White Rabbit(93)

My eyes riveted on the front end of the vehicle, watching intently for any sign of life, I step cautiously over one of the concrete wheel stops and start creeping toward the road. My heart pounds, my steps as loud in my ears as bones breaking, and my fingers tingle painfully with a surplus of adrenaline. I’m halfway across before I realize she’s heard me—before a deafening crack rips apart the humid morning air and a bullet shreds its way into the trees behind me. Peyton’s silhouette materializes at the far end of the Camaro, rifle held high—but by then I’m already at a full sprint.

I tear across the pavement as the rifle barks out a second report, another tree taking the hit as my innards churn and fizz, going haywire from the overload of panic. I jump the next wheel stop and narrow grass verge in a single bound, stumbling off the curb and into the street as I land. Pivoting left, I race up the empty roadway, arms pumping, my lungs already in pain.

Half a mile to the Jeep. Give or take. Half a mile that might as well be a half-marathon. I keep expecting another bullet, wondering if it’ll knock me off my feet or if I’ll even notice it at all—they say you don’t hear the one with your name on it. Maybe I’ll just blink out, defiantly alive one second and a sad memory the next, a flame guttering and then gone.

Believe it or not, it’s the sound of metal scraping against concrete—a car chassis thumping as it rolls over the curb and settles on the even road—that serves as my first reminder that Arlo’s rifle isn’t the only weapon in Peyton’s arsenal. There’s a rumble as the Camaro’s engine devours some fuel behind me, tires growling like a pack of angry dogs as they begin chewing hungrily at the pavement, and the lingering fog flares white around me when high beams come on at my back.

My heart coughs, my feet stumble, and I go dizzy with fear as rubber shrieks brightly and the car lurches forward. There’s nowhere for me to go. The road is barely two lanes wide, bordered on both sides by steep ditches filled with black water—moats that disguise a treacherous bounty of sharp rocks and dirty needles. Even if I want to climb down the embankment and splash across one, I’ll only find myself thrashing through a dense maze of trees and chest-high shrubs on the other side. I’d make it about five feet before Peyton pulled up and blew my head off. If I try to use the trench as a secondary escape route, I’ll be a duck at a shooting gallery. There’s nowhere to go.

Swerving right for no reason, I hear the Camaro’s engine getting louder, tracking me, closing in. My throat is sandpaper, my eyes reeling at the sight of my shadow leaping and shrinking against the mists as the headlights bear down. My shoes graze the lip of the ditch and I balk.

I turn around. The front end of Race’s car rushes at me, picking up speed, and I dive sideways at the last second. Time slows as the metal monster zooms by, so close I feel hot wind against my legs—so close my shoe clips the side-view mirror as it rockets past. My body flips over, flung away by the glancing blow, and I flail wildly in the air.

I crash-land hard on the pavement, my knee ripping open with a blinding burst of pain, and I roll to a turbulent, agonized stop on the opposite side of the road. My head spins violently, my body stinging all over, and I gulp down frantic mouthfuls of air. The Camaro’s brakes engage fiercely and it skids, spins, and screeches to a halt at an angle, its engine panting; then, after a fractional pause, Peyton puts the vehicle into reverse, straightening out—readying for another try. Whimpering out loud, I shove up on shaky arms and shakier legs, deep scratches crosshatching my bare torso, and I stagger back into a pitiful, limping run.

I’m heading for the park again, not thinking, just afraid—reduced to a primal state of sheer terror. Peyton revs the engine, bringing the tires to a frenzied, stationary spin, keeping the car in place while she patiently waits for me to give her enough room to build up some real speed. Loping hopelessly along the verge of the road, I sense the dark, evil-smelling water in the trench below, pain breaking through me like a jackhammer every time I put weight on my injured knee. Through the haze of pain and tears, I hear Sebastian’s voice in my head again, talking me down from one of my feral, mind-wiping rages: Take a breath and step back.

Peyton releases the brake, and the car leaps forward with a triumphant squeal, tires humming gratefully as they’re finally set loose. I stop and turn—exhausted, bloodied, weak—and watch with a hollow feeling as the coupe surges at me. There will be no death-defying jump this time; I’m lucky to still be standing at all. The air parts between us, Peyton’s malicious grin flashing behind the wheel …

And I take a step back.

The verge drops away beneath my foot, and I fall, my nerves amplifying to a queasy, nightmarish frenzy as I plunge through limited space to a hard destiny. The stream running through the ditch gives me a cold, shallow embrace and my back smashes down on a bed of sharp stones, bottle caps, and long, pointed twigs that puncture my flesh like candles sinking into a birthday cake. My head strikes against something, light strobing behind my eyes, and I inhale a mouthful of oily, fetid water.

Peyton slams on the brakes again, but she’s too late; the pavement is slick with dew, and Race’s tires can’t bite down fast enough. The car wobbles and fishtails … and then shoots over the edge of the road. Trapped and dazed, I watch the underside of the vehicle as it jumps the ditch just past where I lie, the Camaro’s headlights firing against the sturdy tree trunks that wait for it.