The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 242

Arlo straightened up, his hand slowly drifting toward the gun holstered at his hip.

"Heh, you're not dead yet. Guess you're harder to kill than I thought."

"Sorry to disappoint." Wyatt smirked, the smile fleeting and sharp as a blade's edge.

Arlo's eyes narrowed. He recognized the man standing before him; it was one of Garrison Foster's people. A bodyguard, perhaps.

No, not just a bodyguard. This man exuded a relaxed, almost lazy aura of lethal intent—the kind that only came from someone who had waded through a storm of bullets and survived.

Arlo's fingers rested lightly against his gun's grip, but he didn't draw it.

He was waiting... waiting for the man to take just one more step forward, waiting for the perfect angle to aim for the heart.

Wyatt didn't move an inch.

He stood rooted to the spot, chewing on the unlit cigarette with a relaxed demeanor, looking entirely unbothered. The two men locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to blink first. The freezing wind howled fiercely across the frozen lake.

Cassandra had completely circumvented the outpost from the opposite side. Her footsteps were practically weightless, like a prowling cat, making zero sound against the fractured ice. She positioned herself behind Arlo's blind spot, using a waist-high stack of supply crates to mount her weapon. Crouching low, she leveled the barrel over the crates, the crosshairs of her scope resting dead center on the back of Arlo's skull. Her finger rested gently on the trigger, squeezing with excruciating slowness...

Wyatt pulled the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it as though knocking off the ash—despite it being completely unlit.

It was the signal.

"Bang."

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