Pulling out with him directly on my tail, I settled into the long drive ahead. The miles passed without incident until, an hour later, I reached the Glen Jackson Bridge and my spidey sense started prickling. It must have for Matteo too, because my phone rang.
I clicked the button on my steering wheel to answer it. “Something’s wrong,” I said, my head on a swivel as I checked my mirrors. In my rearview, another SUV—probably Matteo’s—struggled to get past a sudden roadblock.
“They wanted you on the bridge,” he said grimly. “They blocked it right after you got on.” Car horns blared through the phone as he maneuvered hard, barely slipping through before the gap closed. Cars that had been free-flowing onto the bridge were suddenly stopped. They were letting people off the bridge but not on, and people immediately got out and started shouting—until Barrett’s men started waving guns and everyone hastily got back in. My last view of the end of the bridge was the emergency vehicle lights in the distance and cars trying to turn around.
It was quickly becoming a madhouse.
No longer able to see the south end of the bridge, I gripped the steering wheel hard. “There are still hundreds of people on this bridge, Matteo. What do we do?”
“We do the best we can to stay alive. They’re going to try to force us off the bridge. Calling 911.” His voice dropped for a minute, then came back. “Cars are coming up on your six and nine.” His voice was urgent, intense.
Adrenaline burned through me as I checked the directions he’d indicated, spotted them, and then sped up. My best bet was to reach a stretch of bridge that was less crowded before they rammed me.
I did my best to weave through traffic without causing an accident, scanning for any opening. I reached one just in time.
“Incoming!”
The hit came hard.
Even braced for it, the impact snapped my head sideways. I swore as I fought the wheel, tires screaming as the SUV skidded toward the rail.
“I’ve got the truck,” Matteo said.
Out of my rearview mirror, I saw Matteo slide into a barely there gap beside the truck behind me, then ram it into the rail. Metal screamed until he forced it into a post. My last hasty glimpse of them was their airbag exploding, the vehicle lurching up on its front wheels before slamming back against the rail—what I supposed happened when you suddenly hit something going eighty miles an hour.
I couldn’t shake the car that kept trying to force me over the bridge until Matteo was once again behind me. He was protecting my backside while I gritted my teeth, fighting the car trying to kill me. My SUV was bigger. I figured if it came down to it, I might win a game of chicken—or at least not die, which was all I was hoping for at the moment.
We were nearing the midpoint of the bridge when the car rammed into me hard, forcing me sideways. I clenched my teeth as Riggs’ SUV scraped against the iron railing protecting the drop-off, the sound sharp and ugly. I fought to pull clear.
“They’re clearing this section,” Matteo said. “Letting cars through ahead and behind, trying to box you in.”
I saw the same thing.
I was running out of time.
“I’m going to brake.”
Matteo slowed, giving us a bigger gap between our SUVs. I hoped like crazy he was far enough back—and that what I was about to do wouldn’t hurt him. I slammed on the brakes, jerking the wheel toward the car boxing me in, and hit it hard enough to force space between us. The impact jarred my shoulder, but it bought me a breath.
I had not planned on playing bumper cars on the Glen Jackson Bridge with people actively trying to kill me today. But here I was.
The driver, ticked and out for blood now, slammed into me with such force that my teeth rattled.
“Are you close?” I yelled, sweat running down my face despite the air conditioner blasting cold air.
“I’m coming.”
I heard his engine roar through the phone. A heartbeat later, he smashed into the back of the car pinning me against the rail. It worked to free me as it spun out and ended up stalled facing the opposite direction, but the recoil slammed me even harder into the railing.
Pain flared up my arm as I fought to hold the steering wheel steady. I glanced in my rearview mirror. Another truck was speeding toward us.
“We’re going to have to take it together,” Matteo said. “Law enforcement’s moving in, but they’re tied up at the roadblock.”
“So what I’m hearing is that we’re on our own.” Another hit slammed into my rear bumper. I fought the wheel, managed to straighten out, then floored it, racing toward the far end of the bridge. The truck sped up as well and pulled alongside me, preparing to slam into me from the side this time. I sped up again, but he kept pace.
“Yes.”
“Perfect.” I kept my voice level despite the adrenaline surging through me. “We’re going to pinch him. He’s going to try to force me off again. I’ll brake hard. You come in at the driver’s side and force him into the rail.”
