“Direct emergency first responders to the base of Bronte’s Peak. Instruct them to bring police divers.”
Dust hinders my vision when I drag my car off the roadside. I careen down the valley on the outskirts of Bronte’s Peak as if my mode of transport is a four-wheel drive. I can only hope my intuition isn’t hindered by the pain shredding my heart to pieces, because if it is, I didn’t just risk Savannah’s life—I took it.
“Move, move, move!” I scream at a group of tourists scaling the volatile rock surface with the hopes of capturing a superstar unaware. Noah has lived on the cliffs of Bronte’s Peak for the past six months. Not only is he living the dream; he’s living the life neither of his brothers got to live. To say I am proud of that man is an understatement. He didn’t just break the cycle of domestic violence in his family, he smashed it out of the park.
When the tourists scamper out of the way, I release my foot from the brake. I don’t need to place it on the gas pedal; the natural decline of the cliff edge guides my speed.
Blisters form on my palm as I struggle to keep control of my vehicle in the loose sand. Recognizing that my sinking tires are slowing me down, I throw open my door and continue my trek on foot. My heart rate is dangerously high, but nothing can slow my speed, not even the sirens I hear growing closer with every thump of my feet.
Why?
Because my intuition is proven spot on when a loud boom rumbles through my chest a mere nanosecond before a white sedan sails over my head like a plane soaring in the sky.
With my heart in my throat, I charge down the wooden jetty filled with tourists. They stare at Keifer’s car flying through the air with their mouths hanging open, as if they are at a stunt show in Hollywood Studios.
“I’m hijacking your boat,” I advise a fisherman at the end of the jetty.
Not giving him the chance to protest, I grab him by the scruff of his shirt and throw him away from the wheel. Keifer’s car has barely broken through the water when I’m racing toward them. Salt water splashes my cheeks as I scan the water’s edge, seeking any signs of movement. I know why I haven’t been oceanside in years. It smells as horrible as it always has.
But this is different from the last time I swam these waters. Savannah knows how to swim, so her chances of survival have drastically improved. . . right?
Right.
Then why do I have a horrible feeling twisting my stomach?
Chapter 25
Savannah
The impact of Keifer’s car hitting the barricade at the crest of Bronte’s Peak dislodges his weapon from his grasp. While we sail through the air, I prepare for impact. I’m not talking about the ocean; I’m referring to my fist connecting with Keifer’s jaw.
I knew the instant he turned down Taite what he was planning to do. He had read my record; he knew how much I hated this place, so this was the perfect spot for him to seek his revenge. This event isn’t a kidnapping; it is an attempted murder/suicide.
When I first sailed over this gorge years ago, I was certain I was going to die. I should have never underestimated Ryan. He doesn’t understand the word defeat. He didn’t just save my life that night; he restored my faith in humanity.
I can only hope he achieves the same outcome today.
My body launches forward when we crash into the ocean with a bone-shuddering crunch. Hitting water at the rate we were traveling is the equivalent of crashing into a concrete wall. It steals the air from my lungs and sends pain hurtling through my chest and stomach.
But it doesn’t alter my plan of attack .
After slamming my elbow into Keifer’s ribs, my hand jack-knifes up, punching him right in the nose. He grunts before retaliating to my violence with the same amount of force. White spots dance in front of my eyes when his clenched knuckles rattle my teeth.
His viciousness intensifies my flight and fight mode. After slinging my seatbelt off my body, I spring to a crouched position, then throw out my leg. Although I’m aiming to inflict harm to him, I also use his face as a springboard to escape the water flooding into his vehicle at a rate faster than my heart is pumping blood.
I’m halfway out the window when Keifer seizes my ankle and drags me backward. Recognizing the hard top design of his vehicle is sending us to the bed of the ocean faster than Axel’s convertible did, I suck in three deep breaths to replenish my lungs with air before I am swamped by water.
My assumption about Keifer’s plans is proven dead accurate when he doesn’t attempt to flee his rapidly sinking car. He holds me captive by my legs as bubbles of air trickle from his nose. I struggle with all my might, not willing to go down without a fight. I didn’t spend years ensuring Ryan didn’t become a statistic of domestic violence just to become one myself.
My fight agitates Keifer more. With the aggressiveness I’ve always seen in his eyes, he grips my nape before throwing my head forward. My forehead connects with the dashboard so fiercely, the crystal blue water turns murky in an instant. Dizzy and profusely bleeding, I attempt to gasp in much-needed air. All my lungs take in is water.
As I struggle through my body’s convulsive reaction to the horrible-tasting water gushing into my lungs, I dig my nails into Keifer’s hand. The harder I battle, the greater my wooziness becomes.
Before I know it, blackness takes over.
* * *
“Thirteen. . . fourteen. . . fifteen,” grunts a voice from above as my chest caves inwards. “Come on, Savannah. We’re not going down this road again. Fight, baby. Do it for Rylee. She’s waiting for you.”
