February 7th
4:12 P.M.
Clara’s heart was beating so hard and fast; it felt like a hammer against her ribs.
In the rearview mirror, she could see red and blue lights swirling. Whirling sirens filled the air. They were close—too close. They were going to catch her.
She cast a quick glance at the gas gauge; it was nearing empty. She couldn’t keep going much longer.
She should stop.
Pull over.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she pressed her foot harder on the accelerator. The car sped up, as did the police car following her. So did the police car behind that. And the one behind that. And the many other police cars that were in the long black and white snake tailing her.
She wanted to stop, tell them what had happened, but she was too scared. What if they didn’t understand? What if they blamed her? What if they dragged her off to jail?
This was all her fault. What was wrong with her? She was usually so careful; she was always so careful. Today, however, for some stupid reason she had been distracted. If only she’d been paying attention, then this wouldn’t have happened.
Now she was stuck.
She had no choice but to just keep going for as long as she could and hope for the best. Another glance at the gas gauge showed the red line was hovering on empty. She had maybe another couple of minutes before it was all over.
Clara didn’t bother to try and hold back tears as they began to trickle down her cheeks. She was so afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been in her life. She felt trapped. Trapped and helpless. She wanted a way out, but at that moment it didn’t seem like one was going to present itself.
Again she sped the car up; she was beyond glad she had let her sister pressure her to take a defensive driving course a couple of years ago. As she drove, she scanned the area, looking for someplace to hide. Of course, that was ridiculous. There had to be at least eight or nine police cars chasing her. There was nowhere to hide.
Turning onto a freeway, perhaps she could make one quick burst for freedom and outrun the cops before her car ran out of gas.
She’d made it only a half mile or so when the car suddenly slowed and then rolled to a stop.
Red and blue spun around her. Cars were everywhere. Sirens were wailing. Voices were screaming at her, but she couldn’t make out their words.
Clara felt weird.
Floaty.
The air in the car was stifling.
She needed some fresh air.
Why did she feel so dazed?
On wobbly legs, she climbed from the car.
* * * * *
4:21 P.M.
Something was wrong.
Detective Jonathon Dawson knew it as soon as the woman climbed from the car.
At first, he thought drugs; she was swaying, and her eyes looked glazed. But then he caught sight of the blood on her neck, and he immediately thought victim. If this woman had been assaulted, she might be in shock, which could explain why she had just spent the last ninety minutes driving through the city seemingly oblivious to the dozen police cars tailing her.
Catching his partner’s eye, he pointed at his neck and Allina nodded that she too had noticed the woman’s injury. While his partner gestured to the other cops surrounding the woman and her car to keep back, Jonathon lowered his gun and took a tentative step forward.
“Ma’am?” he called out. He would have liked to have kept his voice as quiet and calming as possible, but sirens were still whining, and cars were whizzing past on the other side of the freeway.
The woman didn’t appear to have heard him. She was staring at the scene before her as though unable to comprehend it.
Jonathon put his gun away. He didn’t think she was a threat, and even if he’d read her wrong, there were enough cops on the scene with guns to neutralize her if the need arose.
“Ma’am,” he said again, moving toward her.
Up close she looked frail and vulnerable. She was thin—a little too thin. Her skin was as white as freshly fallen snow, and out in the cold—for which she wasn’t properly dressed—it looked nearly translucent. She had enormous green eyes, which would have been beautiful if they weren’t dulled by shock. Her hair hung several inches past her shoulders and shimmered like gold as it caught the late afternoon sun. His heart did a strange little pitter-patter. She was gorgeous. Before he got too carried away, his gaze was drawn to her bloody neck. There was a gash—maybe five inches long—which looked deep enough to need stitches. Blood had poured down her neck, soaking her china blue sweater, but the bleeding appeared to have slowed—or maybe even stopped completely. She had probably received the wound shortly before the car chase began.
His movements seemed to capture her attention, and she turned toward him in extreme slow motion. For a moment, her face was blank, but then her eyes began to clear a little. Shock faded to fear, and her mouth moved, but no sound came out.
“Ma’am, I’m here to help you. Can you tell me who hurt you?”
She took a stumbling step toward him. “He has a gun,” she whispered.
As her words hit him, his gaze snapped from the woman to the car, knowing instinctively that whoever hurt this woman was still in there. Jonathon had time to yell a warning to his colleagues then fling himself at the woman, tackling her to the ground, before gunfire filled the air.
Using his body as a shield, he pressed her down, keeping her firmly in place and out of the line of fire. They were virtually sitting ducks here. They were right beside the car, guns firing on either side of them, and he couldn’t get to his gun without leaving the woman vulnerable. She felt small beneath him; her whole body was trembling. Jonathon could practically feel the bullets flying above him from the still-open driver’s door of the car. His colleagues returned fire, but he heard several grunts of pain and knew that people were being hit. Helpless to do anything about it, all he could do was stay where he was, protect this woman, and pray that none of the cops on the scene were badly hurt.
Eventually, everything stopped.
The woman hadn’t tried to fight him off, and he didn’t move a muscle until he heard confirmation that the shooter was down. Slowly, he levered his body off hers. Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t acknowledge him in any way. Concerned that she may have hit her head when he’d knocked her to the ground, he quickly ran his hands over her scalp. He didn’t find any bumps, and when he brought his hands away, he didn’t see any blood. Her head might not be bleeding, but the tackle seemed to have caused the wound on her neck to start gushing again.
Yanking a handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed it to the cut and yelled over his shoulder, “I need an ambulance!”
“Already on the way,” Allina dropped down beside him. “Is she okay?”
“In shock, I think,” he replied. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”
The woman gave a tiny nod of her head.
Relieved that she was at least conscious, he tried to question her further. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Clara.”
The word was whispered so quietly, he hardly heard her. “Are you hurt any place else, Clara?” He had no idea what else the man who’d obviously carjacked her had inflicted upon her.
“Is . . . is . . . is he . . . dead?” Her eyes fluttered open to stare up at him imploringly.