Murder Game (GhostWalkers, #7)(131)

Planned pregnancy was the oldest snare in the book. It was too late now; he had to live with the consequences—and so would the rest of them. Both families—and Shaina—had seriously underestimated him. He had planned his revenge for years. He had everything in place. It wouldn’t take much to ruin either family financially, and he wasn’t above buying freedom for his child.

Jake slammed his open palm on the steering wheel in an agony of recrimination. He knew better, but he just couldn’t resist thumbing his nose at Josiah. But they would never have his kid. It didn’t matter whether the boy was a shifter or not. Jake would find a nurse, a decent one, to come in and raise him right. He sure couldn’t love the boy, but eventually he’d find someone who could.

A muscle jerked along his jaw. He’d always been savage, clawing and fighting his way out of the cage they’d tried to keep him in. They wouldn’t have a chance to cage his child. His son would never know that unnatural, deceitful life. A nurse wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would be the best he could do for the kid.

He couldn’t trust Shaina to keep the unborn child healthy, so here he was in California, chasing her down, the jet standing by to take her back to his ranch where his guards would keep her out of trouble and away from drugs and alcohol until the baby was born. He had a team of doctors at his disposal, the best his research could find in Texas, and he was going to make certain the kid had the best possible start.

Jake swore viciously again. Shaina could drive off a cliff for all he cared, but he made it clear that he owned her father’s company, had bought up the stock, and he would ruin them all if they dared cross him. The child was his, bought and paid for. Shaina was not going to endanger it. He had turned the tables neatly, ruthlessly, finding a bitter pleasure in all their shocked faces.

Shaina, damn her, had no right to drink herself silly and poison the unborn baby. She had no right to go off with a drunken fool when she was so close to delivery. She had thought herself safe, a thousand miles away from his home state, never dreaming he would be concerned enough about the baby to track her down.

With each passing mile, he shortened the distance between the Ferrari and Porsche, closing the gap steadily, relentlessly. He could see the convertible now, weaving all over the highway, crossing the center line, changing lanes, tires squealing in protest around every sharp curve. He was right above them looking down and he saw Shaina move her hand to caress the driver’s lap. The Porsche swerved again right into the other lane.

Suddenly his heart jumped again, and an icy shiver feathered down his spine. He caught a glimpse of a little Volkswagen Bug puttering along, two turns ahead, coming right into the path of destruction. Jake actually called out a warning, totally helpless to stop the inevitable.

The collision rocked the ground, shattering the peace of the night, a cacophony of terrible noises he would never forget. Grinding metal, the scream of brakes, the force of the vehicles coming together, folding like accordions. The sight and sounds sent chills down his spine. Sparks flew, the convertible tumbled over and over, spilling gas everywhere. The Volkswagen, a compacted scrap of twisted metal, slammed into the mountain, flames licking its length and up along the dried grass.

The smell of gas and flames and blood hit him hard. Jake hesitated long enough to report the accident from his cell phone. Leaping from the Ferrari, he sprinted toward the closest car, the crushed Volkswagen. The road was strewn with shattered glass and metal fragments. Shaina and her new boyfriend lay motionless on the ground in the distance, blood running from them in streams. Neither had been wearing a seat belt, and both had been thrown several feet from the car. He doubted if anyone could have lived through the force of that head-on collision, but something propelled him forward in spite of the flames moving quickly along the road.

Gas was everywhere, in every direction, even splashed along the mountainside where the Volkswagen had tumbled end over end. Inside the Bug, two occupants were hanging upside down, held by their seat belts, heads and arms dangling limply. He wrenched open the nearest door. It was already hot with the flames licking at it from the flaming grass on the mountain. With superhuman strength he tore it open, and reached inside to unsnap the seat belt. The body fell into his arms.

It was a woman, covered in glass and blood, but still alive. Aware he had no choice, no time to examine her first, he lifted her out, closing his ears to her cry of pain. He ran a distance from the cars to deposit her in the grass. Blood was pumping from a terrible gash in her leg and he yanked off his belt and wrapped it tight around her thigh, just above the gash.

When he turned back, the Volkswagen was already engulfed in flames. He had no hope of getting the other victim out. He sent up a silent prayer that the occupant had been killed instantly. Resolutely, he turned toward the convertible. He had covered half the distance when an agonized cry froze him in a fragment of time that would remain etched in his mind forever.

“Andy!”

The woman he had rescued somehow managed to get to her feet, which was a miracle, considering her injuries. She stumbled back toward the Volkswagen. For a moment, he could only stare incredulously. She had broken bones, was covered in ragged deep gashes, her face a mask of blood, yet she was running back, right into a wall of flames, and she ran with astonishing speed.

For a split second, pure shock held Jake frozen to the spot. The gasoline on the road had ignited. The flames actually licked at her legs, yet she continued on toward the fiercely burning vehicle. The woman had to have known the car was going to explode at any moment, yet still she ran toward it.