without a weapon, I needed to get close enough to physically attack him. While the thought of putting my hands around his neck sent a delicious shiver through me, I knew I stood little chance of getting close enough to do it.

Little chance…

A deep part of me seized on that, said “It’s still a chance, good enough, take it!” But I’d promised Jack. Sworn I wouldn’t do this again.

Still darting from bush to bush, dodging Wilkes’s shots, I drew deep breaths, slowing my heart, reminding myself of my promise.

If I took this chance, and I lost, then maybe that didn’t mean as much to me as it should, maybe I’d say the risk was worth it, maybe I could even convince myself that Jack wouldn’t realize I’d broken my promise. But one thing I did know. If I went down, Wilkes would get away. He’d have no reason to hang around, and any chance that someone else would catch him—Jack, Quinn, Felix, Evelyn, the cops—would evaporate. He’d be free again, all because I couldn’t fight that need to stop running and strike back.

Best thing I could do was stall him. Wait for help to arrive. But the yard wasn’t that big, I was wounded, and he still had time to get off plenty more rounds. Eventually a shot would be serious enough to take me down just long enough for him to walk over and put a bullet through my head.

Goddamn it, if only I had my gun! Why couldn’t I see it out there? Why couldn’t I trip over it racing across the yard? If I had that, I could take the upper hand, put a bullet into this bastard so fast—

But I didn’t have a gun and all the wishing and raging in the world wouldn’t change that. Those same flickering flames that were making it hard for Wilkes to see me were making it impossible for me to see a black gun on the ground. Even if I could find it, would it work after the fall? Then there was my wrist. I could brace my hand or shoot with my left, but both would throw off my reflexes and accuracy. Too many ifs. I couldn’t waste time—and focus—searching for the gun.

One thing I knew for certain: from now on, I was wearing a backup weapon.

I dove and weaved through the perimeter shrubs, missing some shots, getting gazed or hit in the chest armor by others. With every few steps, I stumbled. Any minute now, my ankle would give out for good.

How many shots had he taken? My brain blurted an answer. Seven—Another pffttt just above my head. Eight. He had ten rounds. Eleven if he’d chambered a round and topped up. Plus he’d be able to reload quickly, and probably even carried a backup weapon. Making him run out of ammo sounds good in the movies, but it wasn’t going to work here.

So now what? Jack’s voice echoed in my head, and I knew what he’d say. Run.

I was injured, with no working weapon, and no backup. As much as I hated to run—oh, God, how I hated to run!—if I didn’t, he’d kill me, then escape. My best chance was to make a break for it. Not escape him, lure him. Play fleeing prey and he’d follow. Why? Because if it were me doing the chasing, I’d follow. To run was to surrender. He had to fight, kill, win.

To keep this chase going, I needed to get out of this yard. Problem was, the only way out was over the fence. Jack had chosen this setup for my safety. No one had ever considered the possibility that I could get trapped here.

Wilkes fired, the shot zinging so close to my head I swore I felt it pass.

Over the fence it was.

I didn’t have time to worry whether my ankle could handle it—I had to make it work. One quick look and I found the biggest bush—one I’d just squeezed past. I steeled myself, turned sharp and raced back, ignoring the pain. The second I was behind that bush and hidden in its shadow, I grabbed the top of the fence, swinging myself up, grimacing as my wrist screamed in protest. For that split second, as I crested the fence, I was exposed. All I could do was keep my head down.

He fired. The shot hit my shoulder, stopped by the body armor, but the impact was almost enough to make me lose my grip. As