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A gurgle escaped Paul’s lips, and I looked in the rearview mirror. His face was red. Blood vessels and capillaries burst in his eyes making him look like a deep-sea diver who’d come to the surface too fast.
My strength was waning, but if I could just hold on a little longer…
Cletus grabbed my hand and then slid the knife through the zip ties holding my wrists together. I lost my clasp on Paul’s neck and fell backward.
A horn blared from the oncoming lane.
“Fuck!” Cletus yelled, dropping the knife and wrenching the wheel so we didn’t collide with the approaching truck.
Cletus overestimated the torque, and combined with our demonic speed, the small car screeched and skidded across the asphalt, tilting up on its side as we veered to the right.
My body catapulted into the door, and my head smacked against the glass. Stars danced before my eyes, clouding my vision.
I prayed the vehicle would right itself.
But God didn’t hear my prayer.
The car flipped, and the world stilled.
For a heartbeat, we were suspended in midair…and then the vehicle turned upside down.
Screeching metal across asphalt was the last sound I heard before I passed out.
* * *
Pain buzzed through my temples, and a hearty groan fled my lips. I took a deep breath. And then another.
I slowly opened my eyes and saw Paul’s body suspended upside down, his neck slanted to one side. A piece of the windshield had severed his carotid artery and blood was pouring from his neck.
I moved my legs.
Thank God.
Cletus was not in the vehicle.
Had he been flung from it?
I slithered from my spot to the front seat. The scent of oil, burnt rubber, and other fluids from the car penetrated my nose. The passenger door was open, bent back at an odd angle. The rest of the vehicle was too crushed to escape from. The radiator hissed, and fluid leaked out onto the ground, splashing like a tub overflowing from a faucet left on too long.
I slid out onto the asphalt, my skin abraded by gravel and glass. I sliced my palms, but I kept going. My jeans had provided some protection to my legs.
When I was clear from the wreckage, I stood up and looked around.
The truck we’d almost plowed into had stopped on the opposite side of the road a few hundred yards away. Its hazard lights flashed in the weak morning light.
A man jogged toward me and across the street, calling out in Spanish, asking if I was hurt. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, his brown eyes warm with concern as he looked me over. His gaze locked on my arm where Cletus had stabbed me. It was oozing, and I was about to tear off a piece of my shirt to wrap it when the young man spoke.
“I have a first aid kit in the truck,” he said in Spanish. “Do you have any other injuries?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied in the same tongue.
He looked relieved that I spoke his language.
In the past twelve hours I’d been kidnapped, stabbed by an inept maniac, and in a violent car wreck after trying to kill one of my captors. Maybe my luck was turning, and this kind stranger would patch me up and help get me out of here.
The young man introduced himself as Roberto as we headed toward the truck. It was a large pickup, and the engine sounded like it was a diesel. The driver’s side door was ajar, and he popped open another small door to the back, and then reached underneath the seat from behind to retrieve his first aid kit.
“I’m a doctor,” I said.
