The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 249

Wyatt lunged at Cassandra, locking his arm around her head and violently dragging her down to the ground.

They huddled tightly together, making themselves as small as possible. Bullets tore through the air inches above them, carrying blistering waves of heat like a swarm of invisible, lethal hornets.

Garrison lay flat on the ground, his palms pressing hard into the frozen surface, his blood mingling with the jagged ice shards. Amidst the deafening roar of gunfire, his gaze remained fiercely locked onto his team...

"Cassandra, don't you dare move!"

Wyatt pinned her safely behind the lifeless body of a tactical guard. He carefully shifted his weight, peeked around the corpse, and extended his hand to snatch the pistol he had dropped earlier.

He aimed, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

One fluid, flawless motion.

Bang!

The lead guard's forehead blossomed with a brilliant crimson flower. He jerked violently backward and slammed into the ice.

Wyatt didn't stop. Flat on his stomach, he rested the barrel over the dead guard's arm, lining up his targets with the cold precision of a sniper. His breathing was dead calm. His hands didn't shake. Bang—second guy, straight through the chest. Bang—third guy, the neck. A spray of blood arched through the headlamp's beam like a dark, glossy ribbon.

The remaining guards broke into a dead sprint.

Not toward Wyatt. Toward the helicopter. Wyatt pushed himself up, chased after them for two strides, planted his feet, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Click. The slide locked back. Empty.

He tossed the pistol, scooped up a fallen submachine gun from one of the dead guards, leveled it, and locked his sights onto the retreating black silhouettes.

Rat-tat-tat!

The burst of gunfire ripped through the air. One by one, the black figures face-planted into the snow, completely motionless.

The wind died down.

The snow stopped falling.

The world plunged into an eerie silence, so profoundly quiet that they could hear their own racing pulses.

Josh slowly released his grip on Sloane. He rolled off her, sprawling onto his back on the frozen lake, violently gasping for air.

His back was completely covered in shattered ice, his tactical jacket shredded in a dozen places. But there was no blood—the cold had instantly frozen the shallow cuts.

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