Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Lyra
I cling to Remy’s back, my arms locked so tight around his waist that my fingers ache where they knot against his jacket.
The snowmobile’s engine snarls like a living thing, and the world narrows to the roar in my ears and the bite of wind against every inch of exposed skin.
A minute or two later, Remy stops in a small opening.
The sudden silence roars in my ears.
Remy yanks a spare helmet from the cargo strap. “Put this on, kid.”
When I hesitate, he thrusts it toward me. “Lyra?” His voice is rough, urgent, the same tone he used when I was twelve and he woke me up as police were about to raid the safehouse where my dad and I were staying in Marseille. “You with me, kid?”
“Yeah.” What choice do I have?
My hands are shaking so hard that I nearly drop the helmet.
The padding is worn, smells of old leather and pine needles.
I jam it over my head, the visor fogging instantly with my breath. The comm crackles to life the second the seal clicks.
“Test.” He’s already gripped the throttle again.
“Copy.” My voice sounds thin, swallowed by the helmet’s shell. “Give me a second.”
“What the hell are you fucking with?”
Not answering, I twist around so that I can transfer my Glock, and then, more surreptitiously, the ceramic fob to pockets inside my coat. “Ready.”
Without another word, he guns it.
This time he lurches forward so hard my stomach drops.
Branches whip past, low and vicious, smacking the helmet with sharp cracks that vibrate through my skull.
One catches my shoulder and tears the sleeve of my jacket with a sound like ripping paper. Snow sprays up in icy sheets, stinging my neck where the collar gaps.
My exposed fingers turn red, then go numb against the cold leather of Remy’s jacket.
I press closer, flattening a cheek between his shoulder blades.
The trail is a tunnel of white and green, rutted and unforgiving.
Every root and drift jars through the snowmobile and into my bones, a relentless percussion that rattles my teeth.
My thighs burn from clamping the seat, my arms scream from holding on.
Remy weaves like he was born to it—left, right, ducking under a limb that would take my head off if I sat even an inch taller.
The wind is a living thing, clawing at my jacket, trying to peel me off the machine and fling me into the snow.
“There’s a truck waiting at the clearing,” he says through the comm, calm as if we’re on a Sunday drive. He’s always been this way.
Though he’s been in and out of my life for as long as I can remember, I don’t really know much about the shadowy figure who bailed my dad out of more trouble than anyone should find.
He’s always shown up when we were the most desperate.
I do know his services aren’t cheap.
“We’ll be about twenty, thirty minutes to the airport in Granby. Bird’s fueled for Los Angeles.”
I don’t respond.
“I hope whatever the hell you’re running from is worth it.”
I shift my weight, feel the hard press of the locket against my sternum. My dad was willing to die to protect these two relics. Nothing’s worth that.
As the skis chew through the distance, the tree line slowly begins to thin.
Sunlight slices through in blinding bars, turning the snow to diamonds. The clearing opens ahead—wide, white, peaceful.
Remy, always cautious, stops, lifts the visor on his helmet, and scans the area with a pair of binoculars that had been tucked inside his coat.
From here, I can see a black truck standing at the closest edge.
Everything is silent and still. And his is the only vehicle around.
“Here’s the drill, kid.” His voice goes low and deliberate, each word clipped like he’s slotting rounds into a chamber.
“You’re gonna take that tree line to the right—see it?
” He points. “The dark stretch that dips downhill. You follow that slope until you hit the creek bed. Stay low the whole way.”
He doesn’t give me time to respond. He never does.
“You’re headed for the truck. It’s unlocked, and there’s a push-button start. Keys are beneath the seat. Drive like hell until the GPS kicks in. It’ll route you out to the airport. You’re looking for Kenneth there.”
“Got it.”
“Wheels up the minute you’re onboard.”
Even though my pulse stutters, I catalog his instructions. “I’m not waiting for you?” Only on rare occasions has he stayed with me.
“I’ll make sure you make a getaway.”
His voice drops into that gravelly, don’t-argue-with-me register that burrows straight under my ribs.
He scans the distance again, and so do I.
Everything is quiet. Eerily so.
“Go.”
I swing my leg over the seat, sinking into the powdery snow that swallows me to the shins. The shock of the cold seeps through my pants instantly. My arm throbs where the branch tore fabric and skin, and blood is already crusting on it.
“Remy—”
“Later.” He waves me toward the truck, voice tight.
A gunshot cracks like a whip through the stillness.
The snowmobile’s front ski explodes in a shower of sparks and shredded plastic.
Remy spins, shoving me down into the snow so hard the breath whooshes from my lungs.
A second bullet whines past my ear, close enough that I feel the heat of it through the helmet.
I taste blood and powder and my own dark terror.
My helmet saves my skull as we hit the ground, Remy’s weight is half on top of me, shielding me. Snow packs into my collar. As it begins to melt, it oozes down my neck.
Remy’s already up and moving, dragging me behind the wrecked snowmobile with one arm. His other is clamped against the hole in his side.
Blood seeps between his fingers, hot and slick.
Another round punches through the cowling, showering us with fiberglass shards that glitter in the sunlight like deadly snow.
“Stay low.” His voice is urgent against my ear.
I fumble inside my jacket, fingers numb and useless until they close around the grip of the gun.
The weight of it is familiar, an old friend I never wanted to need again.
Fighting back panic, I look at the clearing.
It’s wide open, and we have no cover except the snowmobile and the truck that’s at least thirty yards away…a lifetime as a bullet flies.
Then…
Fuck.
Black shapes melt from the tree line. Four men. Five. Rifles up, muzzles flashing.
Remy’s breath rattles, wet and labored. “On my mark, you run for the truck. Don’t look back.”
“No—” The word rips out of me, raw and desperate.
“Now!”
He surges up, firing wild with his one hand, the other clamped to the wound.
Damn it.
Damn him.
“Go!”
I scramble on hands and knees, snow burning my palms, my knees, my shins.
A bullet kicks up a geyser inches from my boot, showering me with ice.
Another slices fire across my forearm—hot, shocking, a line of pure agony that makes me cry out.
Finally, thankfully, I reach the truck and try to yank the door open. But nothing happens.
It’s locked, even though it’s not supposed to be.
Frantic, I spin back toward Remy.
He’s on his knees now, blood oozing into the snow. His eyes find mine across the distance, steady even as his body fails.
“Save yourself!” The words are almost lost under the gunfire, but I hear them in my bones.
One of the bad guys nears Remy, and he fires in a desperate attempt to save himself and buy me time.
But the man keeps coming.
I raise my gun with both shaking hands and squeeze off one desperate shot to protect Remy. The recoil slams up my arms, the sound echoing sharp and final.
The would-be assassin staggers, clutches his thigh, and goes down cursing.
All the other assailants fan out, muzzles flashing like deadly fireflies.
Despite my efforts, Remy is hit. I scream as he falls forward, face in the snow, red blooming beneath him in a grotesque starburst, jagged and violent.
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.