Page 106 of Shadow

Mile marker 47 appeared. Asher’s phone buzzed.

Daphne

I see you. Blue sedan just passed. Dmitri?

Asher

Yes.

Daphne

Ready?

He blew out a breath.

Asher

Ready.

The road narrowed. Curves tightened into switchbacks. This was Blackwater Pass proper—named for the creek that ran black over rocks in the canyon below.

This section—between mile markers 47 and 48—had no guardrail. Budget cuts and low priority meant just a gradual slope. The kind of place where a vehicle could roll down the mountainside and crash into trees and rocks before reaching the creek hundreds of feet below.

The kind of place where bodies could burn.

Asher approached the curve. His heart hammered despite years of training. His palms stayed dry on the wheel, but his pulse beat in his throat.

45 mph. Check.

The curve ahead bent sharp left. No guardrail on the right. Just slope and rocks and pine trees that dropped away into shadows. The afternoon sun was bright here, turning the asphalt silver-white.

Asher rounded the curve at exactly 45 mph. The tires hummed. The engine’s vibration traveled through the steering wheel.

The white Pilot came straight at him. Wrong lane. Too fast. Headlights blazing.

Asher’s hands jerked the wheel right. Toward the cliff edge.

The Tahoe’s right wheels left the pavement—asphalt hum to gravel crunch. The vehicle tilted. Slid sideways.

Asher reached for the door handle. Grabbed it. Pushed the door open against the wind. Used his left hand to keep steering while his right hand released the wheel.

The white Pilot missed him by three feet. Close enough that he felt the air pressure change. Close enough to see Daphne’s face through the windshield—focused, determined.

Then she was past.

Asher threw himself out the open door.

The impact nearly ripped his breath from his lungs. He hit shoulder first, then hip, and his ribs screamed where stitches pulled—hot, sharp pain that turned his vision white. He rolled. Tucked his head.

Gravel tore at his jacket. Rocks bit through denim into his thigh and knee. Good thing he wore a jacket, or he’d leave behind skin. He rolled three times before stopping flat on his back. Blue sky above. The afternoon sun bright enough to make him squint. The air cold against his face where sweat had broken out.

But he seemed intact. He rolled to his feet. His hand went to his pocket. Found the detonator, his thumb sliding to the trigger button.

The Tahoe kept going, plowing into the weedy edge bank, tilting. The front end dipped toward the slope. The back end lifted.

The SUV plummeted down the slope. The first impact crumpled the roof with a boom that echoed off the mountainside. Glass shattered. The vehicle bounced off rocks, crashed through small trees that snapped. Metal crunched. More glass shattered. The dummies inside shifted with each impact.

Asher activated the detonator.