Page 83 of Protected from Torment

“How can they do this?” I ask, more to myself than to Tyler. “It’s a public road.” But I know the answer. Aside from us and the truck, I haven’t seen another car in miles.

Another crack erupts, and this time, the car sags to the left.

“Fuck,” Tyler hisses. “They got both rear tires.”

Now he’s full-on fighting with the steering wheel to keep us on the road. The car is bumping unevenly, jerking us around as it veers back and forth. In profile, Tyler’s features are like stone. His expression is more intense than I’ve ever seen it.

“Here we go,” he says. “Coming up on the turn… now.”

Though I’m supposed to be keeping my head low, I can’t resist chancing a quick peek over the dashboard. I need to know where we’re going. I can’t go in blindly.

But as soon as I see the turn, my stomach plummets. It’s sharp—nearly ninety degrees—and on either side are thick walls of trees. And not young trees, with narrow trunks, but old, established ones. Ones with unforgiving trunks as thick as my waist.

In a blink, I’m confronted by all the terrible ways this could end. Losing control of the one-eighty and ending up stuck in the middle of the road. The hood collapsed around a large pine, the windshield shattered, both of us unconscious and slumped over the airbags. Or flipped over entirely, the engine smoking while we dangle limply from our seatbelts, sitting ducks for the people in the truck behind us.

No.

Tyler’s going to get us out of this.

He hasn’t given me reason to doubt him yet, and I’m not starting now.

“Hitting the brake,” Tyler says. “Hang on.”

Summoning all my courage, I sit back against the seat and brace myself, just as Tyler instructed. My body tenses in anticipation—of a bullet slamming into the back of my seat, the airbag crashing into my face, the violence of the car going off the road—and I squeeze my eyes shut.

“You can do this,” I murmur. “I know you can.”

“Hang on,” Tyler replies. “And… now.”

He yanks the brake, and the car jerks backward. Then he wrenches the steering wheel, sending us into a spin. My body slams against the door from the motion, and the side of my head raps against the window.

My heart beats so fast I think I might have a heart attack.

The terror is so great, I’m lightheaded from it.

I don’t want to die, I silently plead. Please.

Then we come to a rocking stop, and for a moment, we’re blissfully still.

I poke my head above the dashboard to see the pickup truck on the opposite side of the road, facing us. Not right in front of us, but not far enough for my liking, either.

“Head down,” Tyler says. Then he punches the gas, and the engine revs. The tires spin, kicking up bits of rock and rubble from the road.

“Come on,” Tyler mutters, “Come on.”

For a second, I think, This is it. The tires are flat, we can’t get enough traction, we’re going to be stuck here, easy pickings for the shooter in the truck⁠—

Then, with another jarring lurch, the tires gain purchase and we start moving again.

Bent over in my seat, I can see Tyler’s foot pressed flat to the floor. He’s bent low over the steering wheel, trying to protect himself as best he can for the next part of the maneuver.

Passing the truck.

We have to pass the truck in our attempt to escape. Which gives them a chance to shoot at us again, and with Tyler driving, he’s an easy target.

But I don’t hear another gunshot. Or the shattering of glass. Just the sound of the engine as it strains to take us faster.

“Almost there,” Tyler says, as much to himself as to me. “Almost there…”