I stop moving.
My breath frosts in front of me.
Something stirs farther down the road, a blur against the horizon. A figure. A man jogging across the asphalt with an unnatural gait. The gray sky behind him bleeds into his silhouette like he is made of smoke.
I raise my gun.
Peighton slips out of the car and steps toward me, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, worry tightening her face. “Gustav. What is it?”
“Get back inside,” I tell her, low and harsh.
She turns to obey, but something catches her eye and stops her in place. Another shape moves at the tree line. He is closer than the runner on the horizon. Much closer.
Then a third branch snaps behind us. Snaps clean, like something stepped on it deliberately.
Peighton’s breath hitches. She back to me and clutches my sleeve.
We both turn.
A man stands in front of the car, blocking our way, silent and sudden as a ghost.
He’s wrapped in pelts over a reinforced jacket, looking like he crawled out of a Siberian myth and stole a soldier’s armor. Thick blond hair, heavier beard, both unkempt. A jagged scar splits his face from forehead, eyebrow, to cheek. His eyes gleam like an animal’s.
A golden madman with a killer’s appetite. No question, this is their leader.
For a moment, he merely watches us.
Then something thin and sharp loops around my throat.
Wire.
Someone behind me yanks it tight.
Pain explodes across my windpipe. I choke out a sound and reach back, trying to wedge fingers between my neck and the garrote. The world tilts. Black dots stain the edges of my vision.
Peighton screams.
The animal in me roars to life.
I slam my elbow back. Something cracks under the force — a rib, maybe. The man choking me grunts and stumbles, his hold loosening. I seize the opening, grab him by the hair and flip him forward over my shoulder. His skull hits the pavement with a splat and crunch. He groans in agony.
I draw my gun and shoot him in the forehead.
The sound echoes.
More figures burst from the trees.
Petyr shouts something, firing rapid shots. Keira screams as hands smash through the SUV windows to drag her out. Arrows whistle. Hatchets flash.
They fight like hunters, not soldiers.
I shoot one through the throat. Grab a hatchet from another and bury it between his eyes. The cold wind fills with the scent of blood and animals.
“Peighton!” I roar.
She is fighting. My little wife throws herself at a man reaching for me, clawing at his eyes. It is brave and stupid and makes something savage twist in my chest. I grab her around the waist, lift her, and run.
Petyr follows close, firing behind us in frantic bursts. Keira stumbles beside him, face bloody but alive.
