Her bare feet left blood on the ice as she fought, her hands clawing at the thick arm clamped around her throat.
For one impossible second, he was back there.
Too far away.
Too late.
The man had her locked tight against his chest, using her body as protection. Nothing exposed but the edge of his face and one shoulder.
Pav lifted the rifle and took aim.
Her body shifted as she fought, throwing the line off even further. His muzzle tracked, adjusted?—
Pav closed.
Twenty feet. Fifteen.
Bare feet on gravel and frozen mud, jagged ice lacerating his feet with every stride. He didn’t slow.
The man flung Harper into the van. He dove in after her, slammed the door.
The engine revved. The tires spun, spat grit, and the van lurched forward.
Pav adjusted. Not straight—angling, trying to cut the driver’s side as it rolled, weapon up, tracking the windshield. The driver’s window was tinted. Shadows inside, but no clear line. Nothing he could shoot without risking her.
The van picked up speed, nose swinging toward the road. He stepped wider, trying to clear the front quarter—get past the pillar, find the driver.
Harper’s silhouette flashed across the back window as she was dragged down.
Fuck.No clean shot.
He planted his feet.
Sights. Breath. Rear tire.
The only target that didn’t bleed.
He fired.
The round punched through the rubber. It blew, shredding, and the van fishtailed, but it didn’t stop.
The driver corrected, forcing it forward. Gravel sprayed, sparks dragging from the rim. The van took the bend. Brake lights flared—red against the white.
Then it was gone.
Harper with it.
39
He’d let someone in.
And the world took her.
Again.
Pav stood in the road, feet numb, chest heaving. The road was empty, Harper gone.
He knew this silence. He’d stood in it before. The same hollow carved out of the world where a person used to be.
