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"Pathetic," he sneered, but his voice was devoid of the usual taunting tone. "You thought you could escape, but in the end, you were just a bird with a broken wing."
He took a deep breath, his thoughts swirling with memories of the past and the guilt coursing through his veins. "You were never supposed to see my face, to hear my voice," he whispered, his fingers tracing the grooves of her face where his scars were. "But you did... and now, you're just like the rest of them."
With a final, cold-hearted grin, he stood up and walked away, leaving the woman's lifeless body behind. The night air was once again filled with the scent of pine and gasoline, mixed with the lingering hint of blood.
He approached the truck, moving swiftly.
The loneliness of this desolate road had been an intentional choice.
He hastily snagged at the spare canister in the back of the truck.
He returned to the woman's bloody corpse, unscrewed the lid of the gas cannister--which he'd spotted earlier when scoping out his target--and he doused her body in the gasoline.
with fingers shaking from excitement, he pulled a box of matches from his pocket, even as he inhaled the stinging scent of gas.
He lit the matchstick, and tossed it, watching as it trailed through the air like a comet, then hit the corpse; the fire erupted instantly, and began to engulf the woman's remains, a final blaze for a life cut short. The reflection of the flames danced on the cold surface of the water tower, like a sinister and twisted ballet.
As the fire consumed her, the man stood in the shadows, smoking from a cigarette lit by the rest of the match, and watched as the flames grew higher and more intense, illuminating the night sky. He couldn't help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction that his work was done.
In that moment, the echo of the gunfire rang in his ears. The memory of the village woman pleading for mercy, a torment that would never leave him. He could still hear the cruel words of his commanding officer, the harsh sentence still lingering, a reminder of the burden he carried.
He took a final puff of his cigarette, nodding to himself. And then he withdrew a single piece of paper.
On it, a name.
He lit the paper on fire, smiling as it tumbled like a burning autumn leaf to the ground.
Then he turned and walked away, shouldering his rifle and inhaling the scent of singed flesh.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The first light of dawn crept through the slit between motel curtains, a narrow beam that fell across Rachel Blackwood’s wristwatch. Her eyes fluttered open, instinctively finding the hands of time without the shrill cry of an alarm. Rachel lay still for a moment, her breaths shallow and even as the world outside began to stir. She had always trusted her body's internal clock more than any machine. 4:47 AM. The sun was barely up, yet the day carried a weight, a tension potent enough to stir her from slumber.
Her hand moved like a shadow, fingers curling around the phone on the nightstand, thumb swiping with practiced motion. The screen came to life—confirmation of the hour and a cascade of silent notifications. No calls. Messages scrolled past in a blur, none urgent enough to warrant immediate attention. The digital world could wait.
"Too early for spam," she muttered under her breath, her voice a rasp not yet cleared by morning's first coffee.
She sat up, a lithe form moving beneath the crisp white sheets, the room around her sparse and impersonal. The phone was set down with a soft click against the faux wood surface—a sound absorbed by the quiet of the motel room.
One notification on her phone did catch her eye, though.
She glanced down.
"Shit."
Confirmation from the community center.
Carlos had been there, just as he'd said, two days back to back.
He wasn't their shooter, though after his reaction in the interrogation room, this wasn't particularly surprising to her.
She smoothed the front of her shirt, tossed on her jacket, snatched her hat and keys, then hastened towards the motel door. Another message on her phone, the latest one, confirmed the next lead.
The girls were ready to meet.
Carlos' contacts were willing to talk.
The hallway stretched before Rachel, narrow and shadowed, the early light barely infiltrating its confines. Carpet fibers muffled her footsteps as she approached Ethan's door, a barrier to the day's grim agenda. She rapped sharply on the wood, two succinct knocks that seemed to reverberate with urgency.
