Despair grips me with an icy fist.
It’s over.
They got me.
Shaking, I take my foot off the gas.
My one chance at escape, and I blew it.
The SUV in front of me reduces speed as well, and the one on my side moves behind me. They know I have no choice but to comply.
It’s officially over.
I’ve lost.
The SUV in front of me slows further, forcing me to brake. My speedometer shows forty kilometers an hour, then thirty-five… then thirty. I’m practically crawling now, and I realize they’re making me stop.
They’re going to get me out of this car and drag me back to Kent’s house, where I will stay locked up until Peter comes for me.
The future stretches out in front of me, as dark and dangerous as this winding road. Without hope for escape, without choices, I will be Peter’s property, and so will our child. I will never see my friends and family again, never help women deliver their babies. As my parents grow older, I won’t be there for them, and they’ll never know their grandchildren.
All I will have is Peter, and the scariest thing of all is that this doesn’t seem unappealing.
I can see it so clearly: the way he’ll care for me, the tenderness in his eyes when he’ll hold our baby. He’ll love me with an intensity that will scorch my soul, and eventually, my own twisted love will grow from its ashes. And after a while, it will all seem normal, from my lack of freedom to the violence of his profession.
We’ll be a family, the way he wants, and as I watch the speedometer drop below fifteen, I know I can’t let it happen.
I can’t give in to the sickest part of me, the one that wants that twisted future.
Another bend in the road, more headlights coming our way. My frantic heartbeat steadies, a strange calm settling over me as I reach over and buckle my seatbelt. I’ll have less than a second to act, so I have to make it count.
Easing my foot off the brake, I clutch the wheel as hard as I can, and as the oncoming car whooshes by, its headlights blinding me and my pursuers alike, I yank the wheel all the way to the right, pulling out into the opposite lane as I floor the gas.
The car rips forward, zooming past the SUV blocking me in the front. I can practically hear my pursuers swear as I leave them in the dust again, my sleek Mercedes gaining speed with the throaty roar of a V8 engine. The speedometer jumps to 100… 110… 120… 130…
Sparks fly, metal scraping against metal as I sideswipe the guardrail again, but this time, I don’t slow down. I keep my foot steady, correcting just enough to maintain control.
It’s a video game, I tell myself. Just a racing video game where I’m driving on the wrong side of the road.
Having recovered from the shock of my sudden maneuver, my pursuers are on my tail again, but I have no intention of making it easy for them. Each time they get close, I veer into the middle of the road, preventing them from going around me. And I maintain my breakneck speed, keeping my foot on the gas even through the steepest turns. Pretending it’s a video game helps—I was always good at those as a kid.
One more minute on the road.
Two.
Three.
I can do it.
I can make it.
In the distance, I see lights, and my pulse jumps anew.
It’s the gas station. It has to be.
My plan is simple: screech to a stop in front of whatever store is there, jump out, and run in, screaming at the top of my lungs for a phone. With any luck, Kent’s people will be too worried about the authorities to grab me in public, but even if they’re not, someone—a gas station attendant, other drivers—will see what’s happening and call the police.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s all I’ve got.
The gas station looms closer with each second. To my relief, despite the early hour and the wilderness feel of the area, I see a well-lit store with a few people inside, and some cars in the parking lot.
My hope is that Kent won’t want to cause trouble so close to his home, and sure enough, the SUVs behind me reduce their speed, allowing me to pull ahead as we approach the gas station.
Triumph floods my veins as I take my foot off the gas, preparing to execute my stop-and-run maneuver.
I’m there.
Even if they catch me before I make it to a phone, my capture won’t go unnoticed.
I’m less than two hundred feet from the gas station when it happens.
A dog darts onto the road in front of me.
I react instinctively, swerving as I hit the brakes, and as my car spins into the guardrail, I have one last illogical thought.
I hope Peter and his men return from their job unscathed.
49
Peter
* * *
“Now,” I bark into the headset, and Yan fires the RPG as Arslan’s bodyguards herd their boss into his car.
Boom!
For a moment, there’s nothing but the blinding flash of the missile exploding and the ringing in my ears, but then I see it.
The surviving bodyguards scattering like roaches, with more running out of the guardhouse to confront the threat.
“Do it,” I tell Anton, and he starts picking them off one by one, his semi-automatic sniper’s rifle firing with deadly efficiency. I join him, and before long, a dozen bodies litter the ground, their heads blown open by our bullets.
“Two o’clock,” Yan shouts in the headset, and I spot movement on the ground. A guard is crouched low, using the burning car as a cover. His arm is around a man’s back, protecting him.
Fury spikes through me as I recognize the man.
Deniz Arslan.
Our target is still alive.
He’s bloodied and covered with dirt, but he’s walking—which means his bodyguards are even better than we thought.
“It’s Arslan,” I snarl into the headset, shifting my position to angle my scope around the obstruction of the burning car.
I have to get this f*cker.
He has to die today.
In the distance, sirens wail, and more bodyguards rush into Arslan’s yard. We have minutes, if not seconds, to complete our task.
Shutting out the noise and the pounding of my heartbeat in my temples, I concentrate and squeeze the trigger.
Arslan’s protector falls, his brains exploding all over the politician as I fire off a second shot.
“f*ck!”
Through training or dumb luck, my target falls and rolls—at the exact right time.
Swearing under my breath, I shoot again, and I hear the staccato roar of Anton’s weapon next to mine.
With grim satisfaction, I watch as two of our bullets rip through Arslan’s skull, exploding his brain on the way.
It’s done.
The corrupt politician is dead.
“Incoming,” Yan yells, and I jump to my feet, hearing a helicopter in the distance.
As expected, we’re going to have pursuit.
It takes mere seconds for Anton and myself to shimmy down from the neighbor’s roof and join Yan below on the street. It’s only a few blocks to the community fence from here, and we run as fast as we can as the sirens’ wail grows louder. The helicopter is approaching quickly, too.