Boyd stands in the snow. Motionless as they take me.
He doesn’t look like a man given a death sentence. He doesn’t look like a man who surrendered.
He’s memorizing their faces, counting their numbers, noting their weapons, their formation, their discipline.
He’s calculating how to kill them.
Our gaze holds one last time across the distance.
I’m coming for you.
The silent promise hangs in the cold air between us. Louder than the wind. Hotter than fire.
Then the men shove me forward, over the ridge, and the darkness swallows him whole.
14
The Dead Man Walking
BOYD
The forest doesn’t mourn.It swallows.
I don’t see taillights. I don’t hear engines. We’re too deep, too far past the ridge line, buried in a topography eating sound and light.
Only the crunch of boots fades into the distance, a rhythmic cadence of men moving a heavy load.
Then that fades too.
The wind rushes in to fill the vacuum. It howls through the canopy, shaking snow from the high branches, burying the evidence of what just happened.
I’m alone.
The realization isn’t a thought. It acts as a concussive impact, heavier than the truck rolling over me. It hits me in the center of my torso, stopping the air in my throat.
She’s gone.
I stand in the knee-deep drift, staring at the empty space where she stood seconds ago. The darkness remains absolute. The cold moves in instantly to occupy her absence. It doesn’t creep; it slams against me, a leaden weight pressing against myexposed skin, seeking the heat I surrendered. It bites through the thermal shirt, driving straight for the heart.
I should be moving. Tactical protocol dictates immediate evasion or pursuit.
But my legs refuse to fire.
I’m paralyzed by the image burned into my retinas.
Iris looking back. The promise in her eyes. The terror she swallowed to protect me. The way she stepped into the light so I could stay in the dark.
I’m the shield. You’re the life.
I lied.
I failed the deal, acting as a broken shield and a jammed weapon.
My knees hit the snow.
It isn’t a decision. It’s a mechanical failure. The adrenaline fueling the standoff evaporates, draining out of my system like oil from a cracked pan. It leaves behind a body battered, bleeding, and rapidly freezing. The snow soaks through the fabric of my tactical pants instantly, a wet, freezing shock traveling up my thighs.
I look down.
