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CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The engine died, leaving a heavy silence as Rachel and Ethan stepped out of their borrowed all-terrain vehicle. The crisp mountain air filled their lungs, a stark contrast to the tension that wrapped around them like a blanket. They were parked on uneven ground, the cabin looming ahead, its logs gnawed by time and secrets.
"Looks tranquil," Ethan murmured, his gaze fixed on the structure they'd come to infiltrate.
"Deceptive calm," Rachel replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She squinted against the glare of the midday sun, which seemed to bleach everything it touched, casting severe shadows that fractured the landscape into slices of light and dark. It was in these shadows that danger liked to lurk.
Her hand rested on the butt of her pistol, comfort in the cool metal. The last rays of sunlight played with the dust motes, turning them into a haze of floating gold around the cabin.
"Keep your eyes peeled," she reminded Ethan, though she knew it was unnecessary.
Rachel's thoughts raced as she scanned the vicinity. Her mind, always dissecting, always planning, catalogued escape routes, improvised weapons, potential hazards.
She double-checked her phone.
This was the location that Silas had told the interrogation officer to search for Mad Jack. A scent lingered on the air, and she wrinkled her nose.
Manure.
She could hear them now, low moaning and the huff of heavy breaths and thump of thick hooves. She spotted the paddock behind the cabin a few moments later. Large, horned buffalo circled the paddock. She stared at the creatures, surprised to see them up here.
"Let's not keep them waiting," Ethan said.
Rachel nodded, stepping forward, her boots crunching on the gravel, the sound absurdly loud in the stillness. There was no turning back now, no second-guessing.
She paused, though, standing by the front of her vehicle. Her hand shot out, pressing against her partner's chest.
"Hang on," she muttered under her breath.
He went still.
Rachel's gaze swept across the tree line, settling on the shapes of men who moved like specters amongst the pines. Their silhouettes were stark against the sun-dappled backdrop, their eyes sharp and searching—hawks on the hunt. The late afternoon light threw their shadows long and lean across the rugged terrain, creating a sundial of vigilance around the cabin.
The men hadn't spotted them yet, but they would once they stepped from the shadows of the sandstone cliff.
"Patrols," she murmured, her voice barely above the breeze whispering through the branches.
Ethan nodded, his own eyes tracking the circuitous route the gunmen took. "Clockwork," he replied, the word hanging between them.
Their boots crunched over fallen needles and cones, the scent of pine resin sharp in the air. She felt the weight of her sidearm.
Then, from the wooden stoop of the cabin, a door creaked open and thunder seemed to roll across the clearing without a cloud in the sky. Joaquin Terra--the name they'd found on the lease--Mad Jack himself stepped out, his frame blocking the sun as if he drew power from its rays. His face was a mask of fury carved from years of running, fighting, defying.
He was glaring directly at them.
Rachel and Ethan approached cautiously, watching the scowling man warily. He came out onto the porch, flanked by two of the men emerging from the woods. Both of them had rifles dangling over their shoulders, held by chest straps.
Mad Jack's stare locked onto Rachel's, two generals on the battlefield measuring the other's mettle. She held his gaze as she drew closer.
"Rangers Blackwood and Morgan," she called out, her badge catching the late afternoon sun.
He clenched his jaw, the lines of anger deepening, and for a moment there was only the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant call of a lone hawk circling above.
With each deliberate step toward the cabin, dust swirled around their boots, the earth itself seemed to acknowledge the gravity of their approach.
"We need to speak with you, Mr. Terra," Ethan announced, his voice unflinching as they closed the distance to the weather-beaten structure that harbored Joaquin.
"Mad Jack" echoed through Rachel's mind, a moniker that spoke volumes, yet did nothing to quell the surge of adrenaline that kept her senses razor-sharp.
