Page 23

Rachel kept her eyes on the road as Novak drove, watching the industrial district unfold before them as they made their way out of the heart of the city.

Steel and concrete structures rose against the morning sky, their shadows stretching across empty parking lots.

The silence between her and Novak felt charged in a way that made Rachel feel as if they were on the same page without really speaking it out loud.

For Rachel, it was loaded with unspoken thoughts about what drove people to take justice into their own hands.

Rachel's fingers tightened imperceptibly on her knee.

She knew that grief often did strange things to people.

It was a fact she knew intimately. She had lived it, breathed it, nearly drowned in it.

After Alex Lynch murdered Peter, she'd felt it: that consuming need for vengeance that burned through logic, and law like acid.

She remembered those dark days with perfect clarity, how the world had narrowed to a single point of focus.

Lynch had to pay, and nothing else had mattered.

The memory of those days after Peter's death came flooding back, unstoppable now that she'd opened that door.

She remembered sitting in their bedroom, surrounded by his things, plotting revenge scenarios that would have horrified her in any other circumstance while also worrying about Paige and her job.

The way the grief had twisted everything, even her own moral compass, until black and white bled into an endless sea of gray.

And then there was Alice Denbrough. The events that had led up to Grandma Tate’s death had unleashed something in Rachel that scared her, even now.

That same darkness had risen up, threatening to swallow her whole.

Both times, she'd walked right up to that edge, peered into the abyss of vigilante justice, and somehow managed to step back.

But she understood the pull of it, the seductive whisper that said sometimes the system wasn't enough, that sometimes justice needed a helping hand.

She was fully aware that her own grief had essentially rewired her whole moral compass.

It had created ideas and thoughts in her head that had not been there before—some of them rather dark and violent.

The scariest part was how rational it all seems in the moment.

How right it feels. Like she was the only one seeing things clearly, and everyone else is just..

. blind to what needs to be done. She hated understanding this because it made her almost sympathize with people that sought their own justice in their own ways.

Novak glanced at her, and she could see that he was trying to determine if she was silently wrestling with something. But he remained quiet, and she was grateful for that.

The warehouse where Dewalt worked came into view ahead of them, a massive structure of corrugated metal and concrete that stretched nearly the length of two football fields.

It sat about a quarter of a mile off the road, as if the city had tried to push it as far away as possible.

The sun caught the few windows ringing the office section, making them gleam like distant signals.

The rest of the building was windowless and utilitarian, broken only by the regular rhythm of loading bay doors along its southern face.

A chain-link fence enclosed the property, and security cameras mounted on tall poles scanned the perimeter.

They pulled into a visitor spot near the front entrance, the asphalt faded.

A small sign to the right of the parking area pointed them toward a glass door marked "RECEPTION .

"It was flanked by potted shrubs that had seen better days.

The shrubs looked like they'd been fighting a losing battle against exhaust fumes and neglect for years.

And now, of course, the bitter winter chill.

Someone had not cared enough for them to take them inside out of the harsh weather.

The reception area hit them with a blast of over-conditioned heat and the distinct smell of industrial carpet cleaner. The space felt trapped in time, with cream-colored walls bare except for a single framed print of a maritime scene that had faded to mostly blues and greys.

The receptionist, a woman in her fifties with reading glasses hanging from a beaded chain, looked up from her computer with the practiced neutral expression of someone who'd rather not be bothered.

Her desk was a fortress of efficiency, with everything arranged at right angles: a stapler, tape dispenser, a cup of pens, and a small nameplate that read "Mrs. Henderson.

" She struck Rachel as a woman who might be better suited working at a library.

“Can I help you?” Mrs. Henderson asked, her tone indicating that she really didn’t want to

“We need to speak with someone who works here,” Novak said. “Jason Dewalt.”

Mrs. Henderson gave them both a perplexed look.

Did they really expect her to bother someone who was hard at work?

The mere idea of it baffled her. But when Novak showed his credentials, her demeanor shifted instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch.

The transformation from gatekeeper to helpful assistant was almost comical.

“Jason Dewalt?” she said.

“That’s correct.”

She reached for her phone, the movement making her glasses swing gently. The phone system was ancient – a black plastic affair with a matrix of buttons that had gone dingy with age. She pressed a single button and brought the receiver to her ear.

"Jason Dewalt, please come to the front lobby." Her voice echoed through the building's PA system, tinny and authoritative. She hung up with a self-satisfied nod, as if she'd just done them an enormous favor. “He’ll be with you shortly.”

Rachel settled into one of the vinyl chairs in the small waiting area.

A fake ficus tree stood in one corner, its plastic leaves carrying a fine film of dust. The waiting area consisted of three chairs upholstered in institutional blue vinyl, arranged around a wood-laminate table that had been scratched and worn at the corners.

Three magazines lay splayed across its surface: a trade publication about logistics, a women's magazine, and a copy of National Geographic from last April.

A water cooler in the corner gurgled occasionally, the sound echoing in the sterile space.

Roughly three minutes later, the door behind the reception area opened.

Rachel only happened to see it because she was looking in that direction.

She watched as Jason Dewalt appeared. He looked younger than Rachel had expected, as Thorne had described him as being in his fifties.

He was wearing navy work pants and a high-visibility vest. His brown hair was cut short, and a thin scar ran along his jawline.

The moment his eyes landed on them, a sudden look of uncertainty flashed across his face.

Then fear. Then decision. He spun and bolted back through the door.

"He's running," Rachel announced, already in motion.

She hurried toward the front of the room and vaulted the reception counter, ignoring Mrs. Henderson's startled "You can't—!

" The door slammed open under her palm, and she found herself in a long, fluorescent-lit corridor.

Dewalt's footsteps echoed ahead, and she caught a glimpse of his vest disappearing through a door to the left.

The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, identical doors spaced at regular intervals.

The linoleum floor squeaked under her boots as she ran, her breathing measured and controlled.

She could hear Novak somewhere behind her, but his footsteps were growing fainter.

He was taking another route, trying to cut off their quarry.

Smart move – they'd worked together long enough now that she could anticipate his tactics. However, she wasn’t sure how effective this would be since they didn’t know the layout of the building.

Rachel hit the door Dewalt had taken at full speed, her hands driving into the metal crash bar.

She burst into what looked like a secondary storage area – a cavernous space with concrete floors and ceiling-high metal shelving units creating a maze of aisles.

The air was thick with the smell of cardboard and forklift exhaust. Boxes of merchandise stretched in every direction, creating shadows and blind corners that could hide a dozen people.

Some were stacked almost all the way up to the very tall ceiling.

Voices echoed from somewhere in the maze – warehouse workers, probably wondering what was causing the commotion.

A radio crackled with confused chatter. Rachel forced herself to focus, to filter out the distractions.

Her feet carried her forward as her training kicked in, eyes scanning for movement, ears straining for any sound that might give away Dewalt's position.

A flash of movement caught her eye as she came around a tall stack of crates – Dewalt's vest, visible through gaps in the shelving.

He was heading for the far wall, where emergency exits gleamed with reflected light from overhead fixtures.

Rachel cut diagonally through the aisles, her footsteps echoing off the concrete and just barely able to slip between two stacks of boxes.

A forklift sat abandoned, its warning beeper still chirping plaintively.

She had to dodge around a pallet jack, losing precious seconds.

Dewalt knocked over a stack of boxes as he ran, sending them cascading into her path.

Rachel vaulted over them as a strange assortment of goods spilled out—toothbrushes, batteries, roll-on deodorant— her muscles burning with the effort, but the obstacle had given him precious seconds.

She could hear his ragged breathing ahead, the sound of desperate fear.

More boxes tumbled, forcing her to weave and dodge.

Her lungs burned, but she pushed harder.

"FBI! Stop right there, Mr. Dewalt!" Her voice boomed through the space, but Dewalt just ran faster.

He darted between two tall shelving units, disappearing from view.

Rachel followed, only to find herself facing a mess of toppled inventory.

She had to scramble over it, feeling valuable seconds slip away and trying not to give in to the surreal nature of this chase that had her sprinting through spilled household goods.

The newest pile consisted of dishcloths, bed sheets, and an assortment of plastic cutlery.

Ahead of her, Dewalt slammed through the emergency exit, triggering an alarm that wailed through the warehouse.

Rachel caught the door just before it closed, bursting out into daylight.

She had a split second to register the loading dock area, the rows of semi-trailers, the chain-link fence in the distance—

And then Novak appeared from behind a trailer.

He came rushing toward Dewalt with a football player’s stance and Dewalt didn’t see him until the last minute.

Novak took Dewalt down with a perfectly executed tackle.

Dewalt yelled out in surprise, but it was cut off when they hit the concrete hard, Dewalt's breath leaving him in a whoosh.

Rachel was on them in seconds, helping to secure Novak and get the cuffs around his wrists as their suspect thrashed and cursed.

"I haven't even done anything!" Dewalt shouted, his face pressed against the pavement. Sweat darkened his shirt, and Rachel could feel him trembling beneath her hands – from exertion or fear, she couldn't tell.

Rachel caught her breath, the adrenaline still coursing through her system.

"Yeah? Most innocent people don't run at the sight of FBI agents.

" She looked up at Novak, who was slightly winded but looking satisfied.

"Looks like we're going to be making a trip to the closest police station… .have a word with Mr. Dewalt."

As they hauled Dewalt to his feet, Rachel couldn't help but wonder what kind of grief had driven him to run.

What darkness was he carrying? What was it he was worried about?

She'd been on both sides of this equation now – hunter and hunted, justice-seeker and vengeance-taker.

The line between right and wrong should have been clear, marked in bold black and white.

But experience had taught her that it was always more complicated than that.

Some people ran because they were guilty.

Others ran because they were scared. And some ran because they'd been running for so long, they'd forgotten how to stay still.

The weight of her own past decisions pressed against her thoughts, reminding her how close she'd come to crossing lines she couldn't uncross.

The question was: which kind was Jason Dewalt? And more importantly, what would they find when they started digging into whatever he was running from?