Empty.
The sound rings small, metallic, and final. It echoes in the sudden silence.
He drops the magazine into the snow. His hand goes to his belt, reaching for the reload.
Click.
He freezes.
His hand pats his belt again. Frantic. Searching.
Empty.
The spare magazines. They’re in the truck. In the go-bag currently crushed under two tons of steel at the bottom of the ravine.
He’s out of ammo.
The soldiers sense the lull. The firing stops. They advance, movements sharper, bolder. They know the sound of a dry weapon.
“He’s dry. Move up.”
Boyd curses, a low, savage sound ripping through the night.
He holsters the empty gun.
He pulls the knife. The Ka-Bar. Six inches of black carbon steel against six automatic rifles. A suicide run.
He looks at me.
His eyes go wild, apologetic, devastated. The math is done. The sum is zero.
“Plan B.” He mouths the words.
“Boyd, no,” I whisper into the scarf.
He doesn’t listen. He shifts his weight. He prepares to charge. To die on his feet, buying me seconds. To be the distraction.
“Run, Iris.”
He lunges from cover.
“Stop.” I tear the word out of my throat, scrambling up from behind the rocks. I step into the open. Into the blinding glare of the tactical lights. I make myself a target. “Hold fire.”
“Iris, get down.” Boyd skids to a halt in the snow with a roar. He tries to put himself in front of me, shielding me with his body, but I step around him. I push him back.
I raise my hands. High. Empty.
“Do not shoot.”
The soldiers freeze.
Laser sights drift from Boyd’s chest to mine. Red dots settle on my sternum.
“Secure her.” The leader steps forward. No face. A balaclava and a cold look behind clear tactical glasses. He moves with the arrogance of a man who already won.
“If you shoot him,” I keep my voice steady, projecting over the wind, “the deal is off.”
The leader signals a halt with a raised fist.
