Page 114 of Surrender to Me
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.
