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"Whitehorse is here for blood," Ethan said, and though it was a whisper, it carried the weight of an undeniable truth.
"Let's hope it's not ours," Rachel replied.
She straightened, turning away from the body. Officers were moving forward to attempt to intercept Whitehorse.
The desert air hung heavy with a silence soon shattered by the Councilman's voice, a sharp note against the backdrop of fluttering tents and the whispering wind. Whitehorse stood before the news crew, his face carved from the same unforgiving stone as the ghost town's remnants.
"Every minute wasted," he thundered, "is a testament to their failure. My people deserve justice, not excuses!" His words cut through the crowd, each syllable an indictment of law enforcement's efforts—or lack thereof.
"Looks like he came to give a performance," Ethan said wryly.
"Those cameras didn't show up on their own," Rachel replied. The two of them stood side by side.
Rachel felt the weight of his gaze even before it fell upon her. He frowned, and briefly, she spotted recognition in his eyes as if he knew her. They hadn't met before, but she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd look into her before showing up.
This was the equivalent of a media ambush.
"Ranger Rachel Blackwood," Whitehorse's voice boomed across the sea of tents. She turned, facing him, his eyes like twin coals. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "In that uniform?"
Rachel's hand twitched toward the badge at her chest. He knew her name. Had done his homework… She refused to show surprise.
"Searching for answers," she replied, her words tightrope taut.
"Answers?" The councilman's lip curled. "Or are you just another promise, dressed in state colors, bound to disappoint?" He stepped closer, the sleek-suited men behind him silent sentinels.
Rachel just frowned at him. She could feel the lenses turning to her. The various sets of eyeballs falling on her. She didn't like the attention. Not one bit. But she was used to being side-eyed for wearing the Ranger uniform. Often by her own people.
"Your presence here dishonors our grief," Whitehorse said, voice low but no less powerful. It was a blade unsheathed, and Rachel felt its edge keenly.
Still, she said nothing. She wasn't one for public speaking, and even if she had been, she doubted it would've mattered.
The murmurs around them grew in volume, a chorus of discontent rising like heat from the sun-scorched earth. Rachel knew then that the battleground had shifted. The terrain was treacherous, every move scrutinized, every intention questioned.
"Watch your step, Ranger," Whitehorse warned, his voice a portent of storms on the horizon. "This land remembers."
And as he turned back to the cameras, leaving her to stand alone among the shifting sands, Rachel felt like a pawn, being used in a game she didn't quite understand.
Ethan was standing near her, and both of them were scowling at the councilman.
But he had turned away from her, having singled her out, he now discarded of her as quickly as he'd glanced her way, as if she were little more to him than a single-use object.
His voice continued to drone on, and Rachel frowned at the man. She couldn't tell where his grief started and his political nature ended. Perhaps the two were combined.
She frowned as the news crews continued to fixate their lens on Whitehorse, following him as he moved about, gesticulating wildly, a finger jutting skyward.
She looked away now, glancing towards where officers were trying to cordon off the scene and push the trespassers back.
Rachel looked at the body of the female cop again.
Ethan stood by her side, and under his breath, he murmured, "You okay?"
"Fine."
"Are you--"
"Six stab wounds," she said, cutting him off.
It took Ethan a second to realize what she was talking about.
