Page 12 of Surrender to Me
The second figure—a wiry guy with a scar slicing his cheek—spots us, shouting to others I can’t see. The chase is on.
We tear through Wash Park, Stryker leading, dodging joggers and strollers like they’re obstacles in a combat course.
He vaults a low fence with fluid grace, and I keep pace, my legs burning, heart hammering but singing with the adrenaline rush.
The locket bounces against my skin, a metronome to my fear and thrill. I spot a crowded farmer’s market across the street—booths of apples and kettle corn, voices haggling—and veer toward it, grabbing Stryker’s sleeve. “This way.”
He doesn’t argue, following as I weave us through the chaos, past a woman balancing pumpkins, under a banner flapping in the wind. Scarface is close, his boots pounding, but the crowd slows him.
Stryker’s hand grazes my back, guiding me left, and then he’s on another thug who breaks through the throng—a quick chokehold, precise and brutal, drops the guy without a sound.
“Stay close, Allie.” His voice is low, intimate, like we’re sharing a secret instead of running for our lives.
I hate how it warms me.
We break free of the market, sprinting toward a side street. There’s a black SUV waiting up ahead, nondescript, tinted windows screaming operative.
His?
My guess is right.
It belongs to Styker.
We dive in, and instantly he peels out, tires screeching as he weaves through Denver’s one-way streets.
A sharp turn throws me against the door, my pulse syncing with the engine’s growl. He doubles back, eyes flicking to the rearview, calculating every move like a chess master.
A car tails us, a black sedan that’s too close.
Stryker cuts through an alley, then a parking lot, losing them with a precision that’s almost art. I shouldn’t be impressed. After all, he’s a highly trained agent.
He’s a weapon, and a twisted part of me wants to be near him.
The city blurs past, and my breath catches, not just from the chase but from him—his hands steady on the wheel, his jaw set, his scent filling the car—spicy, dangerous, and masculine—cutting through my panic.
“You okay?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
“Fine.” We’re clear, and I’m alive. I could have gotten away without him, but having him there was definitely an advantage. Not that I’d tell him that.
Minutes later, no tail, we pull into an underground garage, the SUV’s rumble echoing off concrete walls.
Stryker kills the engine, and the sudden silence presses against my ears.
I’m still wired, my skin buzzing from the chase, from the way his hand grazed my back in the market, steady and sure.
I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be anywhere near him, but my options are thinning faster than the morning mist. One night, I remind myself. Just one.
He leads me to an elevator, his stride clipped, purposeful. No words, just the faint creak of his boots and the hum of fluorescent lights.
I allow my fingers to hover near that Glock that’s still tucked beneath my hoodie, a reflex I can’t shake.
The doors slide open, and we step into a hallway—gray, unremarkable, the kind of place that doesn’t exist unless you’re looking for it.
His unit is at the end, a steel-reinforced door with a keypad that blinks red until he presses his finger to an unseen touchpad. Then he opens the door for me.
Inside, his place hits me like a distorted mirror of my own. Stark. Functional. No photos, no knickknacks, just clean lines and shadows.
A laptop sits on a steel desk. A go bag slouches by the door like it’s waiting for its own escape.
