"Hold on."
Hudson yanked the wheel hard to the left, and we shot off the main road onto a side track I hadn't even seen. The car bounced over ruts and rocks, branches scraping against the windows, but he didn't slow down.
Behind us, Lang followed.
"Where does this lead?" I asked.
"Back road to the highway. Longer, but less predictable." Hudson's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "He's not giving up."
"He can't. If I testify, he goes to prison for the rest of his life."
"He's going to prison either way. He just doesn't know it yet."
The road widened slightly, and Hudson pushed the car even faster. The speedometer climbed past eighty, ninety, the trees on either side becoming a solid blur of darkness.
And then Lang rammed us from behind.
The impact was jarring, throwing me forward against the seatbelt, snapping my head back. I screamed as the car fishtailed, Hudson wrestling with the wheel, fighting to keep us on the road.
"Son of a bitch," he growled.
Lang hit us again, harder this time, and I felt the back end start to slide. Gravel sprayed. The car spun. For one terrifying moment, I was sure we were going to flip, but Hudson regained control, straightening us out, his jaw set in grim determination.
"Betty, listen to me." His voice was calm, controlled, the voice of a man who'd been in situations like this a hundred times before. "There's a gun in the glove compartment. Take it."
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the compartment open, but I managed. The gun was cold and heavy in my palm.
"Do you remember how to use it?"
I nodded. Hudson had taught me years ago, back when we were first dating. I hadn't fired a weapon since, but muscle memory was a powerful thing.
"Safety's on the side. Flip it off, point, squeeze. Don't pull. Squeeze."
"Okay." My voice came out as barely more than a whisper. "Okay."
Lang's headlights filled the rearview mirror again, and I braced myself for another impact, but it didn't come.
Instead, his car pulled alongside us on the left, and I saw the driver's side window roll down.
I saw the gun.
"DOWN!" Hudson shouted.
He shoved my head below the dashboard just as the windshield exploded.
Glass rained down on us, sharp and cold, and I heard the crack of gunfire, once, twice, three times. Hudson swerved hard to the right, and I felt the car leave the road, felt us go airborne for one stomach-dropping second before we crashed into something solid.
The world went white.
Then black.
Then nothing.
I came to with the taste of blood in my mouth and Hudson's voice in my ears.
"Betty. Betty, wake up. Come on, baby, open your eyes."
I blinked, trying to focus. My head was pounding, and there was something wet running down my face. Blood, probably. From the glass.
