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But it was better than death.
She gritted her teeth, peering towards where the gunmen were hunched by the edge of the ravine, in front of the Jeep, checking on their two fallen comrades.
For the moment, they hadn't noticed her.
Rachel's boots whispered against the sand, her breath a controlled meter as she edged closer to the overturned Jeep. The sun was a harsh witness in the sky, casting long shadows that played to her advantage. She moved with the stealth of a seasoned tracker, eyes catching on the faint indentations in the dirt.
"Keep your eyes peeled," growled a voice from the other side of the wreck. It belonged to one of Wyatt's men, unaware that danger lurked not in what they could see, but in what they couldn't.
Rachel advanced, a whisper of movement, a ghost borne from the scorched earth and juniper trees.
"Anything?" It was Wyatt's voice this time, the rasp of it like the scrape of a blade across bone.
"Nothing, boss," another replied. "She's probably snake food by now."
They were wrong. So very wrong.
A scorpion skittered away from her path, sensing a predator far greater than itself. Her shadow caressed the edge of the Jeep, a mere heartbeat away from confrontation. And then she was there, behind Wyatt, her gun cool and unyielding against the nape of his scarred neck. His long, raven-collared hair under the bandana gave him away.
The moment her weapon touched his neck, he went stiff.
"Drop it," she breathed, the words slicing through the stillness. Her heart hammered against her ribs, an echo of survival's drum.
"Damn—" One of Wyatt's goons began, his exclamation cut short by the implicit threat in Rachel's stance.
Wyatt had gone so still, he seemed a statue in the desolate space.
"Tell them to drop it," she growled, jamming her gun against his taut neck.
He stammered, began to speak, but she pressed the gun even harder against his skin.
"Tell them," Rachel's voice was granite, her command irrefutable.
"Drop 'em," Wyatt rasped. The weight of guns hit the ground like a gavel—judgment delivered.
Rachel's eyes, hawk-like, surveyed the three other men as they stepped back, hands raised. They didn't look like much of a threat now. Emaciated, sallow-eyed. Drug addicts? Dealers? Likely both. She moved, a ghost over the sand, her boots whispering threats with each step.
One by one, she toed their weapons closer to the ravine's edge. A kick sent them spiraling into oblivion, metal glinting farewell to sunlight before succumbing to shadows below.
"Hands." Her voice didn't rise above the wind's hush, but it carried the force of a storm. The men complied, palms pressed together in silent prayer.
Zip ties snaked around wrists, tight and unyielding. Two clicks sealed the fate of the first pair. She worked fast, efficient, every move etched with purpose.
"Never thought..." Wyatt began, his words trailing off as if choked by the desert air itself.
"Shut up," she cut through his attempt at conversation.
"Sit," she commanded, and they sank to the earth, subdued captives.
Wyatt, bound now, looked up at Rachel, a mix of defiance and defeat in his scarred visage. "Was an accident. Yall were tresspassing."
"Shut up," she repeated.
"What are you going to do?" he snapped. "Huh? Call the cops. My brother's on the force."
"He the one who tipped you off?"
"No."
