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The cruiser hits us from behind.

The impact snaps my head forward. Pain bursts through my shoulder as the seat belt locks. Hazel screams. The Range Rover fishtails, tires losing grip on the narrow road.

I fight the wheel.

For one second, I almost get control back. Then the cruiser clips the rear quarter panel again.

The Range Rover spins and then slams sideways into a ditch with a bone-jarring crunch.

Air leaves my lungs as the engine sputters and then dies.

Hazel groans beside me.

I blink through dizziness. “H-Hazel?”

“I’m here,” she whispers. Blood trickles from a cut near her hairline.

No.

No, no.

I fumble for the gun, but the driver’s door is yanked open before I can pull it free.

A man in a police uniform stands there, one hand on the door, the other holding a pistol aimed at my face.

“You should’ve stopped,” he says.

I stare at him. He’s middle-aged. Clean-shaven. His badge gleams.

“You’re with them,” I whisper.

“Hands where I can see them.”

I don’t move.

“Now.”

Slowly, I lift my hands.

“Good girl.”

Hazel turns toward him. “Leave her alone.”

He looks past me. “You keep quiet.”

Hazel goes utterly still.

“You’re coming with me,” the cop says.

I move fast. Attempt to grab the gun from my pocket. But not fast enough to aim.

The cop catches my wrist and twists. Pain explodes up my arm.

I cry out, but I kick at him, connecting with his knee. He grunts and slams my hand against the steering wheel.

The gun falls to the floorboard. I lunge for it. He grabs my hair and yanks me back so hard tears spring to my eyes.

Hazel unclips her seat belt and throws herself across the console. “Run!” she screams.