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But you’ll never get away.
10
Lisa Jackson
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Pescoli could barely breathe.
Her lungs were tight, so damned tight. And the pain . . . God, the pain.
She felt as if all the weight of the crumpled Jeep was compressing on her body, grinding against her muscles, squeezing the air from her lungs, the life from her body.
Don’t be a melodramatic idiot. Get out!
Get out now!
Save yourself!
> You know what’s happening and it’s not good. In fact, it’s very, very bad.
Desperately, adrenaline spurring her, she tried to release her seat belt, to thrust the damned air bag away from her face as pain splintered up her shoulder and she let out a wounded yowl. Jesus!
Where once her body responded to her every command, now she was helpless.
Come on, come on! You don’t have much time! Even now she knew he was out there.
Felt his presence.
Realized he was coming for her with deadly and sure intent.
God in heaven, move, Pescoli, get the hell out of here! Sucking in her breath, gritting against the pain, she forced her fingers into the space between the seats and pushed hard on the seat belt release button. Click.
Finally!
Now if she could force the crumpled door or
CHOSEN TO DIE
11
somehow try to get through the windshield . . . But nothing happened, the belt didn’t so much as budge. What? No!
She tried again.
She heard the same metallic sound of release, but the damned thing was jammed. Like the shotgun catch.
Panic-stricken, she tried over and over again, grimacing against the pain, fearing that any second the killer would appear and that would be the end of it. Of her.
Don’t give up! There’s still time! The blood that was oozing from a cut near her temple was freezing on her skin and she was shivering, her teeth chattering as the wind and snow raged through the shattered windshield, yet a nervous sweat ran down her spine. Any second she expected the sick son of a bitch to appear.
Damn it, you’re a sitting duck! Get the hell out of this rig!
If she could just reach the police band radio or her cell phone or . . .
