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"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.
