Chapter 7 - The Crash
The iron gates were six inches thick, closing like a steel trap. The gap was narrowing fast—ten feet, eight feet, six feet.
"Hold on!" Dana screamed, bracing her hands against the steering wheel.
She didn't hit the brakes; she slammed the pedal to the floor. The sedan engine roared, the speedometer jumping as we tore across the muddy gravel drive.
The car smashed through the closing iron gates at forty miles per hour.
A deafening impact shattered the front bumper, tearing off the side mirrors and sending shards of glass and twisted metal flying through the night air. The steering wheel violently jerked in Dana’s hands, but the momentum of the heavy car carried us through the gap, bursting out onto the public county road.
The sedan fishtailed violently on the slick asphalt, tires screaming before Dana regained control and straightened the car out, speeding down the dark highway into the night.
In the back seat, I held Lily tight against my chest. She was crying, her face buried in my neck, but she was alive, unhurt, and in my arms.
"Mommy's got you," I whispered, tears mixing with the rain and mud on my face. "I've got you, baby. Nobody is ever going to touch you again."
Dana looked in the rearview mirror, her face pale, her breathing fast and ragged. "Clara... look behind us."
I turned and looked through the shattered back window.
Emerging from the Blackwood driveway were three sets of headlights—the black limousine and two security SUVs, pursuing us down the mountain road at full speed.
"They aren't going to let us reach the city," Dana said, her voice shaking. "They know if we get to a police precinct or a broadcast station with those women and that micro-SD card, their family is completely destroyed."
"They don't own the whole state," I said, pulling out my phone. It had no signal—the mountain terrain was blocking the tower connection. "Where does this road lead?"
"It heads down toward the old river bridge," Dana replied. "Two miles ahead. Once we cross the river, we're in the next county. Their local police connections end at the county line."
The black SUV behind us accelerated, its heavy chrome bumper closing the distance between us. It clipped our rear quarter panel with a sickening crunch of metal. The sedan violently swerved, almost losing traction on the wet curve.
"They're trying to pit-maneuver us!" Dana yelled.
"Keep it straight!" I shouted.
Up ahead, through the blinding rain, the rusted steel trusses of the old river bridge emerged from the fog. The bridge was narrow—only wide enough for two cars to pass side-by-side—spanning a deep, raging gorge fifty feet above the swollen river below.
The black SUV pulled alongside us on the left, forcing Dana’s car closer and closer to the concrete guardrail of the bridge approach. I could see the security guard through the tinted window, his eyes cold, turning his wheel sharply to ram us into the concrete structure.
"Dana, hit the brakes!" I screamed.
"What?!"
"HIT THE BRAKES NOW!"
Dana slammed her foot on the brake pedal. The sedan slowed down instantly. The SUV, expecting us to fight for position, miscalculated. It overshot us, slammed its front tire into the concrete bridge barrier, and launched violently into the air.
The heavy vehicle flipped over the guardrail, spinning twice in the darkness before plunging fifty feet down into the roaring white waters of the river below.
Dana swerved around the debris, tore across the narrow bridge, and crossed the county line into safety.
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Behind us, on the other side of the river, the limousine and the remaining SUV came to a sudden, screeching halt. Margaret Montgomery stood by the open door of her car, wrapped in her fur coat, watching us vanish into the night.
She didn't pursue us across the bridge. She knew the line had been crossed.
