Lara's breath caught. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
There would be no running this time.
The soldiers closed in, their boots crunching through dry leaves like the snapping of bones. Two dozen of them formed a tightening ring of steel and hostility around her.
The afternoon sun that filtered through the canopy of trees licked their drawn swords in a smear of silver light.
"Drop your weapon or die!" The commander bellowed.
General Tyron said nothing. He didn't need to. His killing intent pressed against her like a physical force. He stepped forward, his armor whispering menace, and in a blur of motion, he tried to disarm her. His hands searched her, rough and invasive, lingering where they shouldn't.
Disgust surged through Lara's veins. She jerked back and slashed with her dagger. Tyron withdrew his hand, and blood gushed out from his wound.
