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"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.
