Page 116 of Surrender to Me
His fingers twitch once, and he fires his gun.
Boots crunch through the snow—slow, confident, deliberate—the sound of men who know they’ve already won.
The rifles aren’t just glinting; they’re pointed, tracking, hungry. I can feel the weight of their aim crawling over my skin like cold hands.
I press myself against the truck, metal shockingly cold even through my jacket. My breath fogs inside the helmet, shallow and ragged.
I lift the Glock again on instinct and fire at everyone who approaches. And then—click—it’s empty.
There’s nothing but dead weight in my hands.
The circle closes, tightening like a noose.
Their shadows stretch long across the snow, swallowing mine whole.
I can’t run.
I can’t hide.
I can’t breathe. Every instinct screams move, but there’s nowhere left to go.
I’m out of bullets. Out of time. Out of everything but the frantic thud of my heart and the taste of terror thick in my mouth.
They deliberately move in closer, rifles raised, and the world narrows to the black mouths of their barrels staring straight at me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lyra
Their boots grind closer, slow and deliberate, crunching through the snow like they’re stepping on bones.
The sound crawls up my spine.
The Glock hangs useless in my hands, the slide locked back, the chamber nothing but an empty gasp.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m shaking so hard the barrel quivers even though it’s not pointed at anything anymore.
Remy lifeless body is face down in the snow behind me.
I can’t let myself look at him again. If I do, I won’t be able to move at all.
One of the men steps forward, rifle leveled at my chest.
The barrel looks enormous—like a tunnel, like a void that wants to swallow me whole.
Another man flanks right, cutting off the way to the trees. The one in front grins, teeth flashing white against the black of his balaclava.
“Hand it over, bitch.”
The words hit like a slap.
The same tone. Same cadence. Same ugly threat I heard in that alley.
My lungs seize, and I reflexively tighten my fingers around the useless gun.
“Mirror them, Allie. Always mirror. It buys you time.”
Stryker’s voice—his warning in my head—comes back out of nowhere, a brutal, unexpected lifeline.
