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The other vehicle stayed right with her, the high-beam headlights glaring into her eyes. The tires squealed in protest at the excessive speed, and she checked the mirror again. She maneuvered the car around a sharp curve. The car’s wipers slashed over the windshield, smearing the rain on the glass so it was even harder for her to see. Too close.Īlana added some pressure to the accelerator and sped through deep puddles that had already collected on the road. Even with the rain and her spotty vision, she could see the other vehicle make the turn right along behind her. Shivering, she made the final turn that would take her to Willow Ridge. A few seconds later, thunder came, a thick rumbling groan. She didn’t know the answer to either question, but Jack Whitley would be able to find out. In fact, one of them must have been responsible for her captivity. She certainly couldn’t trust the guard or nurse.

She couldn’t remember what he’d done exactly, but she instinctively knew she could trust him.Īlana couldn’t say that about anyone else. But then she remembered Jack Whitley, the town’s sheriff. Willow Ridge was just one of those floating memories that she couldn’t immediately link to anything or anyone. The guard and a nurse had force-fed her a partial dose of sedatives only hours earlier, so it’d taken Alana a while to fight through dizziness and make the connection.

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Luckily, the car she’d stolen from the front of the house had nearly a full tank of gas.Īnd thankfully, she’d seen the sign to the town of Willow Ridge. Nor was there one along the highway that had taken her nearly an hour to find. Not that there’d been a pay phone anywhere along the way from the secluded house in the woods where she’d been held captive. She couldn’t stop, not even to find a pay phone and call the police. Because if he’d managed to catch up with her, Alana figured this time he would kill her. The dark-colored car was still following her. Chapter OneĪlana Davis checked the rearview mirror again. Jack scooped her into his arms and ran like hell toward his truck. They’d dodged one bullet, but another was headed right at them. She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with tears, her face twisted in pain. She fought with her coat, shoving it open and clamping her hands over her belly. Her stark-blue eyes widened, and the sound she made was one of raw agony. And Jack said a very sincere prayer of thanks. He literally gave her what little breath he had left. Jack dragged her to the muddy embankment, tilted back her head and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Somehow, though, he broke through the water and breathed in some much needed air, while the woman lay limp and lifeless in his arms. His lungs burned now, and his muscles began to knot. He grabbed her and began to haul her to the surface. The sharp metal head of the emergency tool made a large enough hole so he could reach in, open the door and undo her seat belt.

He pushed that possibility aside and latched on to the door handle.Ĭursing to himself, he bashed the life hammer against the window. She was there, behind the steering wheel, her light-colored coat billowing around her like a ghost. Jack fought through the water to get to her. He ignored the numbing cold that was starting to smother him and focused, finally spotting her black Lexus angled nose-down with the headlights and front fender already sinking into the clots of mud on the creek floor. No one, not even he, could last long in this frozen water. Seconds ticked off in his head, each one a frantic reminder that he had to get to her. He surfaced only long enough to drag in a deep breath so he could go down after her again. At the speed the woman was traveling when she slammed through the guardrail, she was probably thirty, maybe forty feet out.

The creek was thick with winter silt that concealed just about everything, but he went on instinct. He grabbed the life hammer from his glove compartment, barreled out of his truck and, running, he dived right into the cold dark water. There was no time to remove his gun or shoes. Since he’d been traveling from the opposite direction, he’d caught just a glimpse of terror on the driver’s face before Mill’s Creek had swallowed her and her car. Seconds earlier, a car had broken through the metal and plunged over the side. He slammed on his brakes, and his Ford pickup skidded to a stop just inches from what was left of the bridge’s ice-scabbed guardrail. Sheriff Jack Whitley figured he had three minutes, maybe less, to save the woman’s life.

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