Page 107 of Shadow

Two-second delay.

The Tahoe was forty feet down. Still rolling. Still gathering speed. The sound of crashing metal continued—boom, crunch, boom.

One second.

Fifty feet now. Hitting larger trees. Starting to slow.

The explosion erupted from the underside. Fire engulfed the vehicle. Black smoke billowed up, thick and oily. The dry pine needles and grass caught immediately, then died as the flames met the rocky shore.

But the dummies would burn beyond recognition.

Asher fell to his knees, to his back, then lay there, breathing hard. His ribs screamed with every inhale. Gravel bit into his back through his torn jacket.

Footsteps approached. Fast. Running on gravel.

Dmitri appeared above him. Blocking the sun. His shadow fell across Asher’s face.

Dmitri pulled out his phone. Turned away. Took photos of the burning wreckage. Smoke rose black against blue sky, hot flames licking at twisted metal.

Then Dmitri turned back. His fingers moved across the phone screen. Typed. Sent with a soft whoosh. Probably to Draven. Photographic proof.

“Good job,” Dmitri said. His voice was flat.

Asher pushed himself to sitting. The movement pulled every stitch. He winced. Tasted blood where he’d bitten his lip. “Thanks.”

“You hurt?”

He just gave him a look.

Dmitri smiled, stained teeth.

The sound of tires on gravel. Another vehicle approaching. Engine noise growing louder.

Both men turned.

A silver Honda Accord drove up, pulled over, and stopped ten feet away. The driver’s door opened.

A middle-aged man got out, balding head catching the sunlight. Glasses. Polo shirt and khakis. “Are you okay?” He left his car door open, jogged over to Asher. “Was that your car?”

He looked over the cliff, back to Asher.

“I saw that other car nearly take you out! I got it on my dash cam—the whole thing. That vehicle just swerved right into your lane!”

Asher’s blood went cold.

Dash cam. Recording. Evidence that would show Daphne driving. Show her swerving deliberately. Show the staged accident. Show Roger and Destiny visible in her white Pilot.

Dmitri’s expression didn’t change. But something flickered in his eyes. His body shifted slightly, weight redistributing.

“You got what on your dash cam?” Dmitri asked. His voice was pleasant now. Friendly.

“The whole accident! That white SUV came around the curve in the wrong lane—just boom, right there.” The man gestured wildly. “This guy”—he pointed at Asher—“tried to avoid it and went over the cliff. I got the license plate too. Clear as day. We can give it to the police. That driver should be arrested for reckless endangerment!”

Dmitri smiled. The expression didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s very helpful. Can I see the footage?”

“Sure. It’s right in my car. Latest technology, you know. Crystal clear video. HD quality.”

The man turned toward his Honda.