The acrid scent of gunpowder lingered in the air as Tori and Javi stepped from their unmarked squad car onto the gravel of the police academy shooting range. The gray afternoon sky hung heavy overhead, threatening rain. Tori pulled her jacket closer around her, the fabric rustling softly against her arms. Her pale hand brushed back a strand of white hair that had escaped its tight bun—a stark contrast to the deep navy of her tactical vest.
"Check your messages again," Tori murmured, her voice low but clear over the distant pops and cracks of gunfire. "I want to be sure we have the right time for Fields' practice session."
Javi, his dark eyes scanning the email on his phone, nodded. "It's confirmed," he said, locking the screen and slipping the device into his pocket. "Jason Fields should be at booth number seven according to the schedule."
Tori's gaze, the color of storm-tossed seas, fixed on the row of shooting booths ahead. Each shot that rang out was another reminder of what was at stake. They’d managed to track the team member of Naomi Fisher’s disaster response crew to a police academy training session. Apparently, Mr. Fields had aspirations beyond disaster response.
As they approached the range, the rhythm of gunshots became a staccato soundtrack to their mission. Both agents moved with purpose, their training taking over as they navigated the terrain. Tori's eyes darted between the booths, looking for anything out of place—a movement against the wind, a step out of sync with the cadence of shots.
"Stay sharp," Tori whispered, barely audible above the noise. Javi simply nodded, his expression set in a determined line as they closed the distance to where Jason Fields was supposed to be.
The gravel crunched beneath their boots as Tori and Javi strode into the open expanse of the police academy shooting range. The stark midday sun cast long, unwavering shadows that mimicked their determined steps. Tori flipped through the digital dossier on her phone one more time, her thumb pausing over the grainy photo of Jason Fields. Beside her, Javi kept his eyes on the surrounding area, the muscles in his jaw flexing with focus.
"Last seen at booth seven," Tori murmured.
Javi nodded, his response lost as a volley of gunshots cracked the air, punctuating the tension between them. They both snapped to attention, every sense heightened in anticipation of confrontation. The methodical discharge of firearms was coming from ahead, where makeshift booths lined up like soldiers in formation.
"Trainees," Javi observed, his voice barely rising above the cacophony of gunfire.
"Doesn't mean he's not blending in," Tori replied, her gaze never leaving the range as they advanced. They moved with purpose, each step a dance they had performed countless times before—two parts of a well-oiled machine seeking justice in a world that often felt bereft of it.
"Let's go," Tori signaled with a nod, her hand brushing the butt of her holstered weapon, a small comfort against the looming uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Tori's hand hovered near her weapon as she and Javi slinked between the shooting booths, their boots silent on the weathered concrete floor. She scanned each booth methodically, searching for the telltale signs of Jason Fields—a stance too aggressive, a grip too tight on the trigger.
"Clear," whispered Javi, his voice barely audible over the gunfire. Tori acknowledged with a sharp nod, her focus unbroken as they approached the next partition. The stench of gunpowder hung heavy in the air, mingling with the undercurrent of adrenaline that fueled their every move.
They came upon a pair of trainees, lost in concentration, their shots punctuating the range with disciplined cadence. One trainee, a young woman with raven-black hair drawn back in a tight ponytail, unloaded a magazine into the target's center mass with impressive precision.
"FBI business," Tori interjected firmly, her eyes locking onto the trainees' surprised faces. "We need you to evacuate immediately."
"Is there a threat?" the woman asked, her hand instinctively hovering over her emptied firearm.
"Potential," Javi answered, his tone leaving no room for discussion. "Please, for your safety, exit the range now."
The trainees exchanged uncertain glances, but the gravity in Tori's eyes spurred them into action. They set their weapons down safely and hurried off toward the exit, casting nervous looks over their shoulders.
"Keep moving," Tori urged Javi, who gave her a brief nod of understanding. She felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on her shoulders—not just to catch Jason Fields, but to protect innocent lives from getting caught in the crossfire.
They continued their cautious advance, booth by booth, the suspense threading through their nerves like electricity seeking ground.
Tori caught Javi's gaze, a silent conversation sparking between them. He inclined his head slightly toward the next booth, and she responded with the barest nod. They had developed a wordless language over time, born of necessity and mutual respect. She could almost hear him in her mind, cautioning her to stay alert, reminding her that Jason Fields was a cunning adversary.
A flicker of movement from Javi—a hand signal, two fingers pointing to his eyes then sweeping outward—meant "watch" and "cover me." Tori's response was a mirror image, affirming she understood. They moved as one, Javi approaching the next booth while Tori stood back, positioned where she could see the entire range, her hand resting lightly on her holstered weapon.
Her breaths were measured, controlled, despite the adrenaline that surged through her system. Each cleared booth ratcheted the tension higher; every shadow seemed to twitch with potential threat. The stark reality that Jason could be crouched behind any divider, waiting to strike, clawed at Tori’s focus. She pushed it away, channeling the memory of Sammy's laughter, using it as a beacon to guide her resolve. Her brother hadn't been given a fighting chance, but she'd make damn sure she gave these trainees theirs.
Javi emerged from the booth, giving a clear sign. No sign of Jason. Tori exhaled slowly, shifting her gaze to the next target area. She pieced together what they knew. A banquet paid for by Gabriel Tally, the millionaire. Someone had funded the Whitmores through Tally’s charity.
One of Tally’s relatives worked for Early Response… And all roads now seemed to lead to Jason.
Another booth lay ahead, its occupant focused on a paper target downrange. Javi approached silently, his presence going unnoticed until he was nearly beside the shooter. With a tap on the shoulder and a stern whisper, the trainee startled but complied, recognizing the gravity of the situation in the hard set of Javi's jaw.
"Clear out," Javi instructed, his voice low and urgent, but calm—a juxtaposition that spurred the trainee into swift action. The young man collected his gear and retreated without protest, disappearing into the safety beyond the building's heavy doors.
The rhythm of their progress became a mantra: approach, signal, clear. With each repetition, the sense of imminent confrontation grew. Tori's fingers brushed against the cool metal of her sidearm, ready to draw but praying the gesture wouldn't be necessary.
They were close now; she could feel it. A telltale prickle at the back of her neck warned her that Jason was near—that the hunter might soon become the hunted.
Tori exchanged another look with Javi, their shared determination an unspoken vow to end this today, to do what was necessary. The air was thick with anticipation, and the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights overhead seemed to buzz in agreement.
The echo of gunfire ricocheted off the walls, a staccato symphony that underscored their approach. Tori's gaze was drawn to the far end of the shooting range, where a lone figure stood out against the stark backdrop of the academy's concrete and steel. The silhouette moved with mechanical precision, cycling through targets with methodical ease. She didn't need to see his face to know it was him—Jason Fields.
His posture was relaxed despite the destruction his hands wrought; each shot fired found its mark with an accuracy that spoke of countless hours honed at this very skill. A pang of reluctant admiration laced with a bitter edge surged within her as she watched him.
Tori felt Javi's presence at her side without looking, the slight shift in air pressure the only giveaway. Their eyes met, two mirrors reflecting back the same resolve. It was a silent conversation they'd perfected over time, a blend of instinct and shared experience that transcended words. In the briefest exchange, they came to an unspoken agreement: caution was paramount, haste their enemy.
They stepped forward simultaneously, their movements synchronized yet fluid. Each footfall was measured, a deliberate counterpoint to the erratic rhythm of gunfire. They were ghosts flitting between the lanes, phantoms of retribution closing in on a specter who had eluded justice for too long.
As they edged closer to where Jason stood, the biting scent of gunpowder and oiled metal filled Tori's senses, sharpening her focus. Her heartbeat was a drum in her chest, steady and insistent, but she quelled the rush of adrenaline that threatened to quicken it. There was no room for error, not with so much at stake.
Tori's white-knuckled grip on her weapon betrayed the tension she kept otherwise expertly concealed, a tension born from anticipation and the poignant echo of loss.
With each silent step, Tori and Javi closed the distance between themselves and Jason Fields. They were a breath away. Their quarry, oblivious to the approach of justice, continued the rhythmic dance of destruction as he dispatched target after target with chilling precision.
But fate, it seemed, was capricious in its dealings. Just as they neared striking distance, the impossible happened. The clairvoyance of the hunted kicked in; Jason's head snapped up, his body tensing like a coiled spring. His gun, which had been an extension of his will, dropped to his side—a fleeting moment of vulnerability that could have spelled his end.
"Dammit!" The curse, raw and visceral, tore through the crackle of gunfire, slicing the charged air. In the stark blue-gray of Tori's eyes, a reflection of Jason's sudden shift flickered—the transformation from prey to predator. With a swiftness that defied his earlier calm, Jason spun on his heel, his movements fueled by a volatile mix of anger and an unyielding resolve to survive.
The gun barrel swung up, aligning with lethal intent toward where Tori and Javi stood. The weight of the moment hung suspended, a heartbeat stretched taut across the precipice of action and reaction. This was not just another standoff; it was a confluence of past and present.
Time stretched thin, the air charged with impending violence. The first bullet split the silence, a lethal messenger announcing Jason's intent. Instinct took over; years of training honed to this razor's edge moment. Tori felt Javi's presence—an extension of her own will to survive—as they both threw themselves toward the only cover in sight.
The shooting booth, upended, offered scant protection but it was enough. They hit the ground hard, the unforgiving concrete leeching warmth from their bodies as they shrank behind the meager shield. Dust and debris kicked up by the impact danced in the air before settling on Tori’s jacket, the stench of gunpowder infiltrating her senses.
Bullets whizzed overhead, close enough that each one seemed like a personal affront, a death whisper skimming past them. She could feel Javi's rapid breaths sync with her own, two soldiers in an unwelcome rhythm set by the soundtrack of gunfire.
Both of them had drawn their own weapons. Javi gave her a nod.
She nodded back.
They waited for a lull in Jason’s gunfire, and then tensed for return fire.