "Have to choose..."
She lurched forward, her decision made. Her bare feet slapped the asphalt, each step a staccato beat. The truck bore down
on her like an iron-clad predator.
The horn blared from within the cabin, joined by a voice muffled by the glass and steel yet sharp with urgency.
 Muscles tensing, she threw herself to the side, her arms windmilling for balance. The world tilted on its axis as the truck's
horn pierced the night again—a strident, desperate scream that mirrored her own inner turmoil.
"God!" The shout came out as a gasp, her breath stolen by the force of her near escape.
The truck veered, a massive beast recoiling from prey too small to satisfy its hunger. Its tires shrieked against the road as it
fought for purchase. The chassis leaned, teetering on the brink of catastrophe.
"Stay up, stay up," she chanted under her breath, witnessing the struggle between gravity and momentum.
With a groan of stressed metal, the truck righted itself, its dance with disaster ending mere inches from where she lay
sprawled in the dirt.
"Close... too close..." Her thoughts tumbled over one another, a chaotic whirlpool that sucked in fear and spat out relief.
The engine's idle grumble reached her ears, now a comforting purr after the roar and rage of moments before. Her chest
heaved, each breath a mix of gratitude and residual panic.
The door of the truck creaked open, protesting its sudden use. A woman's silhouette emerged, carved from the darkness by
the scant halo of the headlights. Her features came into focus under the dim glow, etched with lines of concern.
"Hey!" Her voice cut through the night, laced with anxiety. "Are you okay?"
Mud caked and shivering, the woman on the road pushed herself up to sitting, her eyes wide orbs reflecting fear. "Please,"
she croaked, the word scraping her throat like gravel. "I need... I need a ride."
Footsteps approached, cautious yet determined. The woman from the truck drew nearer, her brow creased as she surveyed
the disheveled figure before her.
"Where do you need to go?" Her tone softened, but the question hung heavy between them.
"Anywhere," the plea was raw. "Just... away. Now."
"Okay, okay." The words fell in quick succession, an assurance pattered out in real-time. "Come on, get in."
The woman on the road staggered to her feet, each movement juddering with urgency. Mud squelched beneath her, the earth
relinquishing its hold with reluctance.
"Safe now," the trucker assured, her words sharp against the backdrop of silence.
The fleeing woman's breath hitched, eyes darting to phantom shadows dancing at the periphery. Her lips parted, but no
sound emerged.
"Listen," the trucker insisted, stepping closer, her hands raised in a calming gesture. "You're safe with me, okay? What
happened? Should I call the cops?"
The woman nodded, a jerky marionette motion, as if strings pulled taut by unseen hands directed her movements. She licked
cracked lips, about to speak—
A distant, muffled noise. Like a snapping branch. Then, suddenly, the trucker crumpled. A silent gasp escaped her as she
collapsed, limbs folding beneath her like a house of cards kissed by a gust. The ground welcomed her fall, an embrace both
cold and unforgiving.
"Hey!" Shock lanced through the fleeing woman's voice. She dropped to her knees, hands hovering over the fallen figure,
afraid to touch, to disturb the stillness that had swept over the trucker.
A hush settled, thick and heavy as fog.
The stillness was wrong. A whisper of crimson spread out from beneath Road Woman's head, a dark bloom on the asphalt
canvas. The fleeing woman's breath stalled, her mind refusing to piece together the scene before her.
"Hey..." The word was a ghost in the air. No stirring. No rise and fall of chest. "Can you hear me?"
Her hand reached out, trembling, to brush against the pale neck, searching for the thrum of life. Nothing but skin growing
colder with each second, a silent testament to the truth she didn't want to accept.
"Please, no," she murmured, the plea barely escaping her lips. Her gaze fixed on the blood, now seeping into the mud-
caking ground.
The trucker had been standing one moment, alive and full of vitality... and then this...
The roadside woman clutched at her head, grimacing against bursts of pain. She suddenly looked up, searching the treeline
near the truck.
Where was he?
Where was it?
Horror clawed at her throat. The night became a witness to the unspeakable. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be.
"Help!" Her voice, ragged and raw, tore through the silence. She stood, spinning in desperation, seeking an adversary that
remained unseen. "Somebody help us!"
Her hands knotted into fists, nails biting into her palms as she willed herself to act, to move, to undo this somehow. But the
world was indifferent, the tunnel across the road a gaping maw that swallowed her cries.
"Please!" The scream shattered the quiet, a desperate sound that ricocheted off the trees, hunting for ears that might never
hear it. "She's... she's..."
But there was no denying the stillness that mocked her panic. The trucker ay motionless, a broken doll discarded by cruel
fate, her story ending in a question mark that hung over them, thick with impending doom.
The woman's knees buckled, her own safety a fragile bubble ready to burst. The echo of her terror bounced back to her, a
chilling reminder that they were alone—but for how long?
And then she heard it.
She was certain she heard it.
Coming from the dark. Moving through the trees.
She'd been a fool to think she could outrun it.
She wept as she stumbled away on mud-slicked feet, bloodied and worn.
It was coming.
She wanted to run, but which direction? Where was it? Her scream tore the night.
 CHAPTER ONE

Rachel Blackwood's silhouette cut a sharp contrast against the crumbling brickwork as she lingered just outside the reach
of the first rays of morning sunlight, sitting in the front seat of her unmarked vehicle. The sun hung low, casting an amber hue
over the faded facade of Pablo Gerhardt's residence. Her thumb scrolled through the glowing screen of her phone, tracing the
contours of a digital dossier.
"Gerhardt, Pablo," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely piercing the hush of the street. "Known associate of
Benny Carter. Small-time." She frowned from under the brim of her white Stetson hat, the two red feathers fluttering where they
jutted from the brim.
She didn't like the sidewalk or concrete.
She didn't like big, fancy homes with wrought iron gates.
It felt so... unnatural.
She missed the woods, nature. She missed the sound of creatures rustling through the brush that a trained ear could pick up
on.
Out here?
The scent was diesel and asphalt. The sounds were automotive or construction. It did a soul well to avoid the city.
But something even more important than well-being had drawn her in the morning hours before work.
A photograph trapped within the confines of her screen betrayed no secrets, showcasing a man who seemed to perpetually
sneer at a world he felt owed him something. Rachel's eyes narrowed slightly, studying his features as if they might suddenly
unravel the enigma of her past.
Her mind recoiled, spiraling back to her interrogation of the man who'd broken into her parents' boarded-up home. Benny
Carter's gruff tone whispered like a ghost in her memory.
"Your folks," Benny had said, "they played us all for fools. They took the money and ran!"
Rachel's fist clenched involuntarily, the device in her hand protesting with a soft creak. The image of her parents, forever
frozen in that last, carefree moment before their disappearance, flashed across her inner eye—a cruel taunt from fate.
"Vanished," she whispered to herself, tasting the bitterness of the word. And according to Benny, they hadn't gone alone.
Rather, they'd disappeared along with a billion dollars that never belonged to them.
It was the first she'd heard of it. Her parents, criminals?
She didn't believe it?
So why was she outside the home of Benny Carter's known associate?
She could still feel Benny's gaze on her, heavy with accusation and something akin to pity. His next words had struck like a
viper, swift and laden with venom.
"Double-crossed the wrong people, your parents did. No one betrays the outfit."
The echo of that claim settled into the hollows of her resolve, the weight of her heritage a constant companion. They were a
part of her, those two enigmas—her beginning and the unanswered question that shaped her every move.
"Where are you, mom and dad?" she thought, her gaze lifting from the phone to survey the quiet street once more.
A car rattled by, its exhaust coughing out a desolate note that seemed to underscore the solitude of her vigil. Rachel slipped
the phone into her jacket pocket, the profile of Pablo Gerhardt burned into her retinas.
"Answers," she vowed, the word a silent oath carried away on the breeze.
The sun had begun its slow ascent, painting the Texas sky with streaks of crimson and gold. Pablo Gerhardt's silhouette
emerged from behind the starched curtains of his suburban fortress, a caricature of normalcy. Rachel tucked herself behind the
wheel of her unassuming sedan parked down the street, her eyes narrowed in focus.
She watched Pablo lock his door and saunter along the sidewalk, blissfully unaware of the huntress in his wake. The engine
purred softly as she trailed him, keeping a safe distance. The streets were quiet now; an orchestra of cicadas filled the air, their
chorus rising and falling with the rhythm of the neighborhood.
Pablo turned a corner, and Rachel followed suit, the leather grip of the steering wheel cool under her palms. Her mind
replayed Benny Carter's words, each syllable fueling her determination.
A bead of sweat traced the line of her jaw, not from heat but from the sheer intensity of the moment. She caught her
reflection in the rearview mirror. Did she always look so solemn?
Smiles were rare. She felt far more comfortable behind a bow or a rifle scope rather than a steering wheel. And her dark
hair trailed long the side of her face with turquoise beads woven into the locks.
She parked again, this time mere blocks away from where Pablo strutted like a man who owned the world. Rachel slipped
out of the car, her movements fluid and silent, a ghost haunting the edges of Pablo's reality. She had tracked far more attentive
animals before.
She'd worked as a big game hunter for the state long before joining the rangers.
 And now, she moved seamlessly in the shadows of the buildings.
An alley loomed ahead, its mouth agape, ready to swallow the sins of the city. As Pablo neared, an old, disheveled figure
came into view, slumped against the decaying brick wall. The homeless man stretched out a trembling hand, his cup of meager
coins clinking.
"Hey, mister, spare some change?" His voice was gravel-scraped and weary.
"Change?" Pablo scoffed. "You people never change."
He reached down, his fingers dancing mockingly over the coins, plucking them from the man's cup with a derisive chuckle.
The metal sang its protest, and the homeless man's eyes widened, a silent plea etched into his weather-beaten face.
"Thank you for your generous donation," Pablo jeered, jingling the stolen bounty.
"Stop." The word was a gunshot in Rachel's mind, but she held back, muscles coiled. She memorized every detail—the way
Pablo's eyes glinted with malice, the snide tilt of his head.
Pablo's shadow stretched long and distorted against the alley's grimy walls as he swaggered away, oblivious to the storm
brewing in his wake. Rachel's footsteps were silent, a ghost drifting through the urban decay. Her hand brushed the cool grip of
the concealed firearm at her hip—an old friend's whisper against her palm—but she didn't draw it. Not yet.
She paused to drop a twenty-note in the man's cup. He stared at her, gratitude in his eyes, then she slipped past him into the
alley, holding a finger to her lips.
The man nodded quickly, and--with the sixth sense of someone who lived on the streets, spotting trouble--he rolled up a
cardboard mat and hastened away.
She entered the alley Pablo was taking as a shortcut as he countered the change he'd stolen.
"Hey!" The sharpness of her voice ricocheted off brick and dumpster, a sudden strike that spun Pablo around. His face
contorted with surprise.
She darted forward, stepping past a large dumpster, the stench only further fueling her disdain for the city.
Rachel lunged. Fingers grasped fabric, yanking him back. His weight shifted, imbalance found, and gravity became her ally.
He hit the ground with a grunt, dust billowing around them. She was on him in an instant, knees pinning him to concrete, hands
securing his flailing limbs.
"Get off me!" Pablo spat, bucking beneath her.
"Stay down," she hissed, the command etched in steel. He struggled, but her training anchored her to him—a relentless
force.
"Blackwoods," she growled, the name a jagged edge between clenched teeth. "Talk."
"Who—?" He coughed, sucking in the heavy air.
"Answers, now." Her fist shook in front of his jaw, a punctuation mark to underscore her demand.
"Never heard of 'em," he lied.
Rachel’s knuckles introduced themselves again, her body coiled with purpose. This time, they struck his writhing arm. "Try
harder."
"Okay, okay!" Pablo's voice broke, fear seeping into the cracks of his resolve.
"Talk," she repeated, her eyes narrow slits of focus.
Pablo's breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving against the concrete that claimed him. The alley held its breath with
Rachel as she watched, hawk-eyed, the man beneath her squirm into the grime.
"Are... are you a cop?" His voice faltered, a whisper torn from fear’s grip. Eyes darted to hers, searching, pleading.
"Where'd you get that name? Blackwood?"
She leaned in, the weight of her authority pressing down on him. Rachel's face was stone, save for eyes that gleamed with
an untold storm. "Not a cop," she said, spit and gravel mixing in her tone. "Now spill about the Blackwoods."
Pablo swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy at sea. She felt his pulse race under her touch, the frantic
beat of a cornered animal. Her fingers tightened just enough to remind him of their potential.
"Never— I don't—"
"Talk." It was a blade's edge, her stare slicing through his defenses.
His mouth opened, then closed, words failing him. Rachel exhaled, the sound laced with impatience. The air between them
crackled with tension, every second stretched taut as a wire. She sensed the lie before it formed, ready to strike it down.
"Please," he finally croaked, "I got nothing for you."
"Wrong answer." Her voice was a low growl, a predator's warning.
He winced, bracing for another blow, but Rachel held back. Instead, she searched his face, reading the lines of desperation
etched there. Not yet, her instincts whispered. Soon, the floodgates would break.
"Blackwoods," she pushed. "What do you know?" And then a lie. Accusing a thief of something they hadn't stolen was a
good way to get them talking. "You were part of the heist?"
A fishing expedition, but he didn't know it.
The best hunter always chose the proper bait.
 Pablo's eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered within—a spark of recognition, or perhaps guilt. He
sucked in a breath, and Rachel readied herself for the truth she had been chasing like a shadow.
The words slithered out of Pablo's mouth, each syllable laden with reluctance. "The Blackwoods were connected to an
associate of mien." His eyes darted to the left, a futile attempt to escape Rachel's piercing gaze.
"Who?"
"Benny Carter."
"Who's that?" she tensed, betraying nothing. He didn't know she'd interrogated Benny. The less information he had, the
better.
"Just a guy. He was on a job with them before I met them. He knew the Blackwoods."
"What sort of job?"
"Selling cookies. What the hell do you think? Who are you, bitch?"
She scowled at him, her eyes piercing, but she didn't take his bait. "Knew them how?" Rachel's question was sharp, a
dagger poised.
"Business," he mumbled, the lie obvious in his voice's tremor. "Big job. But not me!" he said quickly. "That was before my
time in the crew. I wasn't part of it—the heist."
Rachel leaned closer, her breath hot against Pablo's cheek. She could feel the tension in his body, like a rope pulled to its
limit. "Tell me more," she demanded, her tone allowing no room for refusal.
Pablo's lips parted, hesitation flickering across his face. But he seemed to realize a woman had cornered him in a dark
alley. A woman who wasn't going anywhere and who'd managed to overpower him.
Men like this weren't fighters.
Not when they were matched.
Then, defeat sagged his shoulders, and he whispered, "There was a group... a cartel. They bankrolled the whole damn
thing. But I don't know much about them."
"A cartel? You're sure?"
"Hell yeah. I don't mess with cartels."
The revelation hit Rachel like a physical blow, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm against her ribs. A cartel—this was
bigger than she'd imagined. Her mind spun, circling the new lead like a shark scenting blood in the water.
"Which cartel?" The question was out before she could weigh the danger, but she didn't care. Answers were within reach.
"Doesn't matter now," Pablo coughed out, grimacing as though the words caused him pain. "They're shadows—you won't
find them."
"Which cartel," Rachel spat, conviction steeling her voice.
Pablo hesitated, his eyes darting around the alley as if searching for an escape route. But Rachel's grip held him firmly in
place, her strength overpowering his feeble attempts to break free.
"Las Serpientes," he finally whispered, his voice barely audible. "But you can't say who told you. You can't!"
Rachel's heart skipped a beat. Las Serpientes were infamous, a ruthless cartel known for their brutality and their iron grip
on human smuggling across the border near Nuevo Laredo plaza, the most lucrative smuggling channel.
"Tell me everything you know about Las Serpientes," Rachel demanded, her voice low but firm.
Pablo swallowed nervously, his eyes flickering with fear. "I've only heard what most know," he admitted. "But they're
involved in everything—drug smuggling, human trafficking, even political assassinations. They control it all. Like I said, they
were before my time. Who are you? A fed?"
Rachel's mind raced as she processed the information. Las Serpientes had their tendrils in every dark corner of society. But
could they be involved with her parents?
It sounded so farfetched. But now this was two criminals who tied her parents' name to this apparent heist.
Pablo hesitated once again before speaking cautiously. "They orchestrated it," he revealed, his voice barely above a
whisper. "The Blackwoods were part of it, but I don't know much more."
"Who told you all this? Benny?"
He sealed his lips now, just staring at her, his eyes full of anger. He was struggling again.
But she could tell she'd struck a nerve.
Benny Carter had told him.
Benny Carter had also told her.
Which meant... what?
Benny Carter was the only source of information. But she needed a corroborating voice.
Las Serpientes?
It was a dangerous game to tangle with a cartel.
She spat in derision and pushed to her feet.
In the distance, she thought she heard a siren. She didn't need to tangle with local PD. Not this early in the morning.
 Pablo glared at her as she spun on her heel and began stalking away, tilting her hat back, the brim shielding her eyes.
The shrill ring of her phone cut through the alley's stale air, a stark contrast to Pablo's ragged breathing behind her. Rachel
glanced at the screen – an unknown number with the area code from the reservation. She hesitated before answering with a
terse, "Blackwood."
"Rachel, it's Sheriff Dawes," came the strained voice on the other end.
"Sheriff... Dawes?" she said. Then her eyes widened. "As in Dawes? How'd you get my number?" Her memory flitted back
to experiences.
"Your aunt."
"Right..."
She hesitated, swallowing a single time.
Dawes was the old sheriff from the reservation where she'd grown up. Her aunt, Sarah, was still somewhat estranged from
Rachel. The two of them had never really been able to see eye to eye about the disappearance of Rachel's parents.
After joining the rangers, Rachel's aunt had seemed to blame her for not finding out what had happened.
Not to mention, pressure in the reservation abounded for anyone who strayed into the "white man's" organizations.
She'd been expected to join the reservation police.
Dawes had been one of those most disappointed.
Now, though, his voice sounded strained. "We've got a situation here... You need to come."
Her grip on the phone tightened. The reservation was a place of ghosts, its dusty roads imprinted with memories she
couldn't shake. "What kind of situation?"
"A body... looks like murder," Dawes replied
"Damn it." She glanced down at Pablo, who was eyeing her warily, his face swollen and dirt-streaked. "I... Did you go
through the Rangers?" she said.
"No. I'm going through you."
"Sir, that's not really how things work."
"You can make it work," he said stiffly.
She sighed, picturing his wrinkled features, like map leather. Picturing those solemn, baleful eyes.
She closed her own eyes briefly, and exhaled.
With one last scathing look at the man on the ground, Rachel stepped back, her boots scraping against the gravel. Every
fiber in her being screamed to stay, to pry every last secret from Pablo's form. But duty called—another mystery beckoned from
the land that had cradled her darkest days.
"Remember," she growled, the threat implicit as she briefly muted her phone. "Stay silent about this, Pablo, or I will find
you. I know where you live."
Pablo nodded, fear etched into his features, and Rachel turned away. The sun continued to rise, shadows stretching out like
fingers trying to pull her back, but she pushed forward, her resolve unyielding.
As she made her way out of the alley, her thoughts churned. The cartel, the heist, her parents' enigma—it all simmered
beneath the surface of her mind, a brew of secrets and lies. But now, a new urgency propelled her. Someone else's tragedy
demanded her attention.
Besides... if anyone would know her parents' involvement in a heist, it would be Sarah Blackwood. Rachel's aunt had been
very close with her sister. Then again, Aunt Sarah did things her own way. She was the definition of a lone wolf, and over
time, Rachel had often wondered exactly how much Sarah had shared about her sister... It was often like drawing water from a
rock.
"Let me see what I can do," she said at last, raising the phone and unmuting it.
"Come," Dawes said simply. "This isn't the first body. People are getting scared. You went federal, so now help your
people." He hung up.
She stared at the phone, released a sigh.
Rachel slipped into her car, the engine roaring to life under her command. The rearview mirror reflected a woman with
determination carved into the hard set of her jaw, eyes that held storms.
The reservation loomed, a siren call to the part of her soul that could never rest. Her parents' specters might haunt her, but
Rachel Blackwood was finally getting answers that had eluded her for decades.
Would her boss give her the leave to visit the reservation?
This wasn't how things were done, but she'd earned more than a little leeway with her partner and supervisor.
She tensed, then raised her phone, placing a call of her own.
 CHAPTER TWO

The car kicked up a sluggish cloud of dust as it trundled down the reservation's parched road. Through the window, Rachel
Blackwood watched the landscape unfurl—a tapestry of barren fields and forgotten stories. The sun was relentless, its rays
like probing fingers, exposing every crack and blemish of the land. She felt a pang of discomfort as she took in the scene, the
starkness reminding her of old wounds that never quite sealed.
"Quite the view, huh? Reminds me of those Westerns my dad used to watch—just needs a tumbleweed or two," Ethan
quipped from the driver's seat. His voice had the buoyancy of someone who could find a silver lining in a thundercloud.
He spoke with a southern accent that hinted at his roots in a countryside not far from here. Rachel had grown up without a
family, while Ethan, on the other hand, had grown up with more than his share--one of the youngest in a large family. Five kids?
Eight? She'd forgotten but didn't want to ask again.
Any time she asked Ethan about his family, he could prattle on forever about his mother's cooking, or his brother, Sal's
favorite fishing hole back in the "holler."
Rachel didn't respond; she just nodded slightly, her gaze remaining fixed on the outside world. Her silence was her
sanctuary, a place where the dust couldn't reach.
"Hey, Rach, you think Greywolf still has that massive German Shepherd? What was his name...Thunder?" Ethan continued,
his cheerfulness cutting through the heavy air inside the car.
Rachel's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of her old mentor, her jaw tightening, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
The corners of her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. She respected Ethan's resilience, his way of filling the void with words
when the quiet seemed too loud. But today, the quiet was her ally, and she wasn't ready to relinquish it—not yet.
"Ah, Thunder," Ethan sighed, mistaking her silence for remembrance. "Good ol' dog. Just like us, eh? Chasing down leads."
Rachel glanced at Ethan, acknowledging his attempt to lighten the mood. She appreciated it, even if she didn't partake. The
car slowed, approaching the crime scene, their shared purpose drawing near once more.
She could feel the coarse grains of sand lifted by the wind, silently scraping against the glass, an abrasive whisper that
matched the unease knotting her stomach.
"Look at that," Ethan Morgan said, his voice slicing through the thick silence that Rachel had wrapped around herself like a
shield. "You ever see so much nothing and everything at the same time?"
His cheer was as relentless as the sun bearing down on them, an incongruent soundtrack to the scene that lay before her;
dilapidated homes stood like relics, quietly testifying to a resilience that was both necessary and taken for granted. Rachel
shifted in her seat, the leather creaking under her.
"Rachel?" Ethan's eyebrows arched high above his bright eyes, a stark contrast to her own furrowed brow and the stoic set
of her jaw. But he didn't wait for her to answer, never did. "I bet it's even hotter out there than it is in here," he continued,
tapping the dashboard where the AC sputtered a lukewarm apology.
"Can you imagine growing up here?" He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm with an unheard tune, filling
the space with more than just his words.
"Every day," she murmured, the truth of it settling like dust in the air between them.
As they slowed, pulling along the side road that led to the crime scene, the reservation unfolded its story in silent vignettes
—the sway of clothesline laundry dancing to a tune only the wind knew, a cluster of children kicking up clouds in their wake,
the defiant green of stubborn weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement.
Rachel's gaze lingered on the children, their laughter carried on the wind. Their bare feet danced across the cracked
asphalt. They were the heartbeat of the reservation, spirited souls bound by a heritage that pulsed through their veins.
Her attention shifted to the aging homes, each one with its own story etched into weathered walls. Faded paint peeled away
like old skin, revealing layers of history that whispered secrets of triumph and struggle. The front porches sagged.
Through the car window, Rachel caught glimpses of elders sitting on worn rocking chairs, their lined faces etched with
both sorrow and wisdom. They observed the passage of time with a stoic grace that seemed to defy the hardships they had
endured. The past and present intertwined seamlessly in their eyes—a testament to a culture that refused to be confined or
forgotten.
As they approached the crime scene, Rachel couldn't help but notice a shift in the atmosphere. The air grew heavy with
anticipation, carrying echoes of pain.
She studied the landscape, taking in every detail with eyes hungry for understanding. Cacti stood tall and proud, their
vibrant blooms defiant against the harsh desert backdrop. Mesquite trees stretched their gnarled branches towards the sky,
offering fleeting patches of shade to those seeking respite from the unrelenting sun.
The smell of dust mingled with hints of mesquite smoke wafting from distant campfires.
"Must take some kind of tough," Ethan observed, his admiration genuine and unguarded as he navigated the car over the
uneven road. "Say... how did you get the boss to agree to this? Not really in our purview, is it?"
 "It is," Rachel said adamantly. "Especially with an official request."
"Was it? Official, I mean?"
"Essentially," she said, remembering the call from Dawes. Dawes had never much liked her since she'd left the reservation.
But if he'd called, it meant things were really rough.
"Besides," she added, "Thomas Greywolf had a hand in assigning the case."
"Ah, gotcha. Makes sense."
Ethan's laughter cut through the cab, a sharp contrast to the gritty silence outside. "What do you think, Rach? The perp is
local, or we looking at an outsider?"
She met his gaze briefly, her nod slight, noncommittal. His grin widened, undeterred by her taciturn nature.
"Dunno yet," she finally said, voice as dry as the terrain they traversed. It was enough.
"Ah, gotcha. Keeping your cards close, as always." He chuckled, tapping the wheel. "You're probably right."
Rachel's fingers traced the armrest, her eyes taking in the lay of the land—the way the horizon seemed to swallow the road
whole. Ethan's presence was reassuring, a steady pulse beside her. His eagerness was infectious, his protectiveness not unlike
a golden retriever, ever-present and loyal to a fault. In this vastness, where trust was as scarce as shade, Ethan was a steadfast
shadow.
A dog barked in the distance, its sound forlorn against the vast sky. Ethan glanced her way again, his forehead creased with
concern this time. "You holding up okay?"
"Fine," she murmured, more to the window than to him, her reflection ghosting back at her.
"Hey, if anyone gives you grief up there..." He gestured vaguely toward the windshield mirror, where dust plumes marked
the horizon. "Just say the word."
"Thanks," she breathed out, the word barely making it past her lips. But he heard it, he always did, and that single syllable
seemed to settle him.
"Anytime, partner."
The cruiser slowed, gravel crunching beneath tires, a storm of fine silt rising to meet them. Rachel's hand moved to her
door handle, her mind already calculating, observing. She took in the scene—a tableau of tension and jurisdictional lines
drawn in the sand.
"Alright," Ethan said, reaching for his own door, "let's see what we've got."
The car wheels crunched over the gravel, as it finally came to a full stop, kicking up a haze of dust that clung to the
windshield before being swept away by the wipers' futile swat. The scene outside was a blur of muted colors, the ochre earth
merging with the drab sky. Rachel felt the vibrations beneath her as if the rough terrain were pulsing directly into her bones.
"Looks like we're the last to arrive," Ethan's voice cut through the silence that had settled in the car like another passenger.
Rachel merely nodded, her eyes scanning the line of vehicles parked haphazardly on the side of the road. She pressed her
lips together—a sealed envelope.
She pushed out of the car, the heat and dust catching her face. The memories of this scent, this place, lingered long after she
waved a hand to clear the air.
The sun was a relentless interrogator, its bright gaze scouring the landscape, leaving no shadow unexplored. Rachel
squinted against the glare, the dust from the road rising to meet them like a bitter greeting. There was something almost sacred
about the desolation, the vast openness that held secrets in its arid embrace.
Ahead, the tableau unfolded. A multitude of vehicles formed an uneven barricade across the road, their metallic surfaces
glinting under the harsh scrutiny of the sun. Police cruisers and unmarked cars created a dissonant chorus line near the old
field, their doors flung open, the urgency palpable even from a distance.
"Looks crowded," Ethan said, joining her and slamming the door shut behind him.
In front of her, two distinct groups faced off - the Native police and local cops, their postures rigid with confrontation. The
jurisdictional lines, invisible but palpably drawn in the sand, sparked a friction that crackled through the arid atmosphere. The
native police force's uniforms were brown and trimmed with black, but more than one officer had adorned their uniform with
symbols of their heritage, feathers and beadwork mingling with the badges of authority. The local police, in contrast, wore their
standard blue uniforms, their badges gleaming under the relentless sun. It was a collision of worlds, cultures clashing like
tectonic plates beneath the surface.
Rachel took a moment to observe the faces on both sides. Tensions were high—determination etched into the furrows of
foreheads, lines of resilience carved into weathered skin.
"Back off! This is our land, our case," a reservation officer's voice cut sharply through the dry heat.
"Your land, maybe. But this crime crosses boundaries," retorted a state trooper, his hand resting purposefully on his belt
near his holster.
Rachel edged closer, her eyes flicking between the clashing uniforms, absorbing every detail—the clenched jaws, the
flaring nostrils, the balled fists ready to underscore arguments with force.
"Looks like we're not the only ones who got the call," Ethan noted, his tone sober now as he moved beside her, eyes on the
scene ahead.
"Seems so," Rachel replied tersely, her gaze scanning the collection of metal and uniforms. They had arrived at the nexus of
the storm, the eye yet unseen.
The tapestry of discord wove against the backdrop of the arid landscape. Dust whirled like restless spirits between the two
factions—Native police and local cops—each side mirroring the other's stubborn stance through clenched jaws and squared
shoulders.
"Jurisdiction is ours," a Native officer's voice rose above the rest, barbed and unyielding.
"Look at the map, the line is clear!" retorted a local cop, arms flailing with each syllable, his face a shade of red that
rivaled the sun.
Her steps were measured as she moved towards the epicenter of the burgeoning conflict.
"Deputy Dawes," Rachel called out, her voice steady despite the quickening beat of her heart. She approached a young man
she recognized. This wasn't the same Dawes she'd spoken to on the phone. That had been the sheriff. Rather, this was Dawes'
son, Kai. Where Kai's father disliked Rachel, Kai outright loathed her. A lot of the younger generation didn't take kindly to
Rachel.
Still, she nodded politely at him as she drew closer. The reservation cops bristled, but the local PD also tensed. Be it the
feathers in her cap, her darker features, or perhaps her Ranger uniform--everyone had something they distrusted.
She didn't look away. Kai Dawes was a lower ranking member on the force. He was in his mid-twenties and had been
busted back a rank or two on more than one occasion. Excessive force, public intoxication--but his father had never outright
fired the boy from the force.
Wherever the wind blew, the six other native officers would follow Dawes' lead.
So she addressed him.
"I got the call," she said simply. "This is a Ranger case now, working in tandem with the reservation PD.
Her words ebbed into the tension, but did not break it. She was close enough now to see the lines of strain etched into the
faces around her, to smell the sweat mixed with dust.
"Blackwood," a whispered epithet curled from the lips of a reservation cop; the 'sellout' hung silent but heavy in the air
between them.
Her breath hitched, a microsecond of disdain stinging sharper than expected. Ethan's hand brushed against her elbow, a
subtle signal of solidarity.
"Let's focus on why we're here," she persevered, her tone clipped.
The dust swirled like specters rising from the cracked earth, each particle a silent witness to the standoff. Rachel's gaze cut
through the haze, latching onto the stoic faces of the reservation officers. She could feel the residue of the word 'sellout'
clinging to her skin.
She moved, her feet displacing the dirt beneath her boots, the sound lost in the cacophony of raised voices and clashing
egos. The reservation stretched out before her, a tapestry of ancestral land and modern turmoil, a place where her blood ran as
deeply as the rivers but now seemed dammed at every turn.
"Blackwood," a deep voice boomed, slicing through the tension.
Kai was glaring at her, but the word came from by one of the brown reservation cruisers.
Sheriff Dawes stepped forward, his presence commanding silence. The lines on his face told of years under the unforgiving
sun, and his eyes held the hardness of the desert stone. He was the law here, his authority woven into the very fabric of the
reservation.
Rachel met his gaze, her own unwavering. "We need to secure the scene, Sheriff."
"Secure the scene," he said slowly, eyeing her. There was something cold in his gaze. He'd been the one to call. He'd asked
her here, but now that she'd stepped foot back on his land, he seemed to be having second thoughts.
Her jaw tensed, muscles rigid against the churn of emotions within. In the crossfire of glares, the thread of her resolve
wove tighter. Her voice, when it came, was a blade—sharp, clean.
"Crime doesn't respect lines drawn on a map. You wanted the Rangers, well this is what you've got."
Ethan shifted beside her, a silent bulwark amid the brewing storm. The air crackled with more than just the dry heat, and the
standoff between the lawmen promised to spark into something far less contained.
"You called them?" Kai asked, turning towards his father, his eyes wide in horror.
Kai's features were thinner and paler than his old man's.
No one could mistake Kai for anything other than his father's son, though. His eyes held the same intensity, burning with an
unwavering anger that had been carved into their family lineage. But where Sheriff Dawes carried the weight of years on his
weathered face, Kai wore his youth like a cloak, draped over his lean frame.
His jet-black hair hung in unruly waves around his face, framing sharp cheekbones and a square jawline. A thin scar traced
its way across his left cheek, a remnant of some long-forgotten battle fought and won. And there was something about the way
he stood, shoulders back and chest out, that declared a loud confidence.
 Kai was every bit a product of the reservation; it coursed through his veins like a river of stories told by generations past.
"Let's work together on this," Rachel suggested, her words pointed shards meant to pierce the veil of animosity.
"Work with you?" Kai scoffed.
The accusation stung, dredging up memories best left buried. Her aunt's disappointed gaze. The weight of tradition versus
the calling of justice. Rachel's heart beat a staccato rhythm, each throb a reminder of the choices that had brought her here, to
this precipice where past and present collided.
"Enough," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "There's a killer out there while we stand here divided."
Kai's sneer was a shadow across his face. "Fine. But remember, Blackwood, out here, you ask permission before you
trespass. Get it?"
"Easy, Deputy," Ethan chimed in, his voice smooth, attempting to defuse the charge. His hand touched her arm lightly, a
reassurance.
"Stay out of this, white boy." The deputy's lip curled. "This is family business."
Ethan stepped forward, the embodiment of calm. "There's a bigger picture here—"
A fist flew. Fast. Brutal. Ethan's head snapped back; blood bloomed bright against his lip. No warning. Just impact.
Rachel darted in to block any further abuse, but before she could, Ethan had already recovered.
He yelled and tackled Kai around the waist.
The two men hit the ground, fighting and shouting as they rolled about in the dirt.
 CHAPTER THREE

"Break it up! Stop that, now!" Rachel surged in, snatching at Kai's shoulder to yank him off her partner. The two of them
were grappling on the dirt road, cursing and spitting as they tried to punch in the close parameters.
Even as Rachel separated the two men, aided by two of the reservation cops and one local PD officer, she could feel
Sheriff Dawes' sunken eyes staring at her from his leathery face.
The reservation sheriff didn't call out, didn't tell his son to stop; he just watched with a cold, calculating gaze.
Rachel finally managed to pull her partner back, while the two reservation deputies pulled Kai away.
Both men were breathing heavily, glaring at each other like wounded bulls.
Ethan's chest rose and fell as dust tumbled from his sinewy form in sheets. His button-up shirt was was rumpled, and one of
the buttons had torn free.
Her sandy-haired, puppy-dog eyed partner now looked more rottweiler than golden retriever. His hair was more
disheveled than usual, and his shark cheekbones strained against his skin as he jutted his jaw forward in defiance, a posture
that matched the balling of his fists.
"Asshole!" Ethan was shouting.
Rachel held his arm, tugging him back. Her other hand surreptitiously patted him on the back in a gesture of gratitude. He'd
stepped in because of her, only further serving to emphasize why she'd grown to trust Ethan. It was a rare thing for her to trust
someone.
Now, though, Ethan seemed to be calming, while Kai was still spitting venom, making a hissing sound like a coiled cobra.
It wasn't until his father stepped forward and cleared his throat that Kai finally went silent. The young native man glanced
at his father, his eyes narrowed to slits. He didn't calm down so much as turn his rage inward.
Rachel could see the hatred in Kai's eyes as he glanced from Ethan to her and back, a threat in every flick of his gaze.
But Rachel turned away from him.
She'd known coming home would have its challenges, and she wasn't about to let him derail her.
Now, she faced the sheriff.
Dawes didn't wear the same uniform as the rest of his officers. The sheriff's leathery features and sallow eyes were framed
above a black uniform. A black bandana wrapped around his neck, black slacks and a loose-fitting black shirt open at the
collar due to the Texas heat. He had no piercings but wore a single tooth around his neck. She wasn't sure what the tooth had
come from, but she was certain he hadn't picked it up in a souvenir shop.
"The crime scene is that way," the sheriff said simply, pointing down the road.
Rachel frowned. "You're the one who called me," she reminded him.
"Yes," he said quietly. "And you came."
No thank you, no sorry, just an acknowledgement of fact. He nodded once. "The children of this land are dying," he said
simply. "Three have died."
"Three? You didn't say that on the phone."
He frowned. "I am saying it now."
"What were their names?"
Sheriff Dawes paused, his gaze unforgiving. "Anna Longshadow, Kendra Matter, and Remi Dawes."
She stared at him. "Remi died?"
He nodded once.
Remi was the name of one of Dawes' nieces. She'd been close to Kai. Rachel had gone to school with the girl.
She swallowed briefly. "Kendra Matter... I don't recognize that name."
"She was a truck driver. Passing through." His voice was void of emotion, as if the weight of those lives lost had stripped
him of any sentiment.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," she said quietly. "I didn't know about Remi."
"You're here to find the killer, not to mourn the dead." The sheriff's eyes bore into hers with an intensity that made her
uneasy. "You have a lot to learn about this place," he said cryptically, before turning away. He pointed once more as he
retreated to his vehicle. "The crime scene is that way. Coroner hasn't arrived yet."
Rachel clenched her fists, frustration mingling with grief.
Kai was reluctantly following his father, though shooting venomous glances back towards Ethan.
Ethan didn't look away, but allowed himself to be guided towards the crime scene.
Rachel and Ethan moved side by side along the stretch of road, past the parked vehicles. They arrived at an old, dry creek
bed, and Rachel refused to look back.
People were just a distraction now. The land was going to have its say.
"Sorry about that," Ethan said as they were far enough he couldn't be heard. "I... I lost my head, I reckon."
 "Thanks for having my back," she said simply. She patted him once on his flannel-covered shoulder, and then approached
the creek bed.
There, on the side, she spotted two bodies.
The sun stood sentry behind the gnarled trees that lined the old, dry creek bed when Rachel's boots crunched on the parched
earth. Beside her, Ethan mirrored her steps, his eyes scanning the desolate landscape. Ahead, two lifeless forms lay sprawled,
their final postures eerily casual against the barren terrain.
"Shot," Rachel stated flatly, kneeling beside the nearest body, a woman with chestnut hair matted with blood and dust.
"Both of them?" Ethan asked.
"Looks like it." Her fingers, clad in latex, traced an invisible line around one of the wounds, noting its ragged edges. The
scent of death was not new to her, but it clawed at her throat all the same.
"Through and through," she murmured, her analytical gaze flickering to the second victim, whose blonde strands tangled
with the dead grass. "Clean exits."
"Could be anything then," Ethan offered, his brow furrowed as he watched her work. "Handgun, maybe?"
"Size doesn't fit," Rachel replied. "Exit wound is too large. Long range shot."
"Damn," Ethan exhaled, stepping back and rubbing the back of his neck. "What's your take?"
"Can't say for sure yet." Rachel rose, peering down at the bodies with a practiced detachment. "We'll need ballistics."
"Right." Ethan glanced away.
Rachel's eyes narrowed as she took in the scene once more, her thoughts racing. There was a story here, written in blood
and silence. She could almost hear the whisper of the wind through the creek bed, taunting her with secrets it refused to reveal.
"Let's get this taped off," she said, breaking the stillness. "And call it in. See if the coroner can double time. Bodies have
been here a while." She frowned, glancing at her watch.
"More jurisdictional disputes?"
"Almost guaranteed," she said quietly."
Ethan nodded, already reaching for his radio. The light cast long shadows over the crime scene, the day's heat beginning to
fray at the edges.
Rachel squatted beside the nearest body, her fingers hovering above the ragged tear in the woman's blouse. The fabric was
darkened, stiff with dried blood. "Look at the wound edges, Ethan." Her voice was low but authoritative. She pointed without
touching. "Entry is too clean for a scattershot."
"Means what?" Ethan asked, his stance rigid, eyes not leaving the ghastly site.
"High-velocity round," Rachel murmured, her gaze fixed on the macabre pattern. "No close-range stippling. Shooter was
far."
"Sniper?" Ethan ventured, skepticism lacing his tone.
"Possible." Rachel straightened up, her eyes scanning the horizon as if she could conjure the assailant from the sparse
landscape. "I'd guess .308 caliber. It's common for long-distance."
"Speculation?"
"Education," she corrected him softly, her mind flitting to lessons learned under stark reservation skies. From the hard lines
taught by her estranged aunt, to the precision demanded by the FBI mentor who honed her instincts. "And experience."
She turned from the bodies, her keen eyes catching a disturbance in the dust. Small pebbles scattered, dirt displaced. She
followed the subtle trail with the precision of a hawk soaring over prey. Drag marks.
"Over here." She beckoned Ethan with a tilt of her head, her boots crunching softly on the arid earth.
"Dragging..." Ethan observed, catching up. "From where?"
"Or to," Rachel countered. She crouched again, fingertips grazing the ground just shy of the disturbed earth. "Two sets. Two
bodies. Strong enough—or desperate enough—to move them after the kill."
"Trying to hide their tracks?" Ethan's question hung between them, unanswered.
"Maybe," Rachel said, her voice almost lost to the creek bed's silence. "Or it was interrupted. Couldn't finish whatever
plan they had."
"Which means?" Ethan pressed.
"Which means," Rachel said, rising to her full height, her silhouette sharp against the fading sun, "someone didn't plan this.
At least, not here."
"Think so?"
"Let's follow the trail," she decided, her voice betraying no hint of the adrenaline beginning to course through her veins.
"Carefully."
"Right behind you."
The scrubland was quiet, save for the crunch of boots on parched earth. Rachel let the coarse blades of dead grass slip
through her fingers where they were bent and broken. "This way," she murmured, eyes tracing the subtle chaos amidst nature's
order.
 Rachel's gaze was steel; each disturbance a breadcrumb. She rose, following the trail with predatory precision.
They moved in tandem, her shadow lengthening as it mingled with the sunlight casting an orange hue over the scene, but
Rachel's focus pierced through the shadowed clarity. She took note of snapped twigs, scuffed dirt—a narrative written in the
detritus.
"Here." The word sliced the dusk as she halted at the edge of the road. Underbrush lay disturbed, branches pushed aside in
haste. A story of flight, or pursuit.
Ethan followed, his breath a subtle echo of her own.
And then, through the trees, a glint of metal. Ghostly quiet. A truck, abandoned, its color dulled by dust and neglect. She
approached, senses sharpening, reading the silence like a prelude to a scream.
"Keys are still in," she noted, voice barely above a whisper. The door to the truck was wide open, and the keys dangled
from the ignition, swaying slightly as if nodding to their discovery. The dashboard lights were dead, the engine silent. It had
been left running—until it couldn't anymore.
"Out of gas," Ethan said, stating the obvious, his hand resting on the hood, feeling for warmth.
"Yep." One word, her thoughts a torrent. "Empty," she added, peering into the truck's cab. They stood side by side, peering
into the abyss of the open door. No answers, just echoes of questions bouncing off the vinyl seats.
"Who leaves a truck like this?" Ethan’s question hung, unanswered.
The sun almost seemed to retreat behind cloud cover, crimson bleeding into the horizon. Shadows grew long and dark
around them.
"Look here," Rachel said, her voice a command that stilled the evening air. She leaned into the truck, fingers brushing
against a leather wallet left carelessly on the passenger seat. The license within spelled out Kendra Matter in stark letters,
photo smiling up at them with eyes that would never see another sunset.
"Kendra..." Ethan echoed, peering over her shoulder.
"Blood." Her observation was blunt as she stepped out of the truck, pointing to droplets that led away like breadcrumbs.
They painted a morbid trail on the parched earth.
"Here," Rachel murmured, more to herself than to Ethan. She crouched, tracing the spots to their origin—a darker patch
where the earth had drunk deeply. "She was shot here."
"Two bodies, one truck. Connection?" Ethan's question floated between them, but Rachel was already moving ahead,
mentally sifting through scenarios.
"Let's tear this apart. Every inch." Her determination was a palpable force, and without another word, they set upon the
truck with methodical precision.
Glove compartment—empty save for manuals and napkins. Beneath the seats—a lighter, a few coins. In the bed of the truck
—dust and leaves, evidence of neglect rather than clues. But it was the silence that spoke volumes, the absence of life that
screamed at them from every corner of the metal beast.
"Shot here... dragged there..." Rachel pieced it together aloud, her thoughts tumbling out as she worked. The weight of the
badge on her hip felt heavier with each passing second.
"Kendra Matter," she repeated, rolling the name around like tasting wine, searching for notes that might reveal itself
beneath the surface. "Who are you?"
"Who were you?" Ethan corrected gently, bringing her back to the grim present.
"Right." Rachel's jaw tightened. The chill of a sudden breeze seeped through her clothes as she stood, surveying their
progress.
Rachel's gaze swept across the truck's undercarriage, the sun casting elongated shadows on the rusted frame. Something
was off. Her eyes narrowed at one of the wheels—its hubcap didn't sit flush against the spokes like the others.
"Hey, Ethan," Rachel called out, her voice low and steady. "Check this out."
Ethan trudged over, his brows knitting together as he followed her pointing finger. “What is it?”
"Doesn't look right." She squatted beside the wheel, her fingers tracing the edge of the metal cap. It resisted in places
where it should have yielded to the gentle prodding.
"Could be a carriage bolt misaligned," Ethan mused, crouching beside her, a skeptic's shadow lingering in his tone.
"Or something else," she countered. With a flick of her wrist, she withdrew a pocket tool and wedged it beneath the
dubious panel.
The false hubcap gave way with a reluctant screech, revealing a hollow cavity behind it—unexpected depth in a space
meant to be shallow. Rachel’s heart skipped, adrenaline surging through her veins like white-water rapids.
"Oh God," Ethan exhaled as they both stared at the cache concealed within. From him, it wasn't a cuss so much as a prayer.
"Didn't expect that," Rachel admitted.
A clump of bags, wrapped tight, lay nestled inside like a malignant growth.
 CHAPTER FOUR

The sun was a relentless eye, glaring down at the scene sprawled out beneath it. Rachel shielded her gaze and kneeled by
the pickup truck, its underbelly caked in dust and secrets. Her hands, sheathed in latex, brushed against the coarse fabric of
plastic bags lined neatly like cadavers in the hollow wheel well. Ethan stood beside her, his shadow merging with hers over
the cargo.
"White powder," she muttered, pinching a corner of a bag between her fingers, allowing the grains to spill and dance in the
harsh light before being reclaimed by gravity.
"Cocaine," Ethan confirmed, his voice flat, a statement of fact rather than surprise. He looked from the bags to the bodies
yards away, through the trees by the creek bed. "Could be the motive."
"Could be," Rachel echoed, but her mind was already sifting through other possibilities, darker currents that ran beneath the
surface.
Ethan took pictures of the discovered contraband. He poked at a bag with the eraser end of a pencil and whistled under his
breath. "Looks like some pretty pure stuff."
She turned from the bags, attention drawn to the splatters of blood painting the earth a morbid hue. Methodically, she began
to trace the pattern. The droplets told a story—one of violence.
"A single shooter, most likely, but he moved between shots," she said after a moment, more to herself than to Ethan. "The
spread's all wrong for a single point of fire."
Rachel's eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun, her gaze tracking an invisible line across the barren landscape. She
moved slowly, deliberately, each step a silent question posed to the earth beneath her boots.
"Look at this," she called out, fingers hovering above a flattened shrub, its branches broken in a telling way. "Bullet passed
right through here."
"Which way?" Ethan's voice, a low timbre against the hush of the desert.
"Up there." Rachel pointed towards a cliff ridge, a jagged silhouette against the sky. The perfect vantage point for a sniper.
"Damn good eye," Ethan muttered, pulling his hat brim lower against the sun's relentless assault.
Her thoughts laser-focused on the scene unfolding before her inner eye. A shooter lying prone, the rifle's cold kiss against
their shoulder, finger caressing the trigger.
Ethan circled back to the abandoned truck, hands and eyes sweeping over every inch. Hidden compartments. Smuggler's
tricks. Something caught his attention—the faintest outline of a panel near the wheel well where they'd found the drugs.
"Got something," he grunted, prying it open.
Fake documents spilled out onto the dusty ground, their edges curling. He picked up a passport, thumb flicking open the
cover.
"What's the name there?"
"Maria Ramos," Ethan read aloud, tucking the passport into a clear evidence bag. "Think Kendra is a fake or Maria?"
"Check it out, I guess."
He nodded, pulling out his phone. Ethan muttered, almost to himself, as if the name were a stone he turned over in his mind.
The screen cast pale light on his features, the stark blue making him look like a specter. "Connected. Maria is her real name.
There are ties to the Santora cartel."
"What ties?"
Ethan glanced up from his phone, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and surprise. "Family ties," he replied, his voice
laced with a somber tone. "Maria Ramos is the younger sister of Victor Ramos, one of the top lieutenants in the Santora cartel."
Rachel's mind raced with the revelation. The abandoned truck, the hidden drugs, and now the connection to a powerful drug
cartel.
Ethan nodded in agreement, his gaze fixated on the distant cliff ridge where the sniper had once lain. "The Santora cartel
doesn't mess around. Might be they had some enemies. Came after the drugs."
"What about Anna Longshadow?"
Ethan frowned. "That's the name the sheriff gave?"
"Yeah."
"How did he know her name? I didn't see any documents on her. No pockets, for one."
Rachel shook her head. "Good question. Maybe he recognized her."
She trailed off, and they both drifted into silence.
She paced, her footsteps soft whispers against the dirt, mind racing faster than her stride. Something about the bodies, the
way they lay discarded by the creek bed—it nagged at her.
She turned and moved away from the blood spatter, back through the wooded partition, and to the location where the
corpses remained. The coroner still hadn't arrived.
 Rachel’s gaze lingered on the second body, her eyes tracing the contours of the victim’s exposed skin. Allegedly named
Anna Longshadow—barefoot, a dress scarcely clinging to her frame and lingerie visible; it whispered secrets of a harsh life
lived at the mercy of others' desires.
"Her feet," Rachel said abruptly, voice low, as if the night itself might overhear. "No shoes."
Ethan knelt beside her, his flashlight beam dancing over the cracked earth. “Running?"
"Or never had them on." Her fingers brushed the air above Anna's soles, noting their cuts and scrapes. "Look at what she's
wearing." Rachel's words were clipped, factual. The moonlight draped over Anna's scanty attire, painting a darker narrative.
“She didn’t dress for a desert night.”
"Sex trafficking?" Ethan’s question hung between them, heavy with implications.
"Maybe." Her jaw tightened. The victim’s story was etched into her bare flesh—the vulnerability, the exploitation.
Prostitution was a likely chapter in this grim tale.
"ID." Ethan’s voice cut through her contemplation. There was urgency there, a need to strip away the anonymity that death
had cloaked around Anna Longshadow.
"Right," Rachel agreed, standing up. She pulled out her camera, snapping photos from multiple angles, every flash
capturing another fragment of the victim's forsaken identity. She sent them off to the field office with a terse message: *Confirm
ID - urgent*.
"Done," she murmured, more to herself than to Ethan. "Anna Longshadow or Jane Doe?"
"Dawes knew Kendra's fake name. Maybe he found out Anna's..."
"But how?"
Ethan shrugged.
"What if..." she said abruptly, breaking the silence between them. "He knew her, Ethan. Personally, I mean. Knew Anna
Longshadow by name."
"Think he was a client of hers?" Ethan looked up from the evidence bag he was sealing, his brow furrowed in thought. "You
think Dawes is involved?"
It was strange that he'd invited her onto the reservation. Was it in an attempt to cover his tracks? Muddy the waters?
No. She was getting ahead of herself; there was likely a very reasonable explanation for all of it. "Maybe." Rachel’s voice
was flat. "We need to talk to him."
Rachel walked the perimeter once more, ensuring nothing was missed. Scuffed earth. Torn fabric. The metallic tang of
blood lingered in the air. Each step felt like a silent accusation against the vast desert.
"Checklist?" Ethan asked, pulling out his notepad, his pen poised.
"Photos. Samples. Measurements." Rachel ticked off each item, visualizing their case file bulking up with evidence.
"Wheel tracks documented," Ethan added, scribbling down notes.
"Bullet casings missing," she continued, her eyes scanning the ground one last time.
"Fake IDs found." His voice trailed off as they both considered the implications of Maria Ramos and her hidden life.
"Good." Rachel took a deep breath, tasting the grit of the desert on her tongue.
She took one last look at the crime scene, the stark reality of it etched into her memory. Two lives ended here, violence
staining the earth.
"So think Dawes is gonna be in a talking mood?" Ethan said.
But Rachel was already moving again, frowning as she stalked away from the corpses. Her eyes were now on the outcrop
of cliff where the shots had likely originated from.
The underbrush of the desert in Texas seemed to conspire against Rachel as she moved through it. Every step was a dance,
a delicate negotiation between her feet and the unruly foliage. Thorny branches reached out, scratching her exposed skin,
leaving faint red trails in their wake. The sun beat down mercilessly, casting long shadows that concealed hidden dangers. She
kept an eye out for rattlesnakes or copperheads.
Ethan's voice called after her, breaking through the rustling leaves and chirping insects. She turned to see him standing at
the edge of the crime scene, concern etched into his features. His gaze followed her as she pressed forward.
"That's a rough climb," he said. "Sure, you don't want to find a way around?"
She shook her head. She knew this place. Knew the terrain. As a tracker, she'd been brought up on these cliffs, along these
old, dry beds. She knew the best way to the cliff by road would take them twenty miles off course.
A waste of time. The hike would be just as difficult anyway.
No... A little bit of height and some rough terrain didn't scare her.
As she approached the base of the cliff where she believed the sniper had taken his shot, Rachel's eyes scanned the area for
any signs of disturbance. She crouched down, her gloved hand brushing against the dusty ground. No shell casings.
Damn.
She looked up again, wincing against the sun. Then, she reached up, delicately removing her white hat and placing it on a
bush, leaving it. The feathers gusted in the breeze.
 She then scanned the face of the cliff. It was nearly a hundred feet tall at this point, the lowest peak she could see. She
plotted a course even as Ethan came after her, his footsteps crunching through the undergrowth.
And then she flung herself up the side of the cliff, catching a handhold.
The rough texture of the cliff face greeted Rachel's fingertips as she began her ascent, her muscles straining against gravity's
pull. The sandstone crumbled beneath her touch, creating small cascades of debris that tumbled into the abyss below. Her
hands sought out each crevice, each nook and cranny, as if they were old friends guiding her way.
Her body moved with a fluidity born from years of experience, her limbs working in perfect synchrony as she climbed
higher and higher. The sun danced across her glistening skin, casting a halo of light around her silhouette against the azure sky.
Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead, mingling with the dirt on her face, but she paid it no mind. This was her domain, her
playground.
She could feel Ethan watching her, but she continued to stretch her limits. She tried not to let her mind wander to past
memories. As a child, how many times had she gone hiking, or snuck out at night to go for runs in the forest after an argument
with her aunt?
The dangerous terrain, the rough obstacles were a sort of sanctuary to her. The challenge, the rush of adrenaline, helped her
mind to focus. For a moment, thoughts of Dawes faded.
Every muscle in Rachel's body seemed to come alive as she propelled herself upward. Her powerful legs pushed against
the rock, propelling her forward with each deliberate step. The muscles in her arms strained under the weight of her body, but
she held firm.
As Rachel reached a particularly treacherous section of the cliff face, a surge of exhilaration coursed through her veins.
Adrenaline fueled her every move as she defied gravity.
"Shit, careful!" Ethan called out.
Small stones tumbled past her foot as she nearly slipped. She continued climbing, breathing heavily.
The higher she ascended, the more the world fell away. The distant sounds, from the road, where the locals still gathered
were muted, replaced by the rush of wind against her ears. The view from this vantage point was breathtaking, a panorama of
sprawling desert stretching out before her.
Rachel's fingertips grazed a ledge above her, and with a final burst of energy, she hauled herself onto it. She took a moment
to catch her breath, her chest heaving as she surveyed the landscape. From up here, she could see the crime scene below, now
reduced to minuscule figures on the ground.
Ethan's voice floated up to her, his words indecipherable at this height. But she didn't need words to understand his
concern. She knew he was worried about her safety.
But Rachel had always been drawn to heights. It was in these precarious moments that she felt most alive, most connected
to the world around her.
As she stood on that ledge, the cliff face continued its ascent, but she frowned, glancing along the ledge.
A hunter's eye was an interesting thing. She'd taken so many shots, from similar perches, that--within some margin of error--
she felt as if she were nearly pinpointed in the spot where the sniper must've shot from.
And now, she scanned the ledge, her eyes tracing the ground. There was a trail cutting through the rock, leading up to the
plateau. She didn't take the trail, though. She could see footprints on the ground at her feet.
Scuff marks in the dirt.
Rachel crouched down, her eyes fixated on the scuff marks in the dirt. A surge of curiosity coursed through her veins as she
followed the trail, her fingers grazing over the rocky surface.
Her fingertips brushed against something hard and metallic. She felt a thrill shoot up her spine as she unearthed a small,
weathered object. Brushing away the dirt, Rachel's heart quickened at the sight of a shell casing for a rifle. The realization hit
her like a punch to the gut.
Who had fired these shots? And, more importantly, why?
Ethan's voice broke through her thoughts, his concern evident even from the distance. "Rachel! What did you find?"
She looked over the ledge, her gaze meeting Ethan's worried eyes far below. "Coming down!" she called out.
He gave her a thumbs up.
She scanned for the second casing, but couldn't find it. She new the trail behind her led onto the plateau which then led to
an open road. Someone had know this spot...
Someone who knew the land as well as she did.
It was time to talk with Dawes.
She pocketed the casing--Ethan would have to send it for testing along with the other samples they'd taken.
But now, she was beginning to wonder exactly how had Dawes known the victim's name?
 CHAPTER FIVE

The sun glared down on the arid landscape, casting long shadows that stretched like accusatory fingers across the rocky
terrain. From his vantage point in the back of his flatbed, the back door open, the man lay prone, his gaze riveted through the
scope of a high-powered rifle. The weapon felt like an extension of his will. His finger rested on the trigger, a coiled serpent
ready to strike, but held back by an almost imperceptible tremor of anticipation.
Through the crosshairs, two figures moved, their silhouettes stamped against the stark backdrop. The man's breathing
slowed as he tracked them, his focus narrowing to exclude the world beyond his mission. He was the unseen arbiter of their
destinies.
One of the figures, the female agent, paused. She reached up, her movements deliberate and unhesitant, removing the white
hat that crowned her determined brow. With a reverence that belied the intensity of the scene, she placed it gently upon a
nearby bush, a solitary beacon amidst the thorns.
His attention shifted as she approached the base of the cliff face. Her hands found purchase on the jagged rocks, and she
began to ascend with a fluidity that captivated him. Each motion seemed almost rehearsed, as if she knew this cliff. The man
watched, his professional detachment yielding to a grudging respect. Her skill was undeniable—a dance of human agility and
grace played out upon the unforgiving canvas of nature. She climbed with a confidence that spoke of many such ascents, her
body moving in harmony with the treacherous terrain.
In the stillness of his hideout, the man's thoughts churned. She was formidable, an adversary worthy of the game they
unknowingly played. Beneath the surface of his disciplined mind, something akin to admiration stirred—a fleeting recognition
of her prowess that fluttered away as quickly as it had come.
Yet, there was no room for such musings in the task at hand. The rifle remained trained on the shifting tableau before him, a
silent witness to the unfolding drama. His finger, though tense, held its deadly promise in check, the moment of decision
hovering just on the edge.
The desert sun scorched the earth, casting sharp shadows that crept like specters across the barren landscape. The man
remained motionless, a silent predator perched in his nest of dust and sagebrush where he'd parked his vehicle. His gaze never
wavered from the scope’s crosshairs, where the female agent's form clung to the cliff face with a spider's tenacity.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, ignored as he calibrated the distance, the wind, the trajectory. His finger
caressed the trigger, a lover’s touch poised to become an executioner's. In his chest, his heart kept a steady rhythm, the
drumbeat of a soldier in the throes of war. It was a familiar sensation—the tightrope walk between life and death.
"Take the shot," the hunter within him whispered, a siren call to end the chase here and now. But if he missed?
No... wait until she stopped moving.
He exhaled slowly, the breath of a man about to reshape destiny, when the sudden crunch of gravel behind him sliced
through the tension. His body tensed, instincts flaring to life as he swiveled with predatory grace, leaving the rifle momentarily
forgotten.
Through the sparse brush, a car's silhouette emerged, its engine's low growl intruding upon the wilderness. Dust billowed
behind it like the plumes of a conquering army. The vehicle eased onto the roadside, oblivious to the sniper's lair it had
stumbled upon.
The man watched, his finger now lifted from the trigger, his mission momentarily eclipsed by this unexpected development.
The man's hands, steady as a surgeon’s just moments before, now moved with swift purpose. His eyes darted between the
rifle and the colored blanket tossed carelessly in the back of his truck. With a practiced motion, he snatched up the fabric,
draping it over the weapon. The deadly instrument disappeared beneath a mosaic of earthy hues, instantly becoming one with
the jumble of camping gear.
Booted feet hit the dirt, kicking up small clouds that blended with the dust the newcomers had raised. He shut the tailgate
with a gentle thud, the sound muffled by the vastness around them. A smile stretched across his face, not the sinister smirk of a
predator but the open, friendly grin of a weekend adventurer caught amidst nature's grandeur.
"Hey there, officers!" he called out, his voice rich with the hearty welcome of a man who'd spent his life mastering the art
of approachable charm. "Quite the day for a drive out here, isn't it?" He chuckled, the sound warm, inviting—disarming.
His stride was casual as he approached the two figures now emerging from the squad car, hands visibly empty and raised
in a gesture of good-natured greeting. Inwardly, he performed a rapid inventory of facts and fictions, ready to weave a
believable yarn.
"Was just enjoying the view," he continued, gesturing towards the vast expanse with a tilt of his head, a shrug lifting his
shoulders as if to say 'Can you blame me?'
"Beautiful country we've got here. Shame not to take a moment to appreciate it, y'know?" His tone was light,
conversational, as if this encounter were nothing more than a chance meeting between old friends. Within his chest, though, his
heart drummed a rhythm of vigilance, each beat echoing the need for caution, the readiness to adapt.
 The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the desolate landscape, the two officers framed within them like sentinels
of an unwritten law. They stood before him, their brows furrowed in twin arcs of suspicion. He could almost feel the weight of
their scrutiny as they took in his presence on this closed stretch of road.
"Area's off-limits," the taller officer said, his eyes flicking from the man's face to the truck behind him. The statement hung
suspended between them, less a declaration than a silent accusation.
The second cop's hand moved with practiced caution, unsnapping the holster of his radio. His fingers brushed against the
device as if contemplating a call for backup or perhaps a check-in that would shatter the brittle peace. The man watched him,
noting the careful placement of each digit, the unspoken questions hovering just beyond the airwaves.
"Is that so?" he replied, inflecting his tone with surprise as though the information was news to him. "Must've missed the
signs."
His gaze shifted, not too abruptly, to the other officer who had sidled closer to the rear end of his vehicle. He could see the
man's eyes scanning the license plate, no doubt committing the digits to memory, preparing to run them through some distant
database.
The man's internal monologue raced, crafting plausible scenarios that might explain away this unintended rendezvous.
Yet, outwardly, he remained the epitome of calm—a traveler ensnared by ignorance, not malice.
The aroma of dry earth mingled with the acrid sting of suspicion as the man inched forward, his boots scuffing the dirt.
Sunlight glinted off his affable smile while his shadow reached toward the officers like an omen. The corners of his eyes
crinkled, a portrait of warmth painted on a face adept at playing roles.
"Beautiful day for a drive, huh?" His grin was wide and disarming, the very picture of innocent charm. The cops' eyes—a
blend of duty and doubt—tracked his every movement.
He closed the distance between them, hands loosely buried in his pockets, projecting an openness that seemed to soften the
lines of concern etched onto their faces. The world around them fell silent, save for the distant caw of a bird and the soft
whisper of the wind.
His pulse thrummed a steady rhythm against his skin, a metronome set to the tempo of danger. He savored the adrenaline,
the way it sharpened his senses, focused his mind. With each step, he drew from a reservoir of amicability, ensuring his
movements radiated nothing but friendly curiosity.
One officer's hand hovered near his belt, the radio clipped securely by his side. The man noted the gesture, calculated the
risk. His next breath was a quiet promise to himself, a vow sealed within the confines of his ribcage.
"Mind if I see some ID?"
The words hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in protocol. It was the turning point, the pivotal moment where pretense
peeled away to reveal the raw edges of reality. The request, casual yet commanding, was the catalyst.
In a blink, the genial stranger was no more. Muscles tensed, instincts flared, and the man exploded into motion. A flash of
metal glinted in the sun—an extension of his will, honed and lethal—as he lunged.
The blade found its mark with a sickening intimacy, puncturing flesh and sinew with practiced ease. Blood bloomed across
the fabric of the uniform, a stark contrast to the azure sky above.
Inside, the man's thoughts were a cold calculus of angles and distances, actions and consequences. But outwardly, he was a
whirlwind of violence, a tempest fueled by necessity and survival. The once-friendly smile had vanished, replaced with the
stony resolve of a predator securing its kill.
The second officer's hand twitched toward his fallen comrade, the beginnings of shock etching lines of disbelief across his
face. In the space between heartbeats, the man capitalized on the momentary paralysis born from horror and human empathy.
His arm recoiled like a viper, the knife in his grip uncoiling with lethal precision as he flung it through the air. The blade spun
—a silver specter dancing towards its final partner.
It found a home in the second cop's chest, the impact audible, a thud that was quickly swallowed by the surrounding
silence. The second cop's eyes widened, his mouth agape in an unvoiced scream, his fingers grasping at the handle protruding
from his sternum. But physics was unforgiving, and gravity claimed him, dragging his collapsing form to join his partner on the
ground.
The world seemed to hold its breath, the only sounds were the soft whimpers of life leaving bodies too swiftly. Crimson
pooled beneath them, seeping into the parched earth, an offering to the gods of violence and misfortune.
He stood there, the architect of demise, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline cocktail coursing through his veins. For
a fleeting second, pride swelled within his chest, a dark bloom at the efficiency of his work. He'd been trained well—his hands
tools of destruction, his body a vessel for calculated brutality.
Yet, victory was hollow without confirmation of the mission's completion. A sharp turn of his head and his gaze snapped
back to the cliff, now a vacant stage where the female agent had performed her ascent. His eyes traced the rugged contours, the
jutting stones that had borne witness to her climbing prowess, but she was no longer part of the tableau.
Panic knifed through the satisfaction, a serrated edge that sawed at his composure. She was gone, evaporated into the
landscape or perhaps concealed within its embrace. His mission wavered on the precipice of failure.
 She had found his shooting spot. She would've found more...
His mind raced, scenarios spawning and dying in rapid succession. If she had seen... No, she couldn't have. He'd been
careful, hadn't he? A mistake now would unravel everything, expose him to dangers far greater than the Texas sun beating down
on his neck.
But there was no time for doubt. Certainty was a luxury afforded to those who watched from afar, not the ones with blood
drying on their hands.
He took one last look at the officers lying motionless, their lives extinguished as easily as candles in a storm. He snatched a
canister from the back of his vehicle, moving swiftly.
The acrid scent of gasoline clawed at his nostrils as he unscrewed the cap, the can's metal sides warm from the sun. He
tilted it, letting the liquid slosh out and soak into the parched earth beside the bodies. The clear fluid glistened briefly before
disappearing into the dusty fabric of their uniforms.
He moved methodically, an artist with a morbid palette, dousing them thoroughly. Not a drop wasted. As the gasoline
pooled and trickled around them, their stillness was a stark contrast to the frenetic race of his pulse.
"Fuel for the journey," he murmured to himself, his voice a dry whisper against the vast silence of the landscape. The sun
cast long shadows that stretched toward him like accusing fingers, but there was no one left to point them.
His hands, steady despite their grim task, retrieved a matchbox from his pocket. He could feel the tiny ridges on the side of
the box, the promise of destruction held within its small confines. Flicking it open, he drew out a single match, the wood
smooth and unassuming between his fingers.
The first strike was a failure, the match snapping under too much pressure—a rare misstep that pricked at his focus. A
silent curse passed through his mind as he discarded the broken piece, selecting another. This time, when he struck it, the match
head flared to life, a tiny beacon.
He watched the flame for a moment, almost entranced. It quivered at the end of the stick, so delicate and yet capable of
unleashing irreversible change. The fire mirrored something within him, a spark that had been nurtured by years of discipline
and rage.
A quick flick of his wrist sent the burning match onto the soaked uniforms. The fire took hungrily, devouring the gasoline-
soaked material in an instant, a whoosh of heat that made him step back. The flames rose, crackling and popping as they caught,
bright tongues licking at the air, consuming everything they touched.
There was a beauty to it, he thought, a cleansing purity in the way fire remade the world in its own image. The heat brushed
against his face, a reminder that he was alive, that he was the orchestrator of this destruction.
"Goodbye, gentlemen," he whispered, almost respectfully.
For a moment, he stood transfixed, watching as the fire began to do its work, erasing the evidence of his deeds. The smoke
billowed upward, a dark column against the twilight sky, signifying nothing more than a transient disturbance in this remote
corner of the world.
In his mind, he was already plotting his next move, tracing pathways through the rough terrain, considering how best to
intercept his quarry.
This wasn't over.
It couldn't be.
The female agent... the one with the white hat...
She was a different breed.
They'd meet again.
And the next time, she wouldn't escape his rifle.
He hurried back to the front seat of his vehicle, but paused. He frowned at the tire tracks on the ground. He'd have to switch
tires. Worn tires, muddied. They couldn't appear fresh.
The stench of burning flesh lingered on the air as he slipped into the front seat of his vehicle and tore away from the
macabre scene.
 CHAPTER SIX

The sun blazed down on the parched earth, casting elongated shadows from the sparse buildings that made up the
reservation's spine. Rachel pulled her cruiser into a vacant slot by the sheriff station, gravel crunching under the tires. Her gaze
snagged immediately on the solitary figure standing outside the entrance.
She stepped out of the vehicle, but held up a hand, indicating Ethan should stay put. He watched through the windshield, but
nodded, showing he understood.
The sheriff was standing outside his office, arms crossed, his features creased. It looked as if he'd been waiting for them to
arrive.
Sheriff Dawes turned towards her, his face etched with lines of weariness and resolve. Turquoise beads—a symbol of
protection—hung around his neck, stark against the tan of his uniform. The beads swayed slightly as he crossed his arms over
his chest.
She closed the door behind her, gravel crunching underfoot as she approached the man.
"Rachel," he greeted, voice betraying a strain she knew all too well.
"Dawes." Her reply was curt, professional. She stepped away from the cruiser, eyes darting past him, scanning the vicinity
for another presence she half-expected, half-dreaded to see.
No sign of Kai.
Relief washed over her in a silent wave, retreating quickly as she remembered why she was here. As she approached, the
sense of relief ebbed completely, replaced by a cold focus.
"Thought I might find your son here," she commented, keeping her tone even. It was both an observation and a probe.
"Kai's off," Dawes replied, the beads clicking softly as he shifted his stance.
"Good." The word slipped out before she could catch it, wrapped in more personal sentiment than she intended. She moved
past it, her boots kicking up dust. "We need to talk."
"About?" His brows knitted, defensive walls already rising.
"Let's go in." She gestured toward the station door. She glanced back towards where Ethan watched her from the car.
The sun bore down, relentless and hot, on the parched earth of the reservation. A fine red dust swirled in the breeze,
coating everything it touched with a faint ruddy hue. It settled into the creases of Sheriff Dawes's weather-beaten face as he
stood, a stoic figure amidst a landscape that demanded resilience.
Ethan, a silent shadow in the cruiser, gave her a nod. Rachel's boots left shallow impressions in the dirt as she moved
towards the door of the office, but Dawes remained outside. He made no move to enter.
He just watched her.
"Sheriff," she began, her voice betraying none of the turmoil within. "How did you get the victims' names?"
Sheriff Dawes squinted against the glare, his fingers absently touching the turquoise beads around his neck.
"Anna was recognized," he said tersely. "And the trucker... Kendra... had her ID on her. We left it in the cabin of the
vehicle."
Rachel took this in, her gaze not leaving his. She noted the slight hitch in his tone at the mention of the trucker, as if he were
offended she even needed to ask. The air between them crackled with unspoken questions, with the weight of blood ties
strained by suspicion and the need for truth.
"Recognized?" she echoed, her mind racing. How well? By whom? The questions lined up like dominoes, ready to fall in
sequence once nudged. She held back, though. Timing was everything.
"By one of my deputies," Dawes added, almost as an afterthought, but there was a tightness around his eyes that Rachel
didn't miss.
"Right." Her reply was noncommittal, though inside, the gears turned relentlessly. "Anything else I should know?" Her
question hung in the air, a challenge masquerading as inquiry. She waited, her eyes steady on his, searching for the flicker of
evasion, the twitch of discomfort. Nothing.
"Nothing that concerns you right now," Dawes said finally, his voice low, a growl almost.
"Someone recognized Anna? She's not local, is she?"
"She's from the reservation, but not local. No."
"So how did they recognize her?"
"How does anyone?"
"You didn't ask your deputy?"
"Are you questioning my methods now?" The words snapped from Dawes like a whip, a sudden crack in the calm façade.
He squared his shoulders, his stance echoing the stoic lines of the surrounding mesas.
"Sir..." Her voice trailed off, caught in the dry wind. She watched a hawk circle overhead.
"Because it sounds like you are." His voice was a low rumble, a distant storm threatening to break. "Like I can't handle my
own cases."
She held his gaze, noting the way his jaw tensed, the slight narrowing of his eyes. Rachel's thoughts churned like a river
after a storm—swift, relentless. She breathed in the desert heat.
"Your competence isn't on trial here," she said softly.
"Sounds like it is," he retorted, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
"Consider it... professional curiosity." Rachel kept her tone even, her face an unreadable mask honed by years of navigating
the terrain of law enforcement as both an insider and outsider. "You're the one who asked me here, and I'm starting to wonder
why. Clearly, I'm not welcome."
He scoffed, but said nothing.
Still, she could taste the acid of the sound.
Rachel's fingers traced the weathered wood of the sheriff station's railing, flakes of old paint crumbling under her touch.
The same hawk she'd spotted earlier cawed in the distance, its cry echoing across the vast, silent expanse that stretched behind
the squat building. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in strokes of orange and red—a beauty that seemed almost cruel in
its indifference to the sorrow etched into this place.
"Uncle," Rachel said, voice steady but low, "I know Remi was more than just a name in a case file to you."
Sheriff Dawes stood motionless.
"Remi..." he began, the name carrying a weight that seemed too heavy for just two syllables. "She was shot. From afar." He
turned, eyes seeking hers, and in them, she read a storm of anger and despair. "Like the others."
The words hung between them, a bridge over which neither could fully cross. Rachel nodded, her throat tight as she
processed the parallel threads tying Remi Dawes' death to the recent killings. She imagined the scene: a figure cloaked by
distance, a bullet traveling with lethal precision, a life extinguished before it even knew danger was near.
"Distance suggests a sniper," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
"Sniper," Sheriff Dawes echoed, his voice a dry leaf skittering across pavement. "Means nothing good for any of us."
"Shootings got a pattern," Dawes said, eyes not quite meeting hers. "Targets are native."
"But Kendra wasn't," Rachel countered, using the woman's fake name.
"Right... right. And she was a delivery driver?" His brow creased under the brim of his hat.
"Trucker," she clarified. Silence hung for a moment, tenuous as the last rays of sun clinging to the horizon.
Rachel reached into her pocket, fingers closing around cool metal. The bullet casing—a small thing, really, but heavy with
implication. She extended her hand, the item encased in a crime scene baggie, offering it to him. An olive branch; a piece of the
puzzle they both needed solved.
"Found this," she said, the words clipped.
Dawes' eyes flicked down to the casing, then back to her face. He took it, his touch a whisper against her skin. "I'll get it
tested."
"Thank you," she murmured. Trust was currency here, and she'd just made a deposit. But would it be enough?
"Who ID'd Anna?" she asked, her voice flat, eyes locked onto his.
Dawes shifted, the lines in his face deepening. "Wasn't easy with the damage," he said, stalling, his gaze drifting toward the
horizon where day bled into night.
"Who, Sheriff?"
"Kai." The name came out reluctantly, squeezed from his lips like it pained him to admit it. Which meant he knew there was
something more to the fact that his son had identified the dead woman. Was Anna a prostitute like Rachel guessed?
"Where can I find him?" She watched his Adam’s apple bob—a tell.
Dawes hesitated. "Rachel, he's off duty. This isn't—" He stopped, jaw working side to side.
"Time is a luxury we don't have." Her words cut through the air, sharp and cold.
"Kai won’t take kindly to being pressed now." Dawes' tone was a warning wrapped in concern. "Let it wait till morning."
"Can't." Her reply was immediate, instinctual. "He's at a bar? Right? The same as usual?"
"Rachel…" He began, but she was already turning away, thoughts racing.
"Wait till he's got a clear head," Dawes called after her.
She didn't respond, just kept walking. The gravel crunched beneath her boots, a steady rhythm against the drumming of
questions in her head. Kai. Anna. Connection? Each step was a countdown, each breath closer to an answer, or confrontation.
Sheriff Dawes receded behind her, a figure growing smaller in the twilight of both the day and their conversation.
The car door shut with a soft click, sealing the silence of the desert night around them. Inside, the heat of the day lingered,
trapped within the metal cocoon.
"Kai's at a bar," she said, sliding into the passenger seat. Her voice was level.
Ethan's eyebrows lifted, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "You sure we should do this now?"
"Positive." She locked eyes with him, her resolve clear.
He nodded once, sharply, and started the engine. The hum of it filled the space, mingling with the distant howl of a coyote.
 As they drove, Rachel watched the landscape blur past. Dust devils danced along the horizon, stirred up by invisible
currents. Her thoughts swirled like those tiny tempests. Kai. Kendra. Anna and Remi. A bullet casing that might point an
accusing finger.
"Expecting trouble?" Ethan’s voice cut through her reverie.
"Kai doesn't play nice." She kept her gaze fixed on the rearview mirror, watching the station disappear. "Especially not
when cornered."
"Great." His sarcasm was dry as the desert air. "I got a taste of that back on the road."
She nodded, tilting the brim of her hat and frowning through the windshield as Ethan drove. She turned her phone so she
could see the GPS line leading to Kai's favorite watering hole.
"Dawes say why Kai knew Anna's name?"
"No. Just said he did, and it took some doing to get that much."
Ethan frowned. "Not a good look. He called you in."
"Yeah. Because of Remi," Rachel said quietly. "And pressure from the rez. He wants the help, but can't admit it."
Ethan nodded, frowning through the windshield as they hastened, under the evening's eye, to confront a hostile deputy on his
home turf.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

The door of the Caddo Bar and Grill swung open with a creak that matched the aridity of the Texan night. The bar squatted
on the edge of the reservation like an old toad basking in the Texan heat. Its neon sign flickered, half-dead, a beacon for the lost
and the seeking. Rachel pushed through the swinging doors, her Ranger badge a heavy weight against her chest. The stench of
stale beer and sweat hit her like a palpable wave, carrying with it the raucous laughter of men who had long since surrendered
their sobriety to the night.
Kai sat at the bar, an island of disdain amidst a sea of drunken camaraderie. His dark hair was streaked with grease, and
tonight, it held feathers – eagle feathers, symbols of courage and spirit, now a mockery in the context of his inebriation. He
tossed back another shot, glass clinking, and his hand hovered near the holster at his hip, a viper coiled and ready to strike.
"Kai," she said, voice steady as a drumbeat.
He swiveled on his stool, eyes narrowing into slits. Rachel felt the weight of those eyes, the hostility pouring from him.
"Blackwood," he drawled, the name a sneer on his lips.
She kept her stance neutral, shoulders relaxed but alert. Her own hand itched toward her sidearm, but she resisted. This
was a battle of wits, not weapons.
"Long night?" The words came out crisp, devoid of warmth.
"Better now that you're here," Kai spat, irony lacing his tone. "Saves me the trouble of hunting you down."
Rachel ignored the bait. "Just here for answers, Kai."
"Answers," he scoffed, his fingers brushing the feathers in his hair—a taunt, a challenge. "You always were good at asking
questions, weren't you, Ranger?"
She did not rise to it. She kept her focus, even as the tension strung between them, a wire pulled taut enough to sing with
danger. Every line of Kai's body spoke of a readiness to erupt into violence; the air itself seemed to thrum with the anticipation
of it.
"Keep your hand away from that gun, Kai," Rachel warned, her voice low but carrying. A murmur rippled through the
deputies flanking their leader, a pack sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"Or what? You'll arrest me?" His chuckle was a bitter sound. "On my own land?"
"Let's not make this harder than it has to be."
The room held its breath. Kai's fingers danced closer to the gun, then away, like the flicker of a snake's tongue tasting the
air. The threat lay unspoken between them, but Rachel read it clear as day.
Ethan lingered behind her, a steady presence--watchful and waiting.
Rachel steadied her breath, the air heavy with the stench of cheap whiskey and old smoke. The bar's dim lights cast long
shadows, and in their dance, she saw her own reflection flicker in Kai's eyes.
"Kai," she began, her voice even, "how did you know Anna Longshadow?"
The clink of glass against wood punctuated her question as Kai swirled his drink, a lazy predator toying with his prey.
"Anna?" he drawled, his gaze never leaving hers. "Why? Miss her company?"
A single bead of sweat wound its way down Rachel's spine.
"Was she more than just an acquaintance?" Rachel pressed.
Kai leaned in, his breath reeking of alcohol and malice. "You really wanna go there, Ranger?"
She could feel Ethan at her side, a silent sentinel. Her pulse thrummed, a drumbeat urging caution.
"Cut the crap, Kai," she said, her voice a blade.
Then, sudden as a rattlesnake strike, Kai spat—a glob of disdain hitting the shine on Ethan's shoes. He chuckled darkly.
"Race traitor," he hissed, the words venomous, seething with contempt. "That what they call you now?"
Rachel's jaw clenched; the insult scraped across her resolve like barbed wire. The bar seemed to shrink, the walls inching
closer, trapping heat and hostility in suffocating proximity.
Ethan moved only slightly, the smallest shift away from the stain on the floor by his shoes, his face an unreadable mask. But
Rachel saw it—the tightness around his eyes, the hard set of his mouth.
"Stick to the point, Kai," she said, her voice low but edged.
Kai tossed back his drink, slamming the empty glass with a thud that threatened to echo into violence.
"Anna was nobody," he spat, the words sloppy with drink and scorn.
But Rachel heard the lie in his tone, saw the truth shimmering beneath the surface of his bravado. She had touched a nerve,
and she knew it. She held his gaze, unflinching, even as her mind raced.
"Was she more than a name to you, Kai?" Rachel pressed, her voice steady as a heartbeat.
Kai sneered, a cruel twist of lips beneath the feathers braided into his hair. "You think I'd waste my time on trash like that?"
"Did you share a bed with her?" The question hung between them.
"Your detective skills as dead as your folks, huh?" Kai's laugh was a jagged thing, cutting. "You couldn't find your own
shadow at high noon."
Every word was a barb, designed to provoke, to unravel. But Rachel refused to be baited. This was more than a drunken
deputy's taunts; it was a piece of the puzzle clenched tight in his fist.
"Answer the question, Kai." Her demand sliced through the noise of the bar, a clear note amidst the cacophony.
Ethan's hand twitched, almost imperceptibly, near the gun at his hip—a reminder of force restrained, of storms brewing
beneath his composed exterior.
"I don't owe you shit," he said.
"You recognized Anna. You were first on scene. I want to know about that," Rachel said quietly, her voice still restrained.
Kai's hand, slow and deliberate, slid toward the sheath at his side. The rasp of metal against leather sliced through the din
of the bar like a warning siren. His fingers wrapped around the bone handle of a knife, its blade catching the neon light in a
sinister glint.
"Enough talk," he growled.
Rachel's instincts screamed. Time stretched as Kai brandished the blade with a drunken swagger.
"Kai, don't be stupid," she said, voice low, eyes locked on the weapon.
The deputy, flushed with alcohol, stumbled to his feet, hand gripping the bone-handle knife. In one fluid motion, Rachel
sidestepped, her boot hooking around his ankle. He toppled like a felled tree, the thud of his body hitting the floor punctuating
the tension.
"Damn you, Blackwood!" Kai spat. He tried to rise, but she shoved him again. He was far too drunk to track her motions.
Good thing, too; she knew Kai was a dangerous fighter when sober.
Her hand closed around the deputy's dropped knife, the hilt familiar and cold. The other deputies, sobered by action,
pawed at their guns, eyes darting between Rachel and their downed comrade.
"Everyone just calm down," Ethan's voice commanded, steady as bedrock.
"Put it down, Blackwood," one deputy warned, the words edged with fear rather than authority.
"Or what?" Her tone was ice, challenge woven through the chill. "You'll shoot me for defending myself?"
"Nobody needs to get hurt," Ethan added, holding his hands up but ready for whatever came next.
"Stay out of this, white man," another deputy snarled, bitterness lacing his words.
Rachel's thoughts raced, heart thrumming against her ribs. She scanned the faces before her—men she had known since
childhood, now adversaries in a standoff that could end with blood on the sawdust floor.
Kai's face twisted, rage battling with the haze of alcohol even as he still sat on the floor, dazed. "You're all bark, no bite,
Blackwood."
"Keep pushing, see where it gets you," she replied, each syllable a hammer strike.
"Enough," Ethan said again, stronger this time. "We're leaving."
"Like hell, we are," Rachel countered under her breath, unwilling to abandon the trail as it warmed beneath her feet.
The stale scent of spilled beer and the tang of gun oil clung to the air as Rachel's gaze drilled into Kai's, the knife in her
hand a sharp reminder of the stakes. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs, a rhythm that matched the pulsing neon light from
the bar sign flickering outside.
"Kai," she began, steel lacing her tone, "we know Anna wasn't just some—"
"Shut it, Blackwood!" Kai spat, his lips curling over yellowed teeth.
A chuckle rolled through the deputies, but it cut short when one, an older deputy with more sense than liquor, spoke up, "He
knew her, alright. Saw her name on an old report... from Carlos Acosta's bust." His voice wavered, but the words hung heavy
and undeniable.
Kai stumbled to his feet, his hand flew out, fast as a snake, grabbing the deputy's collar. "You little snitch—" he hissed, but
the other man shook him off, defiant.
"Truth's truth," the deputy said, standing taller. "Anna Longshadow was working for Acosta. Everyone knows."
"Who is Carlos Acosta?" Rachel said.
The question hung in the air, tension building as the deputies exchanged wary glances.
"Tell me," Rachel demanded, her voice unwavering. "Who is Carlos Acosta?"
The older deputy sighed heavily, his weary eyes meeting Rachel's with a mix of resignation and exhaustion. "Acosta is a
small-time pimp. An asshole. About all."
"And how did Kai know Anna?" she asked.
But the deputy just shrugged, frowning and showing he disapproved of this question.
Kai was on his feet again, drinking at the bar once more, as if he'd almost forgotten their presence.
A pimp named Carlos Acosta linked to Anna, woven into the tapestry of crime she was unraveling. The pieces weren't
fitting yet, but they were there, edges jutting out, demanding attention. A pimp might have connections to a larger crime family.
Like the cartel, their dead trucker had participated in drug smuggling for.
"Working how?" she echoed, her question sharp as the blade she wielded.
 "Prostitute," Kai finally ground out, the word laden with disgust, directed not at the dead woman, but at Rachel herself.
"Thanks, deputy," Rachel said coldly, eyes not leaving Kai's. "You've been most helpful."
She stepped back slowly, the threat of violence receding but never vanishing, like the desert heat that lingered long after the
sun dipped below the horizon. Her fingers relaxed around the knife handle, but her alertness did not wane. She cataloged the
room, the positions of the deputies, the distance to the door.
Kai was drinking again, emptying another shot glass.
He was sniffing and pretending as if Rachel and Ethan weren't worth his time.
His back was to them now.
She knew it was a dangerous thing to have humiliated Kai Dawes in front of his fellow deputies, but she had a job to do,
and his hostility was only causing difficulty.
She turned away from him now, moving double time back towards the door.
Ethan followed after her.
In a low voice, he said, "Kai was definitely sleeping with her. No doubt."
She shrugged. "Doesn't mean he killed her."
"So we're looking into this Carlos guy?"
"Should do."
She paused in the doorway, pushing open the frame and then stepping out into the dark night. She looked up at Ethan,
studying him. "So..." she said softly, "we wanna go talk to a pimp tonight or in the morning?"
Ethan glanced up at the night sky, which had hastily darkened.
The stars twinkled above them, their light barely penetrating the veil of darkness that blanketed the reservation. Ethan
weighed the options.
"Tonight," Ethan finally answered, his voice laced with a hint of trepidation. "We can't afford to waste any more time. The
longer we wait, the more chances Acosta has to cover his tracks."
 CHAPTER EIGHT

The engine's hum died as Rachel cut the ignition, plunging the interior of their unmarked sedan into silence. She peered out
into the Texas night, a cloak of darkness enveloping the rural landscape. Beside her, Ethan shifted, his hand instinctively
brushing the holster at his hip.
"Looks like nobody's home," Ethan murmured, his gaze following hers to the squat ranch house ahead, desolate and dark
against the star-pricked sky.
"Or Carlos is pretending not to be," Rachel countered, her voice low and even. Her sharp eyes scanned the perimeter,
noting how the moonlight spilled over the barren yard, casting long, treacherous shadows.
"Could be."
"Could be," she acknowledged. Her fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the steering wheel, the only outward sign of her
unease.
"Let's not keep them waiting then," Ethan said, a hint of dry humor in his voice.
"Quietly," she reminded him, her hand now resting on the door handle.
They slipped out of the car, boots whispering over the dust and gravel. Rachel's senses were on high alert, every inch the
Texas Ranger bred for moments like this. The desert air was cool, carrying with it the scent of sagebrush and anticipation.
Suddenly, she went still, her hand shooting out to catch Ethan's arm. He stopped moving, following her gaze. She pointed,
her eyes picking out motion in the shadows as two figures moved with intent through the patchy light cast by the half-moon.
They were circling the backyard, their patrol measured and methodical. Their presence was an anomaly, a disturbing variable
in an otherwise still tableau.
"Two guards," Rachel noted, her voice barely audible. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of them, the casual way
they held their firearms, an undercurrent of threat in their relaxed postures. They hadn't spotted the rangers yet, as their eyes
were fixated on the desert backdrop leading away from the house.
"Armed," Ethan added, his tone matching hers in its softness. He leaned closer, just enough for their shoulders to brush—a
silent exchange of solidarity.
Together, they edged forward, their bodies taut with readiness. The desert stretched around them, silent witness to the
unfolding drama.
The night was a cloak, and they its shadows. Rachel and Ethan moved with the precision of practice, their steps muffled by
the desert's embrace. The moon, an impartial observer, offered scant light, but it was enough for eyes trained to seek the
hidden.
"Left side, keep low," Rachel whispered, her gaze locked on the oblivious gunmen. Her pulse was a rhythm set to the tempo
of danger. Every sense sharpened the way it always did when the hunt neared its end.
"Got it," Ethan murmured back, his silhouette a ghost flitting from shadow to shadow. They were close now, the distance
between predator and prey dwindling with each silent stride.
A crunch of gravel under a boot—hers. Rachel froze, breath held. The gunman nearest turned, head cocking. Seconds
stretched, taut as a wire. He stood along the side of the ranch house, his shadow cast against the siding. Then he shrugged,
dismissing the sound as a trick of the night wind.
"Careless," she chastised herself silently, the error chafing at her professionalism. But there was no time for self-reproach;
there was only the mission.
"Go," she breathed out, the word a signal. In unison, they sprang, two specters converging on an unsuspecting target.
Rachel’s body was coiled spring, releasing. She tackled the closer gun-toting shadow, her tackle surgical, precise. His
grunt of surprise was muffled by the ground they met, her weight atop him ensuring silence.
"Stay down," she hissed, authority ironclad. The man beneath her stilled, the fight leeching from him as swiftly as it had
arisen.
Ethan's weapon was steady, the muzzle a promise of finality against the temple of the second gunman.
"Drop it," Ethan's command was steel, non-negotiable. The gun clattered to earth, obedience immediate.
"Good choice," he said, a whisper of dark amusement in his tone.
"Clear," Rachel confirmed, her voice low, victory a bitter taste. One piece moved on the board, the game far from done.
"Same," Ethan returned, cuffing the subdued man with practiced ease.
"Carlos?" she questioned, the name a snarl within her mind.
Ethan compared the faces of the two gunmen to the photo on his phone.
"Negative," he shot back.
Once the two men were cuffed, secured, Rachel moved towards the front door to the ranch house.
The door groaned, a reluctant participant as Rachel eased it open. The black of the Texas night clung to the corners of the
room, but it was another darkness that greeted her—a growl, low and rumbling, birthed from shadows.
 "Stay back," she whispered over her shoulder, the command for Ethan, the warning for herself. Muscle memory coiled
within her, every sense sharpening. Her eyes traced the outline of the pitbull, muscles corded beneath short fur, its stance
predatory.
"Easy, boy," she murmured, voice steady despite the pounding of her heart against her ribs. Feral eyes locked onto hers, a
silent challenge issued.
Her fingers brushed a plastic bag, rustling whispers atop the kennel. Dog treats. She snatched the bag of treats from the
metal frame of the doorside kennel.
The dog was pacing back and forth, hackles raised, a growl emanating.
"Come on," she coaxed. The treat bag crinkled, a sound promising solace. She tossed one near the enclosure, the morsel a
fleeting comet across the linoleum.
The dog hesitated, battle waged between instinct and hunger. Then, a step taken, a decision made. Another treat tossed.
One more toss, the prize skittering into the kennel.
"Go on," she urged, an edge of encouragement now. The growls softened, curiosity piqued. With a lumbering gait, the
pitbull followed, lured by the scent of compliance.
"Gotcha," she exhaled as the animal crossed the threshold. She swung the kennel door shut, the click of the latch a minor
triumph in the night.
Rachel's gaze flitted over peeling wallpaper.
"Carlos!" Her voice cleaved the stillness, urgent, demanding.
Nothing.
She glanced back through the door where her partner stood by the the two cuffed men.
Ethan's eyes met hers, a mirror of consternation. She gave a small shake of her head, then continued deeper into the house.
Each room whispered abandonment, furniture ghosts under moonlight spilling through cracked blinds.
She skimmed her fingers across the dusty mantle. The house was empty.
No sign of the pimp.
She cursed, doing a final sweep and then retreating back out of the hall and into the night. Ethan greeted her with a
concerned look.
"One talked," Ethan said quickly, nudging one of the cuffed men who grunted in protest.
"And?"
"ATV. Carlos took off." He waved a hand towards the rear of the house where the gunmen had been looking when the
rangers had first arrived.
"Desert?" Her mind raced, pieces aligning into escape routes and hideouts.
"Through the backyard. Into the dark." Ethan's hand sweeping towards the back window, a gesture encompassing the
unknown.
"Son of a—" Rachel cut herself off, frustration boiling into focus. Her brain ticked, thoughts fast as gunshots.
"Backup?" She already knew the answer.
"En route."
"Then we're not waiting." Determination was a pulse in her veins. Carlos had a head start, but she had resolve.
The desert's chill sidled through Rachel's jacket as she keyed her radio. "This is Ranger Rachel Blackwood, requesting
immediate backup at the Acosta residence. Two in custody; suspect on the loose."
"Copy that, Ranger. Units en route," crackled the dispatcher's voice.
"Garage," Ethan murmured, breaking her reverie. She followed him, senses heightened. The door groaned open, revealing a
cavernous space, shadows nestled within shadows. Moonlight trickled through a dirty window, illuminating dust motes that
danced like specters.
"Over there." Ethan's voice pulled her to a hulking shape shrouded in darkness. As they approached, the outline became
clear—an ATV, its black frame hunched like a sleeping beast.
"Same tracks," Ethan observed, pointing to tire prints in the dirt, a breadcrumb trail waiting to be followed.
"Once backup arrives..." Ethan let the sentence dangle, knowing she'd fill in the blanks.
"We hunt," she finished, her words a vow etched in the night air.
Ethan crouched beside the ATV, running his fingers along its contours. "Built for rough terrain. I think I can drive it."
Rachel watched him, noting the fluidity of his movements—measured, familiar. The desert night clung to their skin, a cool
shroud that seemed to tighten with each passing second.
"Same mechanics?" she asked, her voice threading through the quiet.
"Pretty much." Ethan tapped the ATV's side. "Throttle here, brakes there. Just imagine you're gliding on ice, except it's sand
and rock beneath us."
She nodded, picturing the chase, the ATV kicking up plumes of dust as they thundered after Carlos.
"Got your message," came the static-tinged reply from her radio, jolting her back. She turned to see a police vehicle hastily
pulling up the road towards where the two men were cuffed. One of the cops had a radio raised, visible through his
windshield.
"Listen," Rachel said into the device, her thumb pressing the button with conviction. "We found an ATV. We're going to use
it to track Mr. Acosta. Need someone to babysit those two."
"Copy that," crackled the response. "Be careful out there."
"Always are," she muttered, clipping the radio back onto her belt. Her gaze fixed on the tire prints again, those serpentine
tracks weaving into darkness, taunting them to follow.
The door of the police vehicle opened then closed with a loud thud.
Ethan stood, dusting off his hands. "Once we're out there," he started, pausing to lock eyes with her, "it's just us and the
night."
She didn't hesitate, wheeling the machine out of the garage, in the direction the tire treads of the second machine which no
longer occupied the garage had gone.
The desert sprawled before them, a vast canvas of shadows and moonlit dunes. Blue and red lights splashed over the scene
as local PD took control of the two gunmen.
"Ready?" Ethan's voice cut through her focus, low and steady. He straddled the front of the vehicle now, twisting at his
waist to double-check she was comfortable.
"Let's do this," she replied, climbing onto the ATV behind him. Her hands gripped the side rails, the metal cold and
unyielding beneath her fingers.
Ethan revved the engine, a growl that echoed off the walls of the night. Dust billowed around them as they edged forward,
the beams of the headlights cutting a swath through the gloom.
"East," Rachel murmured, leaning to the right as she spotted the faint but distinct tread marks in the sand. "He went East."
"Got it." Ethan veered the ATV, tires churning the earth as they picked up speed. The desert air rushed past them, a torrent
of whispers and hisses.
Rachel's thoughts narrowed to a razor's edge. She could almost feel Carlos ahead of them, the desperation that must be
clawing at his insides knowing they were on his trail. She focused, scouring the ground for signs—displaced stones, crushed
shrubs, the betraying pattern of tire tracks.
How had Carlos known they were coming?
Her mind moved to Kai, and she felt a lingering suspicion that she couldn't quite discard.
"Slower," she instructed, tapping Ethan's shoulder. "There." She pointed to where the tracks swerved suddenly, a desperate
zigzag. "He's panicking."
"Good," Ethan said, throttling back. His silhouette was tense, a coiled spring.
The ATV skittered over a rocky patch, jostling them violently. Rachel gritted her teeth, muscles bracing with each jolt. They
were close; she could feel it in her bones.
"North," she called out, spotting a clearer path, a straight shot towards the unknown.
"North it is," Ethan confirmed, banking left with practiced ease.
Every passing second was a drumbeat, a ticking clock in Rachel's head. Each grain of sand they disturbed, a step closer to
their quarry. The chase was on.
 CHAPTER NINE

The engine of the ATV grumbled and shuddered beneath Rachel and Ethan as they scythed through the desert night,
following Carlos' trail. The night draped the Texas desert in a cloak of obscurity, pierced only by the sporadic dance of stars
twinkling like distant beacons. The air was thick with the scent of creosote bush, that tang of rainless clouds lingering on the
edge of consciousness. A coyote's howl shattered the stillness, its mournful song a testament to the vast emptiness stretching out
in all directions.
"Keep your eyes peeled," Ethan called over the growl of the ATV engine, the headlights cutting a swathe through the
darkness ahead.
Rachel nodded, though he couldn't see her. She gripped the side of the vehicle, feeling the churn of wheels against the
rugged terrain through the palms of her hands. Every jolt sent a jarring vibration up her arms, setting her nerves on edge. This
wasn't just another chase; it felt like a prelude to something more, a crescendo building in the quiet desert night.
Her mind raced, thoughts swirling like the dust devils she knew would come at dawn, but now there was only the relentless
pursuit, the hunt for a man who had become their ghost in the night.
"Anything?" Ethan's voice was barely above the hum of the motor.
"Nothing yet." Rachel kept her response terse, her eyes scanning the horizon where land met sky in an indistinguishable
line. Anticipation clawed at her, a mix of adrenaline, training and ancestral instinct.
The moon, a cold silver coin against the velvet expanse, cast an otherworldly glow on the desert. Shadows pooled in the
crevices of the arid land, turning each rock and shrub into potential cover—or threats. Rachel's eyes, sharp as a hawk's,
scanned the terrain with methodical precision.
"Stop," she hissed, her hand gripping Ethan's shoulder with urgency.
He cut the engine, and the abrupt silence fell like a shroud around them. The sudden lack of movement was disorienting, the
stillness unnatural after the relentless vibration of the ATV. The desert was alive with sounds—the distant rattle of a snake, the
rustle of small creatures scurrying for cover, the soft whisper of sand shifting under the caress of the night breeze. It was an
ensemble of survival.
"Over there." Rachel pointed towards a patch of darkness where the moonlight seemed to ricochet off something unseen.
Ethan followed her gesture, squinting into the night. "You see him?"
"No. But that—" She stepped off the vehicle, boots crunching softly on the coarse ground, "—that's not just rocks."
They approached together, low and silent, the gap closing until the glimmer revealed itself—a discarded can, the metal
worn but catching light like a beacon for their trained eyes.
"Could be someone else's trash," Ethan murmured, but doubt laced his words.
"Or unintentional breadcrumbs," Rachel countered, her voice taut with the thread of possibility.
She straightened, surveying the path ahead. It snaked into darkness, a treacherous ribbon flanked by a battalion of cacti
standing sentinel. Then, she saw it—a deviation in the dust, a slight impression that beckoned.
"Look." She gestured. "The trail splits."
Ethan stood beside her, his gaze tracing the divergence. "Damn, nice eye. He's on foot now."
"Which way?" Her own question hung between them, heavy with implication.
"Through the cacti. Can't take the ATV."
"But where..." Ethan trailed off as Rachel pointed.
And now they were both staring at the parked ATV hidden in the shadows of the jutting cacti.
Rachel's senses are heightened by the thrill of the chase. The desert wind whispered, urging her forward.
Carefully, Rachel placed her hand on the hood of the ATV, feeling the residual heat beneath her fingertips. The engine had
only recently been turned off.
"He's close," she murmured.
Her eyes scanned the sand at her feet, her ears perked, listening for any nearby sounds.
Rachel's boots sunk softly into the sand with each step. Her eyes strained in the dark, trying to keep track of Carlos'
movements, and then she saw it—the faint outline of a boot print, half-eroded by the shifting sands but unmistakable in its form.
"Here," she breathed, squatting to trace the edges.
"Sure?" Ethan's voice was a low rumble beside her.
"Positive." Rachel's conviction stemmed from years of tracking, of learning to read the earth as one would a book.
They moved forward, their bodies low, slipping through the night. The desert seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the
denouement of this silent pursuit.
"Keep to the rocks," Rachel instructed tersely. "Less disturbance of the trail."
"Copy that," Ethan replied, mirroring her movements.
The gulley loomed ahead, a scar in the earth's flesh, its walls tinged with hues of orange and crimson by the moon's ethereal
glow. They approached with the caution of predators wary of becoming prey, every sense straining against the stillness.
"Could be watching us right now," Ethan mused, his hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun.
"Then let's not disappoint," Rachel said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her mind raced with the anticipation of
confrontation.
As the gulley drew near, they paused, crouching behind a cluster of boulders.
The ridge offered a panoramic view of desolation, the moonlight casting eerie shadows over the jagged terrain. Rachel’s
gaze cut through the night, sharp and searching. Below, nestled in a hollow, squatted a small trailer that someone had managed
to drag out to the desolate location.
The trailer and the smoke spewing from the chimney did little to hide the intention of this place. A meth cook shack—a
malignant growth on the desert's skin.
Rachel's fingers instinctively touched the cold steel of her sidearm, comfort in its presence. The scent of creosote bush
mingled with the electric tension in the air, a harbinger of the storm to come.
Ethan scanned the ramshackle structure with binoculars, his eyes flicking from window to window. "Carlos might be down
there."
"Too many blind spots," she whispered back, her mind constructing a maze of danger within the walls of that distant hovel.
A glint of light caught her eye—a reflection, a warning. Someone in the window. Her eyes widened, and she flung herself at
Ethan, knocking him back. Time slowed as a bullet tore through the silence, a silver streak intent on destruction. Instinct and
adrenaline surged as she jerked left, the projectile grazing the fabric of her jacket, whispering death as it passed.
"Sniper!" Ethan hissed, pulling her down. Grains of sand sprayed against her cheek as another shot followed, embedding
into the rock where her arm had been seconds before.
"Close," she breathed out, the realization cold in her veins.
"Let's not make it easy for him," Ethan replied, already mapping their next move.
Together, they shuffled backward, away from the ledge, their bodies low. Every sense sharpened, anticipating another shot,
another brush with mortality.
Gunshot reports rippled through the night in the barren desert. Rachel's pulse hammered in her ears, each beat echoing the
blasts that punctuated the stillness. She kept low, muscles coiled, ready to spring.
"Alive, Ethan," she breathed out, the words slicing through the cacophony. "We need Carlos breathing."
"Got it," he grunted back, his eyes flinty as he peeked around their scant cover—a stubborn boulder jutting from the earth.
They moved as one, a dance they'd rehearsed in countless scenarios, never with stakes this high. He signaled, three fingers
then two, and on one, they emerged. Rachel's weapon, an extension of her will, found its mark. The RV's window exploded in
spider webs of fractured glass as she squeezed the trigger.
"Left side!" Ethan called his own gunfire a staccato accompaniment to hers.
She shifted, heart racing, her focus narrowing to the slivers of movement—the gleam of metal, the shadow of a head. Dust
kicked up around them, mingling with the sharp scent of gunpowder.
Their cover wasn't meant to last. A bullet chipped the edge of the stone, a stark reminder. She could feel Ethan's urgency
matching her own.
"Suppressing fire on my go," she instructed, voice a low growl of intent. "Three... two..."
Ethan's hand clamped on her arm—an anchor in the chaos. "Now!"
They erupted from their haven, guns blazing, sending a hail of defiance towards the RV. The night air shattered with each
round.
"Keep pressure," she commanded, reloading with swift precision. "Two gunmen in the RV. Another is behind the structure--
he's hiding."
"See him!"
"Go!" she said as she began moving down the ridge, away from the boulder, towards the cook shack.
"Covering!" Ethan's response was immediate, his shots deliberate, buying her the precious seconds needed.
Rachel's pulse thrummed in her ears, syncing with the rapid-fire exchange of gunfire. Amidst the venomous dance of bullet
trails and muzzle flashes, her gaze snagged on the glint of a metal canister set beside the ramshackle meth lab—a propane tank.
Even as she moved, keeping low, and staying out of line of sight from the windows, her focus narrowed. She steadied her
breathing, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The report of her sidearm was lost in the cacophony, but its effect was immediate
and explosive.
The gas tank erupted, a fireball clawing skyward, searing the night. A man was sent sprawling, silhouetted against the
sudden inferno. Disoriented shouts pierced the ringing in Rachel's ears. She didn't waste a heartbeat.
"Move!" she barked, vaulting forward, and scrambling down the rock-strewn incline.
Ethan was right there with her, a fluid shadow mirroring her actions. A second man came stumbling out of the meth lab,
screaming and batting at flames on his arm. This man spotted them, cursed, and then he reached for his weapon—a fatal
mistake. She was on him a second later, and Rachel's boot connected with his hand, sending the gun skittering across the sand.
 "Stay down!" she commanded, her tone brooking no argument as her knee pinned his arm to the ground.
"Clear!" Ethan called out simultaneously, having dispatched the second with practiced efficiency; two shots to the chest.
The man behind the trailer had been attempting to sneak towards them, and now she spotted him bleeding on the ground, arms
splayed, red seeping into the sand.
The desert night was ablaze with the aftermath. Shadows danced on the sandstone as firelight licked the sky. Rachel's eyes
were sharp, tracking past the orange glow to where a figure darted—a wraith in the chaos. A man had climbed out the rear
window of the trailer.
"Carlos!" she hissed.
Ethan swung toward her line of sight, weapon raised, but she was already moving, muscles coiled with intent.
"Cover me!" She didn't wait for a reply; their rhythm was beyond words now.
Sand crunched beneath her boots as she sprinted to the ATV, its engine still warm from their recent arrival. The keys
dangled from the ignition, a taunt. In one fluid motion, she mounted the vehicle, her fingers wrapping around the keys and
twisting them with an ease. It wasn't the same as riding a horse--something she far preferred, but The ATV roared to life, a
beast awakened, its headlights piercing through the swirling dust and smoke.
The ATV surged forward, jolting beneath her as she navigated the treacherous path down into the gulley. Each bounce, each
jostle, she absorbed with the resilience born from years of training, honing her body to be as relentless and unforgiving as the
Texas landscape she called home.
Carlos was a shadow flitting between the cacti, his desperation palpable even at a distance. But Rachel was a force of
nature herself.
The ATV's engine growled beneath her, a feral soundtrack to the hunt. Sand sprayed behind her wheels as she pushed the
machine to its limits, closing the gap between predator and prey with each thunderous heartbeat thudding in her chest.
"Come on, come on," she coaxed, urging more speed from the ATV as Carlos’ silhouette grew larger against the backdrop
of the star-studded sky.
Her hand tightened on the throttle, fingers steady despite the adrenaline that coursed through her veins. She knew the land,
could read it like the lines etched into the palms of her hands.
Carlos glanced back, his eyes wide with the fear of a cornered animal. Rachel saw it, felt a surge of grim satisfaction. He
knew he was running out of desert to run through.
"End of the line, Carlos!" Her voice tore through the night air.
The pimp veered suddenly, aiming for a narrow passage between two rock formations, but Rachel anticipated the move.
She was upon him then, the distance between them erased by her relentless chase. With a deft maneuver, she pulled
alongside him, reaching out to grab hold of his jacket. They tumbled together in the sand, a whirlwind of limbs and desperation.
"Gotcha," she breathed out, pinning him beneath her.
 CHAPTER TEN

The clock inside the unmarked sedan read midnight, its neon glare a beacon in the oppressive darkness of the deserted
parking lot. Rachel squinted through the windshield at the reservation sheriff's office, an unassuming building that looked more
like a fortress under the harsh cast of the floodlights. Beside her, Ethan's silhouette was rigid, his fingers drumming a silent
rhythm on the steering wheel.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice betraying none of the unease that knotted her insides. She glanced into the rearview mirror,
where Carlos was glaring sullenly at them. The man's teardrop tattoo quivered on his cheek, and his dark features were twisted
into a permanent scowl.
"Let's get this over with," Ethan replied, his tone as taut as the air between them. His reservations had nothing to do with
their suspect, but rather everything to do with the reservation police force.
He knew he wasn't welcome, and the two of them could sense the hostility emanating from the cold concrete of the structure
itself.
They exited the vehicle, the sound of gravel crunching beneath their boots breaking the hush of the night. The frigid
welcome, earlier, from the reservation cops hung thick in the atmosphere, an invisible barrier that made every step towards the
entrance feel like wading through treacle. Yet they pressed on, bound by duty and the weight of the silver badges affixed to
their belts.
Rachel's hand hovered near her holster, comforted by the presence of her service weapon, even as her mind echoed with
warnings to tread lightly. This was not their turf, and the reservation police were a proud force, fiercely protective of their
autonomy.
"Keep your eyes open," she murmured to Ethan. He merely nodded, his gaze scanning the surroundings, alert for any sign of
trouble.
They reached the back seat where Carlos sat, shackled and sullen under the dim dome light. With a practiced motion, Ethan
opened the door and pulled Carlos out, his hand securing a tight grip on the suspect's arm. Carlos stumbled slightly, his legs
unsteady after the long drive, but he recovered quickly, his face a mask of defiance.
"Move," Ethan commanded, pushing the pimp forward with a firm hand. His voice was low, but it carried—the sound of
authority that demanded obedience.
Rachel followed, her senses heightened, her mind running through the questions they needed answers to. Anna
Longshadow's name whispered in her thoughts, a ghostly refrain that spurred her determination. She and Ethan moved as one.
As they approached the glass doors of the sheriff's office, she half-expected them to be barred, the reservation officers to
confront them with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. But there was no such reception. The doors swung open with ease, a
silent invitation into the belly of the beast.
The stillness of the lobby unnerved her, the absence of resistance leaving her braced for a confrontation that did not come.
It was as if the building itself held its breath, watching, waiting.
"Let's find an interrogation room," Ethan said, his voice barely above a whisper yet clear in the void.
"Right behind you," Rachel assured, her eyes never leaving Carlos, who trudged ahead, the metallic clink of his cuffs
punctuating the silence.
The click of the secretary's keyboard halted as Rachel and Ethan entered, her eyes flicking up to meet theirs. She assessed
them with a cool detachment that bordered on suspicion. "Interrogation room?" Rachel asked, her voice steady despite the
tension coiling in her gut.
"Down the hall," the secretary replied, rising from her desk. The dim light caught the lines of distrust etched into her face.
Her steps were measured, echoing off the walls as she led them through a narrow corridor. The woman's silver and aquamarine
earrings swayed with each step she took.
"Here." The secretary's hand lingered on the doorknob before she pushed it open and stepped aside.
"Thank you," Ethan murmured, though his gratitude seemed to dissipate in the charged silence.
They entered, Carlos shuffling between them, his head bowed. The room was a stark cube, the walls barren. A single bulb
dangled from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows over the steel table bolted to the floor.
"Have a seat," Ethan instructed, nudging Carlos toward one of the chairs.
Rachel's gaze swept the room, noting the video camera in the corner—its red light a silent sentinel. She felt the absence of
warmth, the deliberate sterility designed to unnerve. Her skin prickled, the chill of the room seeping into her bones.
"Ready?" Ethan's eyes met hers, a glint of resolve mirrored in his expression.
They positioned themselves across from Carlos, their figures rigid, authoritative. She could hear the subtle grind of Ethan's
jaw, the quiet rustle of Carlos shifting in his seat.
"Carlos," Ethan began, his tone devoid of any inflection that might betray their urgency. "We need to talk about Anna
Longshadow."
 The mention of the name hung between them, a specter of truth. Rachel watched Carlos' reaction, the way his fingers
tightened around the edge of the table. It spoke volumes more than words could, confirming suspicions without a confession.
"Never heard of her," Carlos said, but his eyes darted away, a brief flicker betraying his lie.
"Let's not waste time," Rachel cut in, her words sharp as shards of glass. "We know she worked for you."
"I don't know any Anna," he replied, his voice a hollow echo against concrete walls.
Ethan circled behind Carlos, a silent predator. His fingers drummed a staccato on the cold metal table, the sound jarring in
the stillness. Rachel watched Carlos's eyes flicker to follow Ethan's movement, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his
temple.
"Strange," Rachel mused aloud, the pieces clicking into place in her head. "Because we have sources that say otherwise."
"Sources lie," Carlos shot back, but his voice held a tremor.
"Sources like the girls working the truck stops? Or the ones walking the casino floors at night?" Ethan's question hung in the
air, sharp and accusing.
"Look, I run a business, okay?" Carlos's facade cracked, a fissure in the dam.
"Anna was part of your 'business,' wasn't she?" Rachel pushed, feeling the anticipation coil in her gut.
Carlos's silence was answer enough, his gaze fixed on a crack in the floor. It was a confession etched in the lines of his
face, the slump of his shoulders.
"Anna was one of your girls," Ethan stated, flat and unyielding.
Carlos finally met Rachel's eyes, a storm of defiance and resignation within their depths. "Says who?" he demanded, his
accent growing thicker as he issued defiance.
"Says the cops," she replied.
"You're a reservation girl, ain't ya?" Carlos said. "But you?" he glanced at Ethan, and wrinkled his nose.
"We're not here to talk about me," Ethan retorted.
Rachel sat slowly in one of the metal chairs, leaning back and studying the man across the table from under the brim of her
hat. It was nearly midnight, and she could feel exhaustion pawing at her.
The table was an island in a sea of shadows, and Carlos sat hunched over it like a gravestone weathered by years of
rigidity.
"Anna," Rachel began, her voice slicing through the tense air, "tell us about Anna."
"You think repeating a name will help me know her more? I don't. Never known any Anna."
"Ever?" Ethan said, snorting.
"Okay, Carlos," Rachel interjected, her voice dripping with a mix of frustration and sarcasm. "Let's try a different approach
then. How about we talk about the girls you do know? The ones you exploit for your own gain."
Carlos smirked, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Exploit? These girls come to me willingly. They know what
they're getting into."
Rachel leaned forward, her eyes locked onto Carlos's. "Do they really? Or are they vulnerable young women desperate for
a way out? Desperate enough to fall into your trap?"
"I provide a service," Carlos retorted, his voice tinged with irritation. "These girls make good money under my protection."
"Protection?" Ethan scoffed. "Or just another word for control?"
Carlos bristled at the accusation, his fists clenching involuntarily. "I protect them from pimps who would treat them worse
than I do."
Ethan's nostrils flared with anger as he leaned forward, palms flat on the table, "Don't you dare pretend like what you do is
noble. Exploiting vulnerable young women for your own profit is nothing short of despicable."
"I don't see anyone complaining," Carlos shot back defiantly.
"That's because they don't have a choice!" Ethan's voice rose, echoing through the stark room. "You manipulate them, prey
on their fears and vulnerabilities until they feel like they have no other option but to stay under your control."
Rachel frowned at her partner.
He caught her glance, and leaned back again, going quiet.
She rarely saw Ethan this emotional in an interrogation setting, but he'd always been a protective sort. Growing up in a
large family, she wondered if he thought about his sisters... what he'd do if anyone exploited them.
But Rachel was far more practical in a sense. They needed the truth from Carlos, and lecturing him wasn't going to help.
"So how come Anna was listed in payments made by you," she said simply. "Anna had your number in her phone."
Carlos hesitated, swallowed once. "Oh... Anna? Yeah... yeah, I mean, maybe... A lot of girls work for me."
Ethan was still glaring, but Rachel spoke before he could start berating their suspect again. "Anna Longshadow is dead,"
she said simply.
She stated it bluntly, without sugar-coating, wanting to see his reaction.
The killer wouldn't be surprised.
But for now, if Carlos was innocent, then there was a chance he didn't know what had happened to Anna.
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boxes and trays full of little glass eyes, and glue pots and bits of wax
and bits of leather, and a small red pipkin for melting wax, and
another for melting India rubber, and a broken teacup for varnish,
and several tiny, round bladders, and tiny, tin boxes, all full of things
very precious to Mr. Sprat in his business.
All the family worked at doll-making, and were very industrious. Mr.
Sprat was of course the great manager and doer of most things, and
always the finisher, but Mrs. Sprat was also clever in her department,
which was entirely that of the eyes. She either painted the eyes, or
else, for the superior class of dolls, fitted in the glass ones. She,
moreover, always painted the eyebrows, and was so used to it, that
she could make exactly the same sort of arch when it was late in the
evening and nearly dark, before candles were lighted. The eldest
boy painted hair, or fitted and glued hair on to the heads of the best
dolls. The second boy fitted half legs and arms together, by pegs at
the joints. The little girl did nothing but paint rosy cheeks and lips,
which she always did very nicely, though sometimes she made them
rather too red, and looking as if very hot, or blushing extremely.
Now Mr. Sprat was very ingenious and clever in his business as a
doll-maker. He was able to make dolls of various kinds, even of wax,
or of a sort of composition; and sometimes he did make a few of
such materials; but his usual business was to make jointed dolls—
dolls that could move their legs and arms in many positions—and
these were of course made of wood. Of this latter material I was
manufactured.
The first thing I recollect of myself was a kind of a pegging, and
pushing, and scraping, and twisting, and tapping down at both sides
of me, above and below. These latter operations were the fitting on
of my legs and arms. Then I passed into the hands of the most
gentle of all the Sprat family, and felt something delightfully warm
laid upon my cheeks and mouth. It was the little girl, who was
painting me a pair of rosy cheeks and lips; and her face, as she bent
over me, was the first object of life that my eyes distinctly saw. The
face was a smiling one, and as I looked up at it I tried to smile too,
but I felt some hard material over the outside of my face, which my
smile did not seem able to get through, so I do not think the little girl
perceived it.
 I Was So Frightened! I Thought He Would Break Something
Off Me!
But the last thing done to me was by Mr. Sprat himself, whose funny,
white face and round eyes I could now see. He turned me about and
about in his hands, examining and trying my legs and arms, which
he moved backwards and forwards, and up and down, to my great
terror, and fixed my limbs in various attitudes. I was so frightened! I
thought he would break something off me. However, nothing
happened, and when he was satisfied that I was a complete doll in
all parts, he hung me up on a line that ran along the room overhead,
extending from one wall to the other, and near to the two beams that
also extended from wall to wall. I hung upon the line to dry, in
company with many other dolls, both boys and girls, but mostly girls.
The tops of the beams were also covered with dolls, all of whom, like
those on the lines, were waiting there till their paint or varnish had
properly dried and hardened. I passed the time in observing what
was going on in the room under my line, and also the contents of the
room, not forgetting my numerous little companions, who were
smiling and staring, or sleeping, round about me.
Mr. Sprat was a doll-maker only; he never made doll’s clothes. He
said that was not work for an artist like him. So in about a week,
when I was properly dry, and the varnish of my complexion
thoroughly hardened and like enamel, Mr. Sprat took me down—
examined me all over for the last time—and then, nodding his head
to himself several times, with a face of seriousness and satisfaction,
as much as to say, ‘You are a doll fit in all respects for the most
polished society,’—he handed me to his wife, who wrapped me up in
silver paper, all but the head, and laying me in a basket among nine
others, papered up in the same way, she carried me off to a large
doll-shop not far from the corner of New Turnstile in High Holborn.
 CHAPTER II
MY FIRST MAMMA

I arrived safe at the doll-shop, and Mrs. Sprat took me out of the
basket with her finger and thumb, keeping all her other fingers
spread out, for fear of soiling my silver paper.
‘Place all these dolls on the shelf in the back parlor,’ said the master
of the shop. ‘I have no room yet for them in the window.’ As I was
carried to the shelf, I caught a glimpse of the shop-window! What a
bright and confused sensation it gave me! Everything seemed so
light and merry and numerous! And then, through all this crowd of
many shapes and colors, packed and piled and hanging up in the
window, I saw the crowds of large walking people passing outside in
the world, which was as yet perfectly unknown to me! Oh, how I
longed to be placed in the shop-window! I felt I should learn things
so fast, if I could only see them. But I was placed in a dark box,
among a number of other dolls, for a long time, and when I was
taken out I was laid upon my back upon a high shelf, with my rosy
cheeks and blue eyes turned towards the ceiling.
Yet I cannot say that the time I passed on this shelf was by any
means lost or wasted. I thought of all I had seen in Mr. Sprat’s room,
and all I had heard them talk about, which gave me many very
strange and serious thoughts about the people who lived in the world
only for the purpose, as I supposed, of buying dolls. The
conversation of Mr. Sprat with his family made me very naturally
think this; and in truth I have never since been quite able to fancy but
that the principal business of mankind was that of buying and selling
dolls and toys. What I heard the master of the shop in Holborn often
say helped to fix this early impression on my mind.
But the means by which I learned very much of other things and
other thoughts was by hearing the master’s little girl Emmy read
aloud to her elder sister. Emmy read all sorts of pretty books, every
word of which I eagerly listened to, and felt so much interested, and
so delighted, and so anxious and curious to hear more. She read
pretty stories of little boys and girls, and affectionate mammas and
aunts, and kind old nurses, and birds in the fields and woods, and
flowers in the gardens and hedges; and then such beautiful fairy
tales; and also pretty stories in verse; all of which gave me great
pleasure, and were indeed my earliest education. There was the
lovely book called ‘Birds and Flowers,’ by Mary Howitt; the nice
stories about ‘Willie,’ by Mrs. Marcett; the delightful little books of
Mrs. Harriet Myrtle,—in which I did so like to hear about old Mr.
Dove, the village carpenter, and little Mary, and the account of May
Day, and the Day in the Woods,—and besides other books, there
was oh! such a story-book called ‘The Good-natured Bear!’ But I
never heard any stories about dolls, and what they thought, or what
happened to them! This rather disappointed me. Living at a doll-
shop, and hearing the daughter of the master of such a wonderful
shop reading so often, I naturally expected to have heard more
about dolls than any other creatures! However, on the whole, I was
very well contented, and should have been perfectly happy if they
would only have hung me up in the shop-window! What I wanted
was to be placed in the bright window, and to look into the
astonishing street!
Soon after this, however, by a fortunate accident, I was moved to an
upright position with my back against a doll’s cradle, so that I could
look down into the room below, and see what was going on there.
How long I remained upon the shelf I do not know, but it seemed like
years to me, and I learned a great deal.
One afternoon Emmy had been reading to her sister as usual, but
this time the story had been about a great Emperor in France, who,
once upon a time, had a great many soldiers to play with, and whose
name was Napoleon Bonaparte. The master himself listened to this,
and as he walked thoughtfully up and down from the back room to
the shop in front, he made himself a cocked hat of brown paper, and
put it upon his head, with the corners pointing to each shoulder.
Emmy continued to read, and the master continued thoughtfully
walking up and down with his hands behind him, one hand holding
the other.
But presently, and when his walk had led him into the front shop,
where I could not see him, the shop-bell rang and Emmy ceased
reading. A boy had come in, and the following dialogue took place.
‘If you please, sir,’ said the voice of the boy, ‘do you want a nice
Twelfth-cake?’
‘Not particularly,’ answered the master, ‘but I have no objection to
one.’
‘What will you give for it, sir?’ said the boy.
‘That is quite another question,’ answered the master; ‘go about your
business. I am extremely engaged.’
‘I do not want any money for it, sir,’ said the boy.
‘What do you mean by that, my little captain?’ said the master.
‘Why, sir,’ said the boy, ‘if you please, I want a nice doll for my sister,
and I will give you this large Twelfth-cake that I have in paper here
for a good doll.’
‘Let me see the cake,’ said the master. ‘So, how did you get this
cake?’
‘My grandfather is a pastry-cook, sir,’ answered the boy, ‘and my
sister and I live with him. I went to-day to take home seven Twelfth-
cakes. But the family at one house had all gone away out of the
country, and locked up the house, and forgotten to send for the cake;
and grandfather told me that I and my sister might have it.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Thomas Plummy, sir; and I live in Bishopsgate street, near the
Flower Pot.’
‘Very well, Thomas Plummy; you may choose any doll you fancy out
of that case.’
Here some time elapsed; and while the boy was choosing, the
master continued his slow walk to and fro from one room to the
other, with the brown paper cocked hat, which he had forgotten to
take off, still upon his head. It was so very light that he did not feel it,
and did not know it was there. At last the boy declared he did not like
any of the dolls in the case, and so went from one case to another,
always refusing those the master offered him; and when he did
choose one himself, the master said it was too expensive. Presently
the master said he had another box full of good dolls in the back
room, and in he came, looking so grave in his cocked hat, and
beginning to open a long wooden box. But the boy had followed him
to the door, and peeping in, suddenly called out, ‘There, sir! that one!
that is the doll for my cake!’ and he pointed his little brown finger up
at me.
‘Aha!’ said the master, ‘that one is also too expensive; I cannot let
you have that.’
However, he took me down, and while the boy was looking at me
with evident satisfaction, as if his mind was quite made up, the
master got a knife and pushed the point of it into the side of the
cake, just to see if it was as good inside as it seemed to be on the
outside. During all this time he never once recollected that he had
got on the brown paper cocked hat.
‘Now,’ said the master, taking me out of the boy’s hand, and holding
me at arm’s length, ‘you must give me the cake and two shillings
besides for this doll. This is a young lady of a very superior make, is
this doll. Made by one of the first makers. The celebrated Sprat, the
only maker, I may say, of this kind of jointed dolls. See! all the joints
move—all work in the proper way; up and down, backwards and
forwards, any way you please. See what lovely blue eyes; what rosy
cheeks and lips; and what a complexion on the neck, face, hands,
and arms! The hair is also of the most beautiful kind of delicate light-
brown curl that can possibly be found. You never before saw such a
doll, nor any of your relations. It is something, I can tell you, to have
such a doll in a family; and if you were to buy her, she would cost
you a matter of twelve shillings!’
‘Sir,’ said he, ‘this is a Twelfth-cake of very superior make. If the
young lady who sits reading there was only to taste it, she would say
so too. It was made by my grandfather himself, who is known to be
one of the first makers in all Bishopsgate street; I may say the very
first. There is no better in all the world. You see how heavy it is; what
a quantity of plums, currants, butter, sugar, and orange and lemon-
peel there is in it, besides brandy and caraway comfits. See! what a
beautiful frost-work of white sugar there is all over the top and sides!
See, too, what characters there are, and made in sugar of all colors!
Kings and queens in their robes, and lions and dogs, and Jem Crow,
and Swiss cottages in winter, and railway carriages, and girls with
tambourines, and a village steeple with a cow looking in at the porch;
and all these standing or walking, or dancing upon white sugar,
surrounded with curling twists and true lover’s knots in pink and
green citron, with damson cheese and black currant paste between.
You never saw such a cake before, sir, and I’m sure none of your
family ever smelt any cake at all like it. It’s quite a nosegay for
Queen Victoria herself; and if you were to buy it at grandfather’s
shop, you would have to pay fifteen shillings and more for it.’
‘Thomas Plummy!’ said the master, looking very earnestly at the boy;
‘Thomas Plummy! take the doll, and give me the cake. I only hope it
may prove half as good as you say. And it is my opinion that, if you,
Thomas Plummy, should not happen to be sent to New South Wales
to bake brown bread, you may some day or other come to be Lord
Mayor of London.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the boy. ‘How many Abernethy biscuits will you
take for your cocked hat?’
The master instantly put his hand up to his head, looking so
confused and vexed, and the boy ran laughing out of the shop. At the
door he was met by his sister, who had been waiting to receive me in
her arms: and they both ran home, the little girl hugging me close to
her bosom, and the boy laughing so much at the affair of the cocked
hat that he could hardly speak a word all the way.
 CHAPTER III
TWELFTH-NIGHT

That evening little Ellen Plummy begged to go to bed earlier than

usual. She took me with her, and I had the great happiness of
passing the whole night in the arms of my first mamma.
The next morning, however, was the day before Twelfth-day, and
there were so many preparations to be made, and so many things to
do in the house, that the pastry-cook required the help of everybody
who could do anything at all; so he desired Ellen to put me in a box
till Twelfth-night was over, because he wanted her to sort small
cakes, and mix sugar-plums of different colors, and pile up sticks of
barley sugar, and arrange artificial flowers, and stick bits of holly with
red berries into cakes for the upper shelves of his shop-window.
I was, therefore, placed in a dark box in the bedroom, and lay there
thinking.
After I had gone over in my mind all that I had at present seen and
heard since I was a doll, I began to wonder how long this
confinement in the dark box would continue. The morning seemed
so very long. But twice my little mamma, Ellen, came creeping softly
upstairs, and ran and opened the box—took me out, gave me a kiss,
put me in again, shut the lid of the box, and downstairs she softly
tripped back, to continue her work. The afternoon was also terribly
long, and I saw nothing of mamma till about six in the evening, when
she came and took me out, and embraced me, and said, ‘Oh, you
dear doll! I shall come to put you to bed!’ and away she ran again.
About nine o’clock mamma came and took me out of my box. She
had contrived to find time in the course of the day to make, in a very
hasty manner, a little night-gown and night-cap for me, which she
immediately put on me, and then took me to bed with her as before.
Next morning was Twelfth-day, and I was again placed in the dark
box. Ellen had so much to do, that all this day she was quite unable
to come even once to take a peep at me. Oh, how long the dark day
was! and how tired I felt of it! However, I was obliged to be as patient
as I could and tried to amuse myself with my own thoughts and
recollections.
I called to mind the poor, dusky room where I was manufactured and
born, with its three beds upon the floor on one side, and the long
work-bench at the other, and all the strange shadows of the dolls
upon the walls by candle-light; dozens of funny shadows cast from
the dolls that hung upon the lines or stood upon the beams. And
when the candle was moved about, these shadows danced. I also
recollected many conversations that had taken place between the
celebrated Mr. Sprat and his wife, when the children were asleep
and the candle was out, as to how they should be able to afford an
apple-pie for dinner next Sunday week, which was the little man’s
birthday. Then I recollected the many cold dark nights, and days
almost as dull, which I had passed in the box at the doll-shop,
before, by a lucky accident, I was moved to an upright position on
the top of the shelf. After that I went over in my mind all the pretty
stories and other books that had been read by Emmy in the shop.
This made me happier; yet I could not forget the many dark days and
nights in the box. Nor did I consider my present condition better, and
felt sadly impatient at being thus shut up in a small box, and quite
alone besides, without another doll to whisper a word to.
I had just begun to get very sad when suddenly I heard the sound of
little feet tripping over the floor; the lid of my box was opened, and I
saw a beautiful fairy standing over me! I was taken out by a pair of
soft warm hands, and who should it be but my mamma, dressed all
in white, with silver bracelets, and roses in her hair, and a bit of most
beautiful violet tinsel stuck upon the breast of her frock! ‘Come!’ cried
she, clasping me in her arms, ‘come downstairs with me, you
poppet! you shall come with me, Maria, and see Twelfth-night.’
Out of the room she ran with me, and downstairs! The staircase was
all lighted with gas! I was going to see Twelfth-night! And I had that
instant been christened, and my name was Maria Poppet! Oh, how
delighted I felt! I tried to jump out of my mamma’s arms, I was so
pleased—but I could not; and this was fortunate, because perhaps I
could not have jumped back again. But I felt so happy!
She ran straight with me into the very shop itself—the fine front shop
with all the cakes! How shall I describe it? How shall I tell the effect it
had upon me? Oh, it is impossible. I fainted away.
When I came to my senses I found that my mamma had placed me
upright between two tall, round glass jars, one full of glittering barley-
sugar sticks twisted, and the other full of large sugar-plums of all
colors; and I was close behind the counter where she stood to serve.
I saw nothing else distinctly, my eyes were so dazzled, and so
indeed were all my senses. Amidst a blaze of gas, crowded with
immense cakes, the round, white sugar island of each being covered
with its extraordinary inhabitants, there was the front window in all its
glory! Scenes in eastern countries, with elephants and dromedaries
and great palm trees (the names of all which my mamma told me
afterwards), and negro people and tigers sitting under orange trees;
and scenes in northern countries, where all is snow and frost and tall
rocks of ice, and bears walking round broken ships; and scenes in
delightful countries, where the weather is so beautiful, and where
people play guitars and sing all day and half the night, too, in groves
and gardens; and scenes in many parts of England, where the fields
are so very green, and the daisies and buttercups in such thousands
and thousands; and wonderful scenes in no country ever yet
discovered, but which were all once to be seen in fairyland, if
anybody could find them; these and many more things were all upon
the tops of the large cakes in the lower part of the window, together
with sprigs of holly, oh, so full of bright red berries!—and here and
there shining blanc-mange and jellies in the shape of baskets of fruit
and flowers, and three round glass bowls full of gold and silver fish,
who constantly moved round, staring, with their noses pushing
against the glass, in imitation of a crowd of children outside the
shop-window, who were all staring and pushing their noses against
the glass in just the same way. There was a shelf which ran across
the middle of the window, close to the front, and this was also thick
with cakes of a smaller sort, and all covered with Twelfth-night
characters, in colored sugar; but what they were it was impossible to
see for the glitter of the beautiful barley-sugar sticks that were piled
up in round glass jars, across and across, and standing between the
cakes. There were also cakes on a top shelf, near the top of the
window, but here scarcely anything could be seen for the blaze of
the gas.
 The Old Gentleman, Pastry-Cook, and Great Cake-Maker
Himself!
In the shop itself there was continually a crowd coming in to buy
cakes or other things, for the counter was also covered with
delightful wonders, and the old gentleman pastry-cook and great
cake-maker himself walked about in the middle of the shop, dressed
in his best, with a large red rose in the button-hole of his coat,
smiling and rubbing his hands together, and chatting with all the
children that came in, and sometimes going to the door and giving a
handful of sugar-plums to children outside who had no money to buy
anything. But behind the counter there were his grown-up niece, and
the pretty girl who served in the shop, and his grand-daughter, who
was my mamma; and all of these were dressed in white muslin, with
borders of lace and bright ribbons. His niece, however, was the most
like a princess, for she had a blue satin turban on, with feathers
hanging down over one side, and a silk scarf with gold fringe edges,
and a red cornelian necklace, with beads as large as turnip radishes.
I bore all this extraordinary scene as long as I could, until at last, out
of too much happiness, I was unable to endure it any longer, and
then something happened to me. I felt my eyes twink and twitch and
wink, and feel a little sore; and without knowing it, or knowing
anything, except that I was in a state of the most indescribable
happiness, I fell fast asleep.
 CHAPTER IV
THE LITTLE MILLINERS

My life at the pastry-cook’s passed in a very pleasant manner; but

not because of the cakes or pastry. For, in the first place, every night
was not like Twelfth-night; and as for the pastry, though I was
delighted to see it for some time, and to notice how much it was
admired and longed for, yet, in the course of a few weeks, I had seen
so many little girls and boys make themselves unwell by eating too
many raspberry tarts and cheesecakes, that I almost ceased to take
any further interest in those things. My eyes were constantly
employed in observing the different people who came in and out, or
passed by the door and window; my ears were constantly attentive
to all that was said; and my mind was busily engaged in thinking
over all I had seen, and all I had heard, both spoken and read from
books, ever since I was a doll. By these means I advanced my
education very much, because my memory became stronger by
practice, and my understanding was improved by this habit of
thinking over everything to myself. I believe no doll ever lived who
was more anxious to learn and know about all sorts of things—good,
pretty, or wonderful—than I was.
I soon had an opportunity of seeing a very different set of things from
the cakes, and tarts, and buns, and sugar-plums. We left our abode
at the pastry-cook’s. Ellen Plummy was sent to be a milliner to her
aunt, who employed a great number of girls in making ladies’
dresses. Ellen was only seven years old, and she cried at leaving
her kind grandfather’s; but he kissed her, and told her he knew it
would be best for her, so she dried her eyes and tried to look
cheerful; and her brother Thomas carried her little grey box. She
carried me herself in her arms.
Her Aunt Sharpshins was a very tall, thin, pale-faced woman, who
was always dressed in a long gown made close up to the throat, of
the color of old nankeen, with a faded bed-furniture pattern round the
hem at the bottom. She had a nose like a parrot’s beak, and always
spoke through it. She kept fifteen little milliner girls in the house, who
were her apprentices, and obliged to work as long as she pleased.
The youngest was about ten years of age; her name was Nanny
Bell, and she and my mamma Ellen became great friends directly.
Now this tall Aunt Sharpshins, with the parrot’s nose, made her
fifteen little milliners all work together in the same room, all seated
upon small chairs without backs, so that they could not lean
backwards to rest themselves. And she made them work the whole
day, from six o’clock in the morning till eight o’clock at night, with
only about half an hour’s rest at one o’clock, when they were all
called downstairs to dinner in the back parlor of the house. Some of
the poor girls often cried, or fell asleep and tumbled off their chairs,
they were so tired. If this misfortune happened to them, Mrs.
Sharpshins used to give them only bread and water for dinner; and
sometimes she was so cruel as even to give them a loud slap on the
shoulders.
One day my mamma Ellen and Nanny Bell were sitting alone
together in the back parlor after dinner, to talk a little, as Aunt
Sharpshins had gone out to take some dresses home. ‘Ah,’ said
Ellen, ‘I do so wish to go back to my grandfather’s, he was such a
kind pastry-cook; and my brother Tom was so very fond of me
always. I am so sorry to be a milliner; and although my aunt says I
am to be her partner, perhaps, when I grow up, yet I do not like it.’
‘But then,’ said Nanny Bell, ‘you would be much kinder to all of us
than your aunt is. You would not make us work so long every day,
would you? and have so little rest, would you, Ellen? and such poor,
cold dinners, with not enough either—now, would you?’
‘That I would not!’ exclaimed Ellen, giving me a toss in the air with
both hands, ‘that I would not! You should only work as long as I
worked myself; and when I was tired, then I should know that all of
you must be tired, and I should say, “Now let’s go downstairs, and
have each a large slice of cake.” Then, in the evening, as soon as it
was dark, and we began to feel our eyes sore with looking at the