Page 27

Rachel moved through the corridor with measured steps, her breathing controlled and even.

Years of training had taught her how to regulate her heart rate in situations like this, though the sound of blood rushing in her ears never quite went away.

Her Glock felt familiar and reassuring in her grip, its weight a reminder of countless similar moments throughout her career.

She'd been in this position hundreds of times before, but experience hadn't dulled her edge – if anything, it had sharpened it.

The empty hallway stretched before her, its soft lighting casting gentle shadows in the corners. The thick carpet muffled her footsteps and for a moment, it seemed so quiet that she thought if she tried very hard, she could probably hear the ringing of the desk phones a floor below her.

The air felt different here than it had in the lobby – cooler, with that slight metallic taste that came with industrial heating to ward off the cold outside.

Rachel noticed everything, cataloging details automatically now that this was no longer just a hopeful hunt for Jonathan Maxwell.

Now she noticed even the smallest of things…

the flicker in one of the overhead lights, the faint smell of coffee long-ago brewed, the distant hum of the ice machine elsewhere along the hall.

Of course, she also knew that Peacoat could just be another guest. Maybe the clicking of a door she’d heard had been him opening his door.

She knew this was a possibility, but the sounds didn’t match up.

She’d have heard two clicks…one from the keycard—maybe even the small beep if it was the electronic kind—and then the solid chunk of a door closing.

She came to 212 and pressed her ear against the door.

She held her breath and listened intently for about ten seconds.

Nothing. Not even the background hum of a TV.

The silence was absolute, confirming her suspicion that the room was empty.

She tested the handle anyway, finding it locked as expected.

Stepping back, Rachel allowed herself to slip into the mindset she'd developed over years of hunting killers.

If Aldridge was the killer and knew Maxwell was in 212, he wouldn't risk standing in plain sight.

He'd need a vantage point, somewhere to observe without being noticed.

Her eyes scanned the hallway methodically, cataloging possible hiding spots.

The layout was typical hotel design: long corridor, rooms on both sides, utility spaces scattered between.

The ambient hum of machinery caught her attention – an ice machine, punctuated by the distinct sound of fresh cubes dropping into the bin. The noise came from her right, further down the corridor. Rachel moved toward it, keeping her stance low and ready.

The ICE/SNACKS door appeared halfway down the hall, opposite her position.

A rectangular window offered a glimpse inside: two vending machines casting their familiar fluorescent glow, a single Coke machine, and the bulk of an industrial ice maker partially obscured by the door.

The machine was massive, nearly ceiling height, with a large sliding panel in its metal center allowing people easy access to the ice.

But she couldn’t see the entirety of it through the glass.

In other words, it could be a perfect hiding spot. The kind of place she herself would choose if she needed to observe while staying hidden.

Rachel knew the next few seconds were critical.

A slow entry would give anyone hiding inside time to prepare – and if Aldridge was there, she couldn't afford to give him that advantage.

As soon as he saw that door handle turning downward, he could attack.

She took a deep breath, feeling the familiar calm settle over her.

This was one of those moments where training took over, where muscle memory and instinct merged into pure action.

Her left hand found the door handle while her right maintained a firm grip on the Glock, pointing it straight ahead. In one fluid motion, she turned the handle and pushed, using the door's momentum to carry her into the room. She moved in a practiced sweep, weapon extended.

The attack came before she could complete her scan.

A blur of motion from the narrow space between the wall and ice machine – a blind spot she hadn't been able to see from the window.

Something hard and metallic crashed into the meat of her left shoulder.

The impact sent a shock wave of pain down her arm, a thousand needles of electricity shooting through her nerves.

Rachel spun to face her attacker, but he was already pressing his advantage. She caught a glimpse of what he was wielding: a lead pipe, its surface dull under the fluorescent lights. A lead pipe…which was the weapon that had been suspected of taking the lives of the three victims.

He was already mid-swing for another strike, and he was too close for her to risk a shot in the confined space. A shot from this sort of space could be fatal to either of them. Besides that, as the pipe came down again, her instincts were more worried about self-preservation.

She deflected the incoming blow by striking his wrist with her right forearm, the impact jarring but effective.

She followed through with a knee strike, aiming for his groin but connecting with his thigh instead due to their proximity.

The attacker—presumably Richard Aldridge—stumbled back, giving her the space to land a solid right hook to his temple.

He reeled but didn't go down. The pipe whistled past her face as he swung wild, forcing her to duck. The movement brought fresh waves of pain from her injured shoulder, but Rachel pushed it aside. She'd fought through worse – much worse.

They traded blows in the cramped space, the vending machines humming their indifferent soundtrack to the violence.

Rachel managed to land several solid strikes, her combat training evident in every movement.

A punch to the kidneys, another to the chest. A particularly effective combination – jab, cross, elbow – drove him back against the ice machine, the impact rattling the entire unit.

Bags of chips shuddered in their metal spirals in the vending machine beside it.

But Aldridge fought with the desperate strength of a cornered animal.

He absorbed the punishment and came back swinging, the pipe creating deadly arcs through the air.

Rachel had to constantly give ground, using the limited space to her advantage when she could.

Her back hit the vending machine, and she barely managed to slide along it as the pipe struck where her head had been, leaving a deep dent in the metal.

The clang of metal on metal rang in her ears like a tiny explosion.

He was also stronger than she'd anticipated.

Despite his age and illness, desperation lent him power.

It took a fifth solid punch to finally rock him—a solid, stifled uppercut that clocked him just below the nose.

The punch rocked Aldridge back, blood instantly spilling from his upper lip.

He collapsed against the ice machine, his eyes suddenly unfocused.

Rachel saw her opening and moved in, reaching for her cuffs.

But it was a trap – he'd been playing hurt, waiting for her to get close. The pipe was already in motion as she realized her mistake.

When Rachel tried to transition to cuffing him again, he twisted away, the pipe already drawing back for another swing.

Her injured arm screamed in protest as she prepared to defend herself.

The pipe began its deadly arc toward her head.

She staggered back, fighting to maintain her balance and bring the gun up…

not wanting to kill the man but wondering if she may not have a choice.

The door burst open from the hallway with enough force to crack the wall.

Novak's solid frame filled the doorway for a split second before he launched himself at Aldridge. With the man already on the ground and having taken several punches, there wasn’t much fight left in him.

He threw out a single, feeble punch that barely clipped Novak’s shoulder.

But after that, Novak essentially fell onto him in a move that was part tackle and part restraint.

From there, Novak was easily able to wrangle him into a modified chokehold.

Rachel immediately dropped her knee into Aldridge's back, using her weight to pin him while wrestling the pipe from his grip.

It was only then that she noticed several streaks and splatters of what appeared to be dried blood.

Novak had already slapped one cuff around Aldridge's wrist and was securing the second. "You good, Gift?" he asked, his voice tight with exertion. She could see the concern in his eyes – the same look Jack used to give her during their partnership.

Rachel rotated her injured shoulder, wincing at the movement.

It was going to be sore as hell. There may be some muscle damage, but nothing serious.

"I'll live," she replied, watching as Novak hauled their suspect to his feet.

"Though I might need some ice." She glanced at the machine they'd nearly destroyed in their fight and allowed herself a small smile. "Convenient location, at least."

Aldridge said nothing, but his eyes burned with a hatred Rachel recognized all too well.

It was the look of a man who'd believed himself untouchable, finally brought low.

She'd seen it countless times before and would likely see it countless times again.

But she also saw a sadness in there…something that almost looked like sickness.

As Novak read him his rights, Rachel felt her shoulder throbbing in time with her heartbeat, but the pain felt almost righteous. Another killer caught, another case closed. Jonathan Maxwell saved.

It wasn't a cure for death itself, but it was its own form of justice. And sometimes that had to be enough.