Maybe we should call Shelby again and get Lisas number? Jack suggested.

Rachel considered this, but not for long. Instead, she shocked herself when she realized that she was drawing back to kick the door. Jack noticed it, too, but a moment too late.

Rachel, what are you d

The first kick only caused the door to shudder in its frame. It also sent a little ache through her knee. The ache and Jacks protest nagged at her, informing her that she was going too far, that this was not standard protocol. But there was a ticking clock in her head and heart, a clock that knew she would be dead in a year. It pushed her and, ultimately, caused her not to give a shit about things like waiting on warrants or potentially overreacting and kicking a door down when a case was gnawing at her heels. She knew it went a bit beyond simply being a good agent and to something deeper, maybe something buried in her instincts and knowledge that she was indeed running on borrowed time.

Using all of this, Rachel drew back and kicked again, and then a third time. The third kick caused the edging of the frame to start cracking.

Rachel! What the hell?

Jack made a move to get in her way, to prevent a fourth kick. But Rachels speed and momentum took them both by surprise. The fourth kick sent the door flying inward, taking a chunk of the frame with it. It slammed hard against something inside and bounded back, but Rachel stopped it with her hand and stepped inside.

Jack came marching in behind her and stepped in front of her. What the hell was that? You know we dont have nearly enough evidence to cause us to forcefully enter.

Maybe not, Rachel said, still a little surprised at herself. But we do have four bodies, with a potential fifth on the way. Not only that, we

She stopped here, her eyes already scanning the apartment beyond Jacks shoulder. They were standing in the kitchen (the solid thunk the door had made upon flying inward had been the fridge), which gave way to the living room. From where she stood, Rachel could only see half of the couch and the coffee table, but she saw enough to cause some red flags to start waving internally.

She sidestepped Jack and made her way into the living room. The coffee table was littered with newspapers, none dated any older than the previous week. Small pieces of some were cut out, the cuts made perfectly. Partially buried under one of these cut-up pages, she saw a small pad, the sort most people used to jot down grocery lists. She knew what was on it even before she grabbed it up and had a good look.