Page 59 of Ruined By a Devil

It’s locked.

I reach for the electronic lock button on the door armrest, pressing it down frantically. There is soft electronic chime sound, but the lock pins stay down. That can only mean that the child locks have been engaged from the front control panel.

“Unlock the doors,” I demand, suddenly finding it hard to think clear or even breathe.

The driver ignores me completely like I’m a mosquito. He steps on the gas, making the engine roar, the heavy V8 pushing the speed past eighty miles per hour. Out the side window, the trees vanish, replaced by rusty metal fences, overgrown gravel lots, and the gray, rotting husks of old shipping warehouses.

I look out the back window, hoping my father’s men are following us close. The trailing SUV is trying to keep up, but two black pickup trucks suddenly cut across from the right, slamming into the front bumper of the escort car. Sparks fly into the damp air as metal grinds against metal. The car my father’s men are in swerves, flipping over onto its side and skidding down the in a cloud of dust and debris.

I’m screwed.

Nolan.

There is no doubt he is the one behind all of this. This is far from being a sudden change of plans. He set up a trap for us and we took the bait. I don’t know how but he somehow knew the exact route. The sick son of a bitch even replaced the driver before we left the estate grounds.

I wonder if Marco is okay.

Panic threatens to lock my throat shut, but the memory of the basement gym flashes through my mind. I remember the smell of sweat, the dark mats, and the quiet, lethal precision of Malachi’s voice.

First defense. You don't panic. You use leverage.

Every time you strike, you leave your midsection exposed.

I take a short, hard breath, forcing the panic down into my gut. My hands stop shaking as my vision narrows until all I see is the back of the driver's head and the high leather headrest separating us.

I slide off the plush leather seat and drop to my knees, onto the floor mat behind the center console, ignoring the way the thick lace of my gown tears against the metal track of the seat frame. The small space makes movement difficult, but I don't need more room. Malachi made sure I learn how important momentum is.

“You picked up the wrong girl to hustle,” I growl as I reach over the center console with both hands. The high headrest blocks my reach, so I can’t strike at his head. Instead, I shoot my left arm around his neck, hooking my forearm hard against his windpipe, driving his head backward into the headrest.

The car swerves as the driver grunts in surprise. His left hand flies off the steering wheel to pull at my arm, his heavy fingers digging into my skin through the sleeve of my dress.

“Get off me, bitch!” He snarls, his right hand still fighting to keep the wheel straight.

I dig my knees into the floor mat, using my entire upper body weight to pull him back.

Trap the arm.

With my right hand, I reach past his neck, grabbing his left wrist with a monkey grip, fingers and thumb combined, locking his forearm against my chest just like Malachi showed me on the mat. I drive my hips forward, using the hard plastic structure for leverage, twisting his wrist outward until the bone pops, causing him to yell out in pain, his control breaking.

“You're open!” I yell into his ear.

I pull my right hand back from his wrist, gather my fingers into a sharp, tight fist, and drive my knuckles hard into the side of his ribcage, right below his armpit. The impact lands solid. The air leaves his lungs with a wet, ragged gasp. He sags back into the seat, his body buckling under the blunt pain.

Using his collapse, I reach over his shoulder with my free right arm and grab the top of the steering wheel and yank it hard to the left.

The tires screech loudly as the heavy sedan leans hard onto its side, the force throwing my head into the side window pillar. Pain explodes behind my eyes, bright white sparks dancing across my field of vision.

Through the blurred windshield, I see the rusted yellow metal of a guardrail fast approaching, backed by a massive concrete support pillar for an overhead rail line.

The driver screams, throwing both hands up to protect his face. I drop back into the floorwell, pulling the heavy skirt of my wedding dress over my face and chest, bracing my knees against the back of the passenger seat.

Then comes the impact.

The sound is absolute deafening thunder. Metal crumples like paper. The windshield shatters into a million tiny glass cubes that rain down over my body. The side curtain airbags deploy with a blinding white flash, filling the cabin with the bitter smell of airbag powder and smoke.

The car spins twice, slamming rear-first into the ground before coming to a sudden stop.

The silence that follows is deafening. I can see my whole life fly in front of my eyes as I lie there still, unable to move, trapped in the narrow space between the front seats and the rear floorwell. The airbag powder stings my eyes and throat. Every muscle in my legs burns with a dull, throbbing pain, but nothing feels broken.