by Vivien Vale
There’s no more wild storm, just disappointment. With the brief look I give Jenna, I make sure she sees it.
The disbelief on Jenna’s face is slowly changing as she tries to think of something to say. She doesn’t even notice that I snatched the folder right out of her hand until it’s safely in mine.
I have to move past this as quickly as possible, though. I’m back on the right and flying away through the streets before Jenna has any chance to react.
Speeding away from the ache in my chest as if I’m in the most significant race of my life.
But this is one race I don’t think I’ll be able to win.
Jenna
The only other times I’ve felt like I do right now is when I’ve just been in a car accident. I mean, right after that moment of impact, after feeling a two-ton, swiftly moving metal machine come to an abrupt halt, slamming every bit of its kinetic energy into the rear of your own vehicle, which is innocently waiting at a red light.
During those moments, there’s a brief little ripple of denial, at least for me.
That didn’t just happen. No way. It was nothing. I can just keep driving like normal.
That’s the way I feel about seeing Braden tear into my meeting with Harrison like the proverbial bat out of hell.
That’s an expression I now understand all too well.
That kind of ferociousness is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, from Braden or anyone. It’s as unreal as a sudden accident, except this is no accident.
Although Braden’s long gone now, I’m starting to register it as reality. Harrison recovering from Braden’s blow to the face is driving it home.
This isn’t happenstance; this is a huge fucking complication that I need to adjust to, somehow, although with the other complication of Harrison stalking toward me and looking pissed, I don’t know if that’s possible.
“This is what’s going to happen,” he begins, and I immediately go wide-eyed, trying to convey that I have no clue what’s going on.
I watch Harrison, waiting to hear what he’ll say next, but there are no more words. I’m face down on the ground, feeling Harrison’s grip on my arms and the cold sting of metal around my wrists. I yell wordlessly in protest, but it’s over before I grasp everything that’s happening.
I hear Harrison stand up, and I climb up unsteadily, using my legs until I’m standing as well.
My hands are cuffed tightly behind my back, and I’m trying to push away another bout of denial about this mess.
I don’t have time for that before Harrison shoves me hard with both hands.
I twist to my right side while plummeting back to the ground. I don’t have the option of using a hand to break my fall and though I instinctually fall on my right shoulder, I don’t know if those instincts are right.
My shoulder slams against the paved roadway, and pain radiates through me from the point of impact. My right arm takes some of the brunt of the fall, which is probably the only reason I don’t seem to have any major injuries as I squirm on the ground and try to stand up again.
I roll over onto my right side, and I hear Harrison’s car start, followed immediately by the sound of him burning rubber after Braden.
There are a few more complications now, to say the least.
I sit up readily as a fresh wave of adrenaline hits. I need to get to my car. Now.
I try to get back upright, only to find a fresh tremor of sharp pain from my right arm. I close my eyes and will myself back on my feet with random bursts of agony that are thankfully getting duller as they go on.
Feeling dizzy, with a throbbing ache still going through my shoulder, I half stagger, half gallop around, almost blindly, until I magnetically end up outside the driver’s side of my car.
I shut my eyes, cursing my past self for closing the door. I revolve myself around so that my left hand is lined up with the handle, and I’m able to get enough grip to lift the handle and get the door open a couple inches.
I walk backward gingerly and pry open the door with my left foot, leaning against the car for balance.
My keys are still in the ignition. At least they’re not in one of my front pockets.
I try sitting in the driver’s seat, facing forward. Fuck. If I can’t even turn the key, I probably won’t be able to steer.
I turn my right side toward the keys helplessly, feeling the fading bursts of pain from my shoulder. I don’t even get close to turning the key that way.
I kick the floor mat in frustration, and I’d love to do that a few more times while yelling at the futility of trying to catch up with Braden and Harrison, but there’s no time.
I twist over onto my right side, trying to turn around in the seat, but it still hurts just a little too fucking much for that. I sit forward again, let out a sigh, give the floor mat a huge kick, and with a yell, I start twisting again, turning counter clockwise onto my left side.
I start grunting with every movement as it gets more and more uncomfortable. I try to keep my legs and feet from hitting the steering wheel and everything else.
I’m not as graceful as I could be.
Once I’m facing backward in the seat, I’m able to reach the door handle to try and pull it closed.
It closes; hopefully I’ll be able to get it open again. I try not to think about the situation I’ll be in when I need to.
I slowly reach toward the ignition with my left hand, pulling my right arm and shoulder with it.
I start letting out an ongoing primal yell to conduct the pain away. I stop when I feel the plastic of the key grip in my left hand.
And I turn it.
Now the engine’s started, and it’s just a small matter of getting myself forward again.
And getting the car in gear.
And steering.
And catching up with Harrison and Braden and then...
I stop considering all of it, and I twist right back around so I’m facing forward.
I lean as far right as I can, gritting my teeth. I press my right arm down on the automatic gear shifter.
Okay, okay, it isn’t so bad. I’m seeing flashes of white light, and I’m yelling inadvertently, but I start moving the shifter backward.
Oh, no, oh, please, I can’t pass out...
After moving the lever back two spots, I snap back up reflexively. My arm and my shoulder are refusing to cooperate with that any longer.
Now I’m in neutral, and the car is moving whether I’m ready for it or not. I close my knees tight around the bottom half of the steering wheel, my feet just barely able to reach the accelerator and the brake.
Steering is surprisingly easy, but the car’s moving faster than I thought it would, with a slight downhill slope heading away from the racetrack. I close my eyes again, and with an aggressive scream of pain and fury, I lean over and shift the transmission one more spot, putting the car in drive.
Getting onto public streets, I’m trying to look and act casual. I’m confused enough at this point. I don’t want extra attention.
I’m coasting along at about 35, trying to ease on the brake to not go much faster. I don’t think catching up with Braden is a hope worth harboring. He’s probably somewhere in Connecticut by now. Or Maine.
Why did he show up anyway? There’s no coincidence here that much is certain.
How much did he know beforehand? Why did he grab those false documents? How could he know they’re false? He can’t. He doesn’t know that I made my own fake blueprints.
I know this is bad, but it’s getting worse.
I pump the brakes slightly, getting into a busier area. I don’t feel like moving this slow anymore, but I know my only other choice is to make the next right, and those few blocks are not ones you’d want to steer with your knees.
Fuck, that’s probably where Braden went with the blueprints. He has way more control than I do right now, but he knows way less about the situation. That’s a horrible combination of circumstances, just like trying to navigate away from the fa
irly even grid of straight streets I’m on to try and pilot this car along the alpine windiness around the next corner.
On a good day, with full use of my limbs, accelerator, and brake pedal, I can do just fine on those precipitous drops and sudden curves. In my current condition, I can probably do okay. Besides, I need to save Braden’s ass.
I blow right through a yellow light just changing to red, now dropping to around 30, approaching the right turn. There’s less of a slope now. I’m dropping in speed, and jamming on the accelerator is not doing much.
I thought I knew these streets as well as anyone, but as I try to maintain my speed and steering, I’m learning about the subtle changes in terrain, about the way this street slopes down more approaching the turn as the speedometer approaches 40.
I ease down on the brake pedal, watching the speedometer needle fall too fast. I’m almost at the turn, though, a sharp right—sharper than any turn I’ve tried yet while handcuffed and driving with my knees.
My speed is down to around 20 with the turn, and I violently twist toward the right. There’s still an aching pressure on my right side, but that’s almost gone. Better still, my tense dance steers the car peacefully around the corner before the power steering takes over.
Braden must have someone inside the FBI. Why the fuck didn’t I think about that?
I spot Braden’s car on the street ahead of me, traveling at a moderate speed but starting to seriously accelerate as Harrison tries to keep up with him.
And I know now, this can’t end well.
Braden
I ignore my racing pulse and grind my teeth. Fucking lights are getting closer. I can see the white coming through on my knuckles. Almost instinctively, I turn the steering wheel a little to the right.
My foot pushes on the accelerator. My eyes are fixed on the road ahead.
“Always keep your eyes on the road,” Bade, my very first driving instructor, taught me. “No matter what else, eyes dead ahead on the road.”
And I keep mine there now, best as I can. Occasionally, inevitably, they stray to the rear-view mirror.
I don’t like what I’m seeing.
What the fuck is going on?
Fucking bitch. How could she ruin everything like this?
Dark clouds unleash a wild storm inside me. I want to fucking punch someone. I slam the palm of my right hand on the steering wheel instead.
The road climbs a little, and I force my mind to stay on task. The needle of my speedometer is over two hundred clicks. At this speed, I can’t afford to make a mistake, even a minute one.
On autopilot, my right hand grabs the gear stick and shifts it down a notch. Tight hairpin coming up.
I’m taken back to a wild ride a few years ago. I took a buddy along this very road. We floated around each bend.
He spent his time clutching on to the side of his door yelling at me to slow down.
I laughed at him and only went faster. His panicked words of ‘I don’t want to die,’ now ring in my ears as though he were here now. Poor bastard died in a plane crash a few years ago.
Now, of course, I’m on my own and being chased by some fucking mad agent. This is no joy ride; on the contrary, it’s a matter of life and death. What the fuck was Jenna thinking?
Her betrayal hits me hard. A kick in the gut from a sumo wrestler would be less painful than this. I finally trusted a woman. Was fucking ready to have an actual relationship.
And this is how she repays me.
At breakneck speed, I traverse the road, taking each hairpin as it comes. Left, right, left.
I misjudge a corner, and one of my tires bites into the gravel. Instantly, the car spins. Quick as lightning, I counter the spin by turning the steering wheel the other direction.
Briefly, I see the edge of the road come toward me at great speed. I close my eyes. I don’t want to see the free-fall though the air. I’m sure I’ll go hundreds of feet before hitting the bottom.
Sure, I might be lucky and get caught by a tree along the way, but it’ll no doubt snap like a tooth pick with the speed my car is going.
I wonder if this will be end.
If it is…there’s still so much I wanted to achieve.
Determined not to die, I open my eyes again. With a furrowed brow, I take my foot off the accelerator and keep my hands on the steering wheel, holding it as far right as I can.
One, two, three, four…I count up to five. So far so good, I’m not flying through the air—not yet.
I breathe, and then I feel my tires find firm ground and the road again.
I breathe a little sigh of relief.
Jenna.
Mixed fucking emotions wash over me. If she’s betraying me, I should cut my losses now.
But she’s so fucking hot and sexy. So perfect.
I still want her, despite this fucked up shit.
Fuck.
Her eyes wide with shock haunt me. Is there more to the story? Am I jumping to the wrong conclusions?
When did life become so complicated?
I glance in the rear-view mirror and am about to breathe a sigh of relief when the lights pop up again out of nowhere. This fucker is obviously not going to give up.
Once I’m at the top, the real fun will begin, with the road winding down the other side with sharp, steep, killer bends.
The engine is purring as I put it through its paces. Fucking agent has one hell of a car, though, which is somehow creeping up on me. It’s designed to chase not just regular race cars, but upgraded race cars.
No doubt it’s equipped with the latest and greatest in engine power and whatever else fucking agent cars have.
I floor mine again and shoot forward.
A sharp left bend takes me by surprise. I hit the brakes and decelerate. Then as I’m through the bend, I put the pedal to the metal.
Those headlights disappear again as the agent obviously reaches the first of the lethal corners. I need to put distance between us without going over the edge.
I’m breathing hard now. I’m sure my pulse is going a million miles an hour. I’m panting hard and fast, and little beads of sweat roll down my forehead and into my eyes and down my check.
By now, my hands are gripping the steering wheel even tighter. I’m too focused to let go and wipe the sweat out of my face.
Any second, the fucker is going to catch up with me and run me off the road. I can feel him breathing down my neck. The fucking idiot is prepared to do anything―even kill me, by the looks of it.
Something slams into me. I’m not sure what’s happening.
A loud popping noise has me ducking instinctively. Briefly, I take my eyes off the road.
Fuck. The goddamn prick is shooting at me. I can see him holding a gun in his left hand out of the window. How the fuck is he driving this fast on this road and still aiming a gun?
Smack, thwack. Another bullet hits my car. Fucking mad bastard.
I curse. Go faster, fucking car.
I squint and stare straight ahead. The bottom of the road must be here soon. I’ve been going down this fucking road for what feels like fucking hours.
And then I see my chance.
There’s a left turn coming up, and if I take it nice and tight, he might not see what’s next. I go deep, pretending to still be going straight, before I turn sharply at the last second.
My tires squeal, and I spin a little out of control.
My timing is perfect. The agent’s unable to pull his car up in time. Instead of taking the corner, he keeps going straight ahead. At the speed we’re going, this doesn’t bode well for the bastard.
In fact, he’s going so fast, he barely gets the chance to hit his breaks. The car slams into a tree before he can do anything to stop it.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to see the impact.
But I hear it. Following the loud crash is a hissing and an eerie silence, except for the loud roar of my own engine. I glance back at the wreckage.
Steam is still rising from t
he hood of the car. I wait. I brace for more gunfire, but apart from the hissing and my engine, there’s no other sound.
I keep staring at the mess, which until a few minutes ago, had been a car. The dude must be dead. No one could survive a crash like that.
To my horror, I see lights crawling along the top of the zigzag of the road. Fuck, don’t tell me Jenna is following.
I decide before I do anything else that I need to check the status of this prick of an agent. If he needs help, I should give it to him, rat bastard or not. Slowly, I get out of the car and start to walk over to the mangled metal.
The front of the car is unrecognizable.
A knot forms in my gut. I’ve seen my fair share of blood and guts and wreckage, but this looks fucking awful.
The closer I get, the bigger the knot gets in my stomach.
I don’t need to check for a pulse or anything. I can tell from a few meters away that the man is brown bread dead.
His head is bent backwards in an unnatural way, and blood is trickling down his chin out of the right corner of his mouth.
There’s nothing I can do here.
I hesitate.
I may be tough, I may be a playboy, and some might think me a cold, heartless bastard, but seeing someone dead like this leaves its mark.
My breathing becomes fast and shallow. An overwhelming urge to puke overcomes me, and my legs feel like jelly. I shiver a little.
My eyes dart around as if looking for the dead guy’s spirit or ghost or some shit.
Fuck, this is bad. I shiver and cross my arms over my chest, but my shivering just worsens.
I hover on the spot.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The world spins a little, and my skin starts to feel clammy. I know the symptoms, and I know I need to do something, but the thing is, I’m rooted to the ground.
It’s the headlights creeping down the hill that snap me out of my zombie state.
Stop fucking about, I tell myself and almost sprint back to my own car.
Jenna
Tears are streaming down my face. I know I should keep it together but it’s near impossible. The cuffs on my wrists are starting to cut into my skin. I can’t wipe my eyes because my hands are still trapped behind my back.