Darkness. Pain. Movement.
I woke to the feeling of being bounced around the roomy interior of a trunk, but the main reason I had been shaken from my slumber was the nearly destroyed spare tire that had landed on my leg. Judging from the space and the tire floating around back here, it was probably my own detective-issued Crown Vic, and that wasn’t a good thing. I’d replaced that tire just three weeks ago, never bothering to put the stupid spare back where it belonged. They’d been putting me off at the motor pool ever since…
I took a moment to think about my situation. The captain would have taken his own car, so it stood to reason there was an Irishman at the wheel. I fumbled around in the dark for a moment, trying desperately to get my bearings.
The shotgun…
My hands flashed to the roof of the trunk, feeling around for the shortened tactical shotgun that was normally strapped to the underside of the lid. Unsurprisingly, it was missing. Just one more thing to worry about. I slapped my hands up against the edges, looking for some kind of handle or release to get myself out of here, but the car was too old for such silly little safety features.
I’d very quickly started to develop a hatred of the budget cutbacks that had been imposed on the force lately. In the span of only a few moments, they’d moved up the ladder from “mildly annoying” to full-blown “rage-inducing.”
What the hell was I supposed to do? Wherever we were going the ground was definitely not paved. That meant a kill site. If I knew anything about the Irish, I was about to be buried so far out they’d find Jimmy Hoffa before they found my body. If I was going to survive, I needed to get the hell out of here.
Think, Sandra. Think!
I clawed at the edges of the carpeted interior, desperately trying to inch along through the cavernous trunk. There had to be something I could do.
My fingertips hit the edge of a small compartment along the side of the space. I wrenched it open, my hands feeling around inside.
The jack!
I unscrewed the small wing nut holding it in place, pulling it out and wedging it against the floor, aiming the upper face toward the trunk latch as I began to spin the scissoring mechanism with the tire iron. It expanded, pressing the edge against the trunk and tightening even as the car accelerated. We must have been doing fifty miles per hour or more down this dirt road.
Daylight…
A small glimmer was peeking out from the edge of the trunk lid as I continued to spin the jack, my arms burning from effort as I wrenched the tire iron around rapidly. This had to be fast. I had to pop this latch before the driver saw what was happening.
With a satisfying sound of cracking and destruction, the lid burst open, blinding me with light as I stared out into the dust cloud stretching behind us. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, my adrenaline pumping through me, seeping out like glacial water from the nodes above my kidneys. We were traveling too fast to safely jump, but there were other things I could do to stop the car.
Without even a thought, I reached to the side and shoved the battered flat spare right over the edge, finding myself suddenly slammed against the inside of the rear seats as the car fishtailed.
Guess he noticed… I thought to myself, clutching the tire iron.
The car skidded to a halt. The driver’s door opened, and there was the sound of cursing as a man came running into view, staring back at the dust trail behind us.
He didn’t even see it coming. I swung the tire iron around and screamed at the top of my lungs, the metal impacting his face and sending him sprawling. Leaping out of the trunk with pain coursing through my throbbing head, I followed up with a second blow, watching him go limp as I kicked the shotgun away from his hands.
“Motherfucker!” I screamed, my foot laying into the unconscious man.
I looked around, trying to get my bearings. We were outside of town, at least twenty miles north, judging from the mountain range in the distance. Wherever we had been going, it wouldn’t have ended well for me. I left the man sprawled out on the ground, rooting around in the glove box for the heavy duty zip ties. A few minutes later, the battered man was hog tied and left on the side of the road. It wasn’t a very friendly thing to do, but I wasn’t thinking much about this man’s personal welfare. I had a job to do.
Serve and protect.
I picked the shotgun up from the dirt and threw it across the bench seat. I would have preferred something a little more concealable, but it would have to do. I needed to get back into the city. Nathan needed me, and every moment I spent out here was a moment I knew was killing him. By now, he had to know I was missing, and if he went back to the house…
If I had any hope of stopping this, I needed to get my hands on the video before Captain Pierce realized I wasn’t quite dead yet. My survival was an advantage, but it wouldn’t last.
The engine roared as I stepped on the accelerator, spinning the old Crown Vic around and leaving the Irishman in my rearview mirror.