Chapter Three #2
Emma adjusted the focus. And her breath caught.
A ring.
Worn on the right hand, third finger. Silver, dulled with time, with a thin black band inlaid around the center, simple, understated. She remembered when Ethan had bought it. And he’d worn it every single day afterwards.
Her throat burned. She lowered the binoculars slowly, heart pounding. “It’s his ring,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Either someone had murdered Ethan Ross… or someone wanted her to believe he was finally dead.
Emma’s grip on the binoculars tightened as she stared down at the ring. That one small detail had sliced straight through her composure, sharper than she expected.
Ryker’s voice cut in gently, steadying. “Remember, the mannequin had his wallet. This could be another taunt. The ring doesn’t prove it’s Ethan.”
She knew Ryker was right. Whoever was behind this was two steps ahead, and smart enough to use what mattered most to her as bait.
He took the binoculars back from her, eyes scanning the body again as he moved a few careful steps to the right. Not close, still well outside any danger zone, but just enough to adjust the angle.
“I want to see if the mask’s the same,” he said. “And if there’s anything written on it like the last one.”
Seconds passed in silence.
Then he made a low sound, not quite surprise, not quite disgust. Something in between. Ryker handed the binoculars back without a word.
Emma raised them again, heart pounding.
The mask… it was indeed the same. That unnervingly accurate replica of Ethan’s face. The slightly parted lips. Closed eyelids. The unnatural stillness.
But this one didn’t have a message scrawled across the chin. No Emma Bonetti is a killer written in furious block letters.
She adjusted the zoom, and that’s when she saw it, the thickness of the mask. Not just a latex cover or a Halloween prop. The material was layered. Bulky near the temples and jawline, like something had been fitted underneath.
“I see why Hayes didn’t want to touch it,” she murmured. “That mask looks rigged.”
Beside her, Ryker said nothing. But the tension in his stance told her he was thinking the same thing. Someone had taken the time to make sure they didn’t just leave a body with a message.
They left an actual threat.
Emma glanced back toward the patrol cruiser. Jesse and Hayes had retreated inside, likely for warmth or cover, or both. She couldn’t blame them. The wind was sharp enough to slice, and the sleet had picked up, needling down like frozen pins.
She opened her mouth to say something to Ryker, maybe suggest they get back to the cruiser and wait for the bomb squad.
But a gunshot tore through the air.
Her instinct took over. She dropped, hitting the frozen dirt hard, her hand already pulling her weapon. Ryker dropped down beside her in the same instant, his body pivoting toward the sound, eyes scanning the field like a hawk.
They were about twenty feet from the cruiser. Too far to make a run for it without drawing fire.
Another shot rang out, this one even closer. The round slammed into the ground not two feet from where she’d just been standing, kicking up a spray of sleet, dirt, and jagged stone.
Emma’s heart pounded against her ribs. This wasn’t some misfired shot from a nearby hunter. Someone was trying to kill them.
Emma kept her body low to the frozen ground, her knees pressed into sharp gravel, the cold biting through her jeans. Her heart was hammering in her ears, but her voice came out calm, controlled.
“Can you see the shooter?” she asked.
Ryker shifted beside her, slowly lifting his head just enough to scan the area. “No visual yet. But I think the shots are coming from behind the second oil pump, far end of the field.”
She followed his line of sight. The rigs loomed against the sleet-streaked sky, black metal bones groaning in rhythm. The second pump was half-shrouded by mist and distance, its base thick with rusted piping and brush.
It made sense. High enough vantage. Just enough cover.
Her finger hovered over the trigger. She could return fire, maybe force the shooter to duck. But then her mind snapped to the road, not far beyond the ridge. If someone happened to be driving by, if a bullet went wide…
She clenched her jaw. No. That risk was too high.
More shots rang out.
Dirt exploded inches from her hip. Ryker cursed under his breath, flattening lower beside her.
They had no cover. Just rocks, frozen dirt, and open field. The cruiser was too far, twenty feet might as well have been a mile under fire.
Emma’s mind spun.
Who the hell was doing this? And more importantly, why now?
If this was punishment, some twisted sense of retribution for Ethan’s disappearance… then the suspect pool narrowed fast. His sister? Charlotte had hated Emma from the moment Ethan vanished. Or his lover, the woman in the photo, the one who’d sent that text that blew everything up.
But if it was revenge, why wait four years? Why now, just as everything was unraveling?
Unless this wasn’t just about Ethan at all.
The roar of an engine cut through the storm of gunfire and sleet. Emma twisted her head just enough to look back.
Hayes and Jesse were coming.
Their cruiser tore across the field, tires churning through mud and frozen gravel. The ground was rough, littered with dips and jagged rocks, and the cruiser bounced violently as it closed the distance.
Her heart clenched as the car kept coming, no hesitation, no signs of slowing.
Then Hayes cut the wheel and drove straight into the line of fire, swinging the front of the cruiser between them and the shooter. Metal groaned as the tires locked into place, the vehicle angled perfectly to shield her and Ryker.
The next shot rang out and slammed into the cruiser’s side.
Then another.
And another.
The bullets kept coming, hitting metal with hard, vicious thuds. But the cruiser held. Bullet-resistant glass. Reinforced panels. It wasn’t invincible, but it was enough.
Inside, Jesse turned, his body twisted around in the front seat. He shoved the back door open with one hand, the other still gripping his radio.
Emma didn’t wait for an invitation. She and Ryker scrambled up from the frozen ground, sprinted the few feet to the open door, and dove inside just as another round struck the rear quarter panel.
Emma landed hard against the seat, breath catching in her chest, heart still racing. Ryker slammed the door shut behind them, sealing them in.
Safe, for now. But the war outside wasn’t over.
And whoever was pulling the trigger wasn’t finished with them yet.
Hayes slammed the cruiser into gear. The gravel spun beneath the tires as he jerked the wheel hard and punched it toward the far side of the field.
“Hold on,” he barked. “I’m going after the son of a bitch.”
Emma braced herself against the door as they sped across the uneven ground. The cruiser bucked over rocks and shallow dips, the suspension groaning, sleet streaking across the windshield like icy claws.
They rounded the pump just in time to catch a figure breaking into a sprint.
“Ski mask,” Ryker said, already reaching for the door. “Bulky coat. That’s our shooter.”
The figure was fast, arms pumping hard, cutting across the back of the field toward a stand of leafless trees. The mud didn’t seem to slow them down.
Hayes slammed the brakes, and all four doors flew open.
Emma bolted out with Ryker beside her, weapon up, boots skidding across the frozen ground. Hayes and Jesse flanked left, splitting wide.
“Police,” Ryker shouted, voice carrying above the wind. “Stop! Don’t move!”
The shooter didn’t so much as glance back, and he sure as heck didn’t stop.
“I’m firing a warning shot,” Ryker said, lifting his hand and adjusting his aim.
But before he could pull the trigger, a blast ripped through the field, sudden and blinding, a burst of fire and dirt and concussive force that sent Emma stumbling back.
Heat. Noise. Light.
Then everything disappeared in a wave of sound.
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