Isabel inadvertently clipped another car as she sped past, but just barely.
They were on High Glen Way for only two minutes, but it was long enough to cause several near crashes. Cars were swerving to get away from her and pulling off to the side. Isabel noticed a couple of drivers were talking on their phones. She hoped they heard Freya screaming and were calling the police.
Isabel had had enough and made a decision. As soon as they stopped, she was going to lunge at Freya and get the gun away from her. She’d have to surprise her and be quick. Real quick.
She increased her speed. In a frenzied panic Freya started slapping Isabel’s shoulder. Then she used her fist. It hurt like the devil. With all the shrieking and punching distracting her, Isabel could barely pay attention to the road or the other cars she was nudging out of the way. She shouted so Freya would hear her. “Stop screaming at me, and stop hitting me. You’re making me nervous.”
Freya continued to smack Isabel’s shoulder. “Slow down. There’s the turn. Take the turn,” she screamed. “Slow down first, then turn. What is wrong with you?”
Isabel didn’t take time to answer. She was busy trying to make the turn without flipping the car over.
She made the turn without killing them and proceeded to drive up a narrow dirt road. There weren’t any cars around now. As they made the climb, the road grew even more narrow and wound in a spiral up a steep hill. On one side of the road was a sharp incline and on the other, a sheer drop.
There was no room to turn around or to make a mistake. With each turn, the car drew dangerously close to the edge.
Freya shouted, “You’re going to go over. Do you want to kill us?”
Isabel answered, though she doubted Freya heard her through all the racket she was making, “If I’m going to die, I’m taking you with me.”
Just as they were nearing a very sharp curve, Isabel stepped on the gas to make Freya think her threat was serious. If she swerved one more foot to the left, the car would plunge off the road and take flight. Freya’s shrieks became even more high-pitched, and she grabbed the door handle. As they reached the bend, the car hit a bump and lurched slightly. The sudden jolt was all it took. Freya—
giving one last shriek—suddenly flung her side door open and threw herself out. Isabel was so shocked she nearly took her hands off the wheel, but somehow she managed to keep control.
Tightening her grip, she slowed the car and looked back to see Freya rolling down the steep hill, squealing like a tortured pig. There was a stream at the bottom, and Isabel couldn’t tell if Freya rolled into the water or landed just short.
Pulling the car to a stop, she glanced down at the passenger seat and saw the gun. Freya hadn’t taken it with her. There it was, sitting on the seat, the barrel pointed at her. She reached over, grabbed it, and lifted it to take a quick look. “Oh my . . . holy . . . ,” she whispered. The safety wasn’t on. With Freya jamming the gun into her side again and again, it was a miracle it hadn’t discharged. Isabel flipped the lever and dropped the gun on the seat beside her.
She was shaking so, she could barely breathe. She reached into her pocket for her phone, but it wasn’t there. Where was it? She was sure it was in her pocket when she got in the car. It must have fallen out while she was driving and dodging Freya’s fist. She had to call Michael. She frantically patted the floor, but it wasn’t there. Maybe it slipped behind the seat. The car was so close to the edge of the road she couldn’t get out to find it, and looking at the road ahead, she knew she was almost to the top. She also knew someone was there waiting for her and Freya. There was no way she could back up. She’d drive over the side of the mountain if she tried, and if she stayed where she was, Freya’s friend would come to her. Her only choice was to drive on. If she could just reach a safe
place to turn around, she would drive back down the road, pull over, and find her phone. There wasn’t any other option.
Okay, she had a goal. She drove the car slowly around one more curve to where the hill flattened out, and when she looked up, there he was, Graeme Gibson, waiting, with a rifle cradled in his arms.
Had he seen Freya jump out of the car? He had surely heard her.
He was bringing the rifle up now, his aim on her. Without thinking twice, she increased her speed, racing up the last stretch. She hunched down so she wouldn’t be an easy target and began to pray that Gibson was a lousy shot.
Gibson didn’t dive out of the way. Instead, he shot at her twice. The bullets went through the windshield, narrowly missing her.