Chapter 9 - THE BOTTOM OF THE RIVER
The impact with the water hit like concrete.
The glass of the front windshield shattered instantly, pouring freezing, muddy river water into the cabin of the Range Rover.
The heavy luxury vehicle plunged beneath the surface, turning upside down as the weight of the engine block pulled it down toward the rocky riverbed.
Inside the rapidly filling cabin, absolute chaos erupted.
Grant was tossed violently against the steering wheel, his nose broken, blood streaming into his eyes. The rushing water was cold, disorienting, and thick with mud.
Beside him, Natalie was thrashing wildly, trapped by her locked seatbelt, her screams swallowed by the dark water filling her lungs.
Grant fumbled frantically with his own seatbelt buckle. His hands were numb, slippery with blood and river water.
He managed to release the latch. He pushed himself toward the open, shattered windshield, kicking wildly to clear the submerged frame.
Through the murky, water-logged darkness, he felt a pair of hands lock around his ankles with crushing strength.
It was Natalie.
Her face was distorted in sheer terror beneath the water, her eyes begging him for help as she pulled him down with her toward the bottom.
Grant didn't hesitate. He didn't even look back.
He kicked her violently in the chest with his heavy boot, breaking her hold, and thrust himself through the broken windshield into the rushing, freezing open river.
He fought against the powerful current, his lungs burning, his mind focused on one thing: survival.
He broke the surface fifty yards downriver, gasping for air, coughing up dark river water. He flailed his arms, fighting the pull of the current until his boots touched the muddy, slippery rocks of the eastern bank.
He hauled himself out of the water, collapse onto his stomach in the tall grass, shivering violently, sobbing in pain and exhaustion.
"I made it..." he rasped into the mud, his vision dark around the edges. "I made it..."
He forced himself up onto his hands and knees.
Standing on the muddy bank directly above him, bathed in the searchlights of three police helicopters hovering low overhead, was Vivian Sterling.
She was wrapped in a dry black coat provided by the State Police, standing beside Detective Commander Miller.
Grant looked up into her cold, unblinking face.
"Natalie is still down there, Grant," Vivian said softly, her voice carrying clearly over the chop of the helicopter blades above. "Just like you left me in that box."
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Grant opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Two armed tactical officers stepped forward from the treeline behind her, forcing Grant face-down into the cold mud and snapping heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists with a cold, definitive click.
