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She raced down the stairs and made her way toward the kitchen. She was nearly free.
Just as she was entering the room, she heard the sound of a key turning in the backdoor lock.
Her blood froze in her veins, all the breath leaving her lungs.
Instinct made her shrink back into a shadowed corner, out of sight of the opening door. The kitchen light flicked on and loud footsteps moved purposely over the tile. Jane remained in shadows, her heart booming like a drum.
Cautiously, she peeked out.
She would have screamed if there had been any air in her lungs. A big man stood at the basement door. He was a big, hulking presence, not as tall as Robert, but wider and heavier. He was dressed all in black, a cap pulled low over his head.
As he opened the basement door, she saw the dull gleam of something in his right hand.
A gun.
Rage exploded like fire inside her. No hired killer was going to ruin her plans. She simply would not allow it.
In that moment, she shifted to autopilot, no longer thinking, only acting. Her body nearly levitating from the adrenaline hurtling through her bloodstream, she crashed into the man from behind, shoving him forward as hard as she could.
With a startled cry, he tripped and fell down the stairs, his big body tumbling like a boulder. She heard the sickening thwack of bone against concrete when he reached the bottom and then…nothing.
With shaking hands slippery with fear sweat, Jane slammed the basement door and threw the bolt. She rushed toward the key rack, terrified that at any moment the man would come pounding back up the stairs, filled with murderous rage.
“Just get out, get out, get out,” she panted. There were two sets of keys on the hooks. She grabbed the key fob with the Porsche logo stamped onto it. Opening the door to the garage, she flicked on the lights. They’d taken the Range Rover. She raced past the imposing silver Bentley. The Porsche 911 waited silently, beckoning her to step inside.
Pulling open the driver side door, she threw her bags inside and slid onto the expensive leather. Yanking the door closed, she turned on the engine and touched the button on the garage door opener hanging from the sun visor.
As the door rose, she saw the outline of a dark van parked on the driveway. Fortunately, it wasn’t blocking the Porsche. Somehow, her luck was holding.
Her hands shook as she clutched the steering wheel, her teeth actually chattering. “Breathe,” she ordered herself. “Calm down and drive.”
The seatbelt chime was dinging annoyingly. She grabbed the belt and clicked it in place. Putting the car in reverse, she tapped the accelerator. The car leaped back, startling her. It was far more sensitive than her old clunker. Instinctively, she slammed her foot on the brake pedal, which threw her forward. She would have flown through the window if she hadn’t been belted in.
Sweat had sprouted under her arms and on her upper lip. “Take it easy,” she said breathlessly to herself. “You can do this.”
She tried again, this time easing the car out of the garage and managing to execute a three-point turn on the gravel without crashing into the parked van of her would-be murderer.
Heart racing, she put the car in drive and moved past the van and down the long driveway. She was forced to stop the car in front of the huge wrought-iron gate that separated the property from the street. She tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as the gate swung open with agonizing slowness.
Once there was enough space to get safely through, she shot forward onto the road. There was a compass on the rearview mirror that indicated the direction. She had a general idea where she was, based on Brenda’s license. She took a right, heading south along the country road, driving as fast as she dared.
She drove for maybe fifteen minutes, past long stretches of what looked like farmland, though it was hard to be sure in the dark. Finally, she came to a bigger road lined with streetlamps illuminating the asphalt. Deciding she was far enough away to pull over for a moment, she parked on the side of the road and tapped the console screen on the dashboard. To her relief, it lit up with various options.
She selected the GPS navigation system. A map appeared on the screen. A disembodied voice spoke, startling her. “What is your destination?”
“The Greyhound Bus station,” Jane said in a loud, quavering voice.
“I found the Greyhound Bus Station,” the voice said. “Is this the correct address?” It flashed up on the screen.
“Yes,” Jane said, recognizing the location. She would leave the Porsche in the nearby supermarket parking lot with the keys inside to throw off anyone who might be looking for her. She would walk down the block to the bus station and buy a ticket for the next departing bus.
