Page 21

Rachel was starting to feel the burnout from lack of sleep as they approached the precinct; being so far away from home, heading back to the precinct Detective Wheeler called home seemed like the most logical next step while they waited for movement on the APB for the box truck. Morning had become afternoon since they’d left Kent’s house but already felt so much later. Just barely to the east, the constant thrum of traffic on the nearby highway provided a steady backbeat to her racing mind, each passing truck a reminder of how quickly their killer could slip away.

She glanced at her watch for the third time in as many minutes. Time was working against them, as it always seemed to in cases like this. The digital display on the dashboard showed 12:47 – another Sunday that should have been spent with Paige, maybe trying to talk her into going to see a movie, or trying out that new burger place Jack had been raving about. Instead, she was here, hunting a killer who turned machines meant to end suffering into instruments of murder.

"If Kent did take that pod," she said, more to herself than to Novak, "where would he go? A guy like that, methodical, careful..." She trailed off, watching a flock of pigeons scatter as they drove into the precinct parking lot. "The profile doesn't suggest impulse. Everything we've seen points to careful planning."

Novak shifted in the passenger seat, a notepad open on his lap. She’d noticed that he had started keeping one on him at all times. He rarely used it in the moment, as things were happening, but rather after the fact…as if to document everything. The pages were filled with his precise handwriting, timeline annotations, and possible scenarios – all of which seemed to lead nowhere. "The timeline's tight. If Diana Tatum's right about how things went down in Woodbridge yesterday afternoon—"

Rachel's phone cut through the quiet of the car, its display showing an unknown number. The harsh buzz against the console made her jump slightly – a reminder of how tightly wound this case had made her. She answered, putting it on speaker.

"Agent Gift speaking."

"Agent Gift, this is Sergeant Briggs with Wyler County PD." The voice was gruff, carrying the weight of authority and years of experience. "One of my officers has eyes on that truck you put the APB out for."

Rachel and Novak exchanged glances, a spark of electricity seeming to arc between them. Twenty minutes. The APB had only been out for twenty minutes. In Rachel's experience, breaks this quick usually meant one of two things: either they were incredibly lucky, or the information they were getting was dead wrong.

“Would you mind giving me the details you have?” she said. “License plate number, make, model?”

Briggs seemed happy enough to do it. To Rachel’s surprise, everything he recited did indeed fit. It seemed that a member of his force had come across the truck…and very likely their killer, Marcus Kent.

"Where is this?" Rachel asked, already turning the wheel sharply, causing a BMW to honk as she cut across the parking lot entrance. The driver's angry gesture went unnoticed as adrenaline began coursing through her system.

"Small storage facility in Haven Branch. Officer Matthews spotted it about five minutes ago. Says it's just sitting there, backed up to one of the units."

Rachel's pulse quickened as her mind raced through the implications. A storage unit meant preparation, planning – this wasn't some random stop for the driver of the truck—a driver she felt had to be Kent, but she didn’t want to solidify such an assumption. Not yet.

"Haven Branch...I believe that's about half an hour from our current location,” Novak said. “Maybe a bit less if we make it speedy.”

“Sergeant,” Rachel said, “please tell your officer to maintain visual contact but do not—I repeat, do not—engage unless that truck moves.”

“Roger that.”

“And can you send the address of that facility to this number?”

“Roger that as well, agent. And Matthews knows the drill. He's keeping his distance, just watching."

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Rachel said, ending the call.

Wasting no time, she sped out of the lot. The tires squealed as Rachel accelerated onto the main road, her phone's GPS already calculating the route. Novak gripped the dashboard, but she noticed he wasn't complaining about her driving this time. The way his jaw was set told her he felt it too – the electric tension that came with closing in on a suspect. And hell…was that the start of a small grin forming on his lips?

The car's engine roared as Rachel pushed it harder, weaving through early afternoon traffic with practiced precision. Each minute felt crucial now. If Kent was really at the storage unit park in Haven Branch, if this wasn't just another dead end...

"You really think Kent's there?" Novak asked after a few minutes of tense silence, giving voice to her own doubts.

"If not Kent, then someone who knows something." Rachel took a sharp turn onto the highway, the g-force pushing them both to the right. "Either way, we're about to find out."

The speedometer crept past seventy as they merged into highway traffic. Rachel's hands were steady on the wheel, but her mind was racing through scenarios, contingencies, possibilities. This could be it – the break they needed. Or it could be nothing. In this job, you learned to hope for the best while preparing for the worst. And if they did get there and it turned out that maybe Kent had just ordered the truck to move some stuff out of his house and into a storage unit forty-five minutes from his house…then they’d have to just face that music. But even as she thought such a thing, she realized how absurd it seemed.

"About what happened at Kent's house..." Novak began.

For a moment, Rachel had no idea what he was talking about. She was focused on the here and now, to getting to Haven Branch as quickly as possible. But then it came to her. The disagreement from earlier…

"The lock picking?" She glanced at him. "Still bothered by that?"

"We're supposed to be the good guys, Rachel. Following proper procedure isn't just bureaucratic nonsense—it's what separates us from them." His voice was quiet but firm. "It's about maintaining the moral high ground."

Rachel watched the speedometer climb past eighty, the engine's pitch rising with their speed. "You want to talk about separation? We're hunting someone who turns devices meant to help people end things peacefully when they have no other options into murder weapons. Someone smart enough to reverse-engineer sophisticated technology and twisted enough to use it for killing." She took a breath, trying to keep the edge out of her voice. "So yeah, I picked a lock. And I'd do it again if I had to. Because sometimes the rulebook doesn't account for everything we face." She wanted to add something like: Maybe a few more years of experience will teach you that, but she chose to stay on the high ground.

The countryside began to blur past their windows as they drove, urban sprawl giving way to rolling hills and scattered farmhouses. Signs for Haven Branch started appearing, advertising a farmer's market and something called the Annual Butterfly Festival.

Novak was quiet for a long moment, his fingers absently tapping against his knee. "I get it," he said finally. "I don't like it, but... well, we are heading toward a potential killer because of that choice. So I don’t guess I can fault you too much."

"Ah, you’ll be a rule-breaker in no time," Rachel said, surprising herself with the sarcasm in her voice. "But in all honestly….it comes down to knowing when it’s okay. It’s…it’s a gut thing. And if I’m being honest, sometimes it’s wrong.”

“But you feel that your gut was right this time?”

“I do. But…I’ll feel a lot better when I know for sure.”

It took another seventeen minutes before they arrived in the town of Haven Branch. It appeared ahead of them like a painting from another era—a slice of small-town America frozen in time. The main street was barely wide enough for two cars to pass, lined with brick buildings that probably hadn't changed much since the 1970s. A faded mural on one wall advertised "Carter's Hardware – Serving Haven Branch Since 1942."

It was the kind of Sunday afternoon that seemed to move in slow motion. An elderly couple walked hand in hand outside the town's single ice cream parlor, their movements unhurried, peaceful. A group of kids rode their bikes in lazy circles around a war memorial in the town square, their laughter carrying on the warm breeze. A man washed the windows at the local diner, his movements methodical and practiced.

The scene was so peaceful it felt almost obscene, considering what they might find at the storage facility. These people had no idea that their quiet Sunday afternoon might be harboring a killer. Rachel felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle onto her shoulders – the duty to protect this peace, to keep places like Haven Branch from becoming crime scenes.

They made their way through the main stretch of the town and, right along the edge, took a right turn per the instructions. It was there, on the outskirts of town, that they found the storage facility. It was a small and unremarkable complex of identical metal doors set into concrete walls. Rachel was more accustomed to the larger ones in Richmond, the facilities that contained more than a hundred units. This one was the exact opposite. She supposed there might be twenty in all. The sign at the entrance was sun-faded: "Haven Branch Storage – Security You Can Trust." Rachel might have found that ironically funny under different circumstances.

The patrol car was exactly where Sergeant Briggs said it would be, parked across the street with a clear view of the entrance. Rachel saw the shape of Officer Matthews behind the wheel, and Novak held his badge up to the window as they passed, getting a small nod from Officer Matthews inside. The young officer's posture was alert, professional – good training showing through.

Rachel turned into the facility, driving slowly down the narrow alleys between units. The place was laid out simply, with five units per row, each row divided between a straight, paved thoroughfare. The sound of their tires advancing through the lot seemed too loud in the afternoon quiet. Each unit they passed could hold anything – old furniture, forgotten belongings, or something far more sinister.

"There," Novak whispered, pointing.

Rachel saw it, too. The truck, backed up to unit 18. Her heart rate picked up as she parked their car at an angle that would block any attempt at a quick getaway. They got out silently, both drawing their weapons in practiced movements that spoke of years of training and too many similar situations. Neither of them bothered closing their doors, not wanting to give Kent any indication that someone was outside.

The air was thick with tension as they approached the unit. Rachel could hear birds singing somewhere nearby, the sound jarringly cheerful. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple despite the mild temperature. The metal units reflected the sun's heat, creating a shimmer in the air above them.

They moved forward in perfect sync, one of those moments that made Rachel aware that, given time, this partnership with Novak could turn out to be a very good one. Her grip tightened on her weapon as memories of similar moments flashed through her mind – other doors, other suspects, other moments when everything could change in the blink of an eye.

Rachel met Novak's eyes, seeing her own mixture of anticipation and dread mirrored there. They came to the front of the box truck. It had been backed up to the unit perfectly, blocking off any sight of what might be inside. There was just enough room to squeeze in on her side, and through that crack, all she could see was the concrete floor of the unit and what appeared to be the edge of a plastic crate. She held up three fingers, then two, then…

The box truck’s engine roared to life, tearing apart the tense silence of the moment. And after that, Rachel felt that everything moved way too fast.