The roar of the retreating helicopter faded into the freezing sky, leaving a suffocating, terrifying silence in the narrow canyon.
"Move." Gideon roared, his Alpha voice shattering the quiet like a thunderclap.
He didn't wait for the surviving Ironclaw guards to gather their gear. He sprinted toward the secondary transport, which lay half-buried in a snowbank thirty yards down the pass. The front bumper was crumpled, but the heavy diesel engine grumbled to life with a mechanical growl when Gideon smashed his hand onto the manual ignition bypass beneath the steering column.
I threw myself into the passenger seat, my silver daggers still slick with Executioner blood as I slammed the armored door shut. The three surviving guards scrambled into the flatbed behind us, racking their carbines.
