I shift my stance just a fraction, mimicking the man in front of me—knees bent, shoulders angled, weight braced—as if I’m ready to fire even though I can’t. He falters, momentarily confused.
It works. God, it actually works. But only for a heartbeat.
“Toss the gun,” he snaps.
Oh my God. He doesn’t know it’s empty.
If I drop it, I’m nothing but prey.
His gaze sharpens. “Last chance.”
The wind cuts across the clearing, stinging my cheek.
My breath clouds in little panicked bursts, and the world is narrowing—closing in, closing down—when a sound rises behind the ridge. Faint at first. A distant growl. Then sharper. Louder.
An engine.
A snowmobile.
Dear God. Dare I hope?
The sound rolls closer, echoing around us.
The men hear it too.
Their heads jerk toward the tree line.
There’s a heartbeat of hesitation?—
Then the world detonates.
The snowmobile bursts over the ridge like a beast unchained, engine screaming, plumes of white fog billowing behind it.
The rider leans low, black helmet, broad shoulders, dark jacket snapping in the wind. The silhouette hits me like a shockwave?—
Stryker.
The relief is so violent, so painful—like my ribs might crack open from the force of it.
I don’t shout. I don’t move.
I can’t do anything at all except stare as terror and something dangerously close to hope collide inside me.
He’s barreling down the slope, straight at them.
Straight at me.
The men whirl, raising their rifles.
“Stryker—” I don’t know if I say it out loud.
My voice is gone, ripped away by the wind.
Around me, gunfire erupts. Flashes of orange spit from muzzles. The air shreds into shards of sound. Snow blooms upward in violent plumes.
A bullet hits the snowmobile’s windshield—glass fractures like a spiderweb—but he doesn’t slow. Not even a fraction.
At the last second, he pivots hard and throws himself off the snowmobile.
