Page 3 of Thea's Hero

My body starts shaking, tremors so strong the car moves along with them.

The gun jabs into my head again, painful and bruising. “Don’t slow down. Just drive.”

Thoughts are fracturing into fragments. Who? Why? How? I can’t seem to pull them together enough to make sense of this.

My hand inches toward my purse in the passenger seat, reaching for the phone inside, but I’m reprimanded by the sharp crack of metal on the back of my head.

“No! Hands on the wheel!”

I yelp in pain, tears springing to my eyes.

I don’t realize my foot has fallen off the gas entirely until the voice yells in its crackling, mechanical tone, “Keep moving! I will shoot you! Don’t test me!”

My instincts take over and I jam my foot to the floor, sending the car rocketing forward.

The person behind me snaps, “Drive normally!”

A flash of irritation works its way through the suffocating terror. Easy for them to say. They don’t have a gun pointing at their head.

They. Is it a man or a woman?

I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

Crap. I need to pull myself together instead of cringing in fear. I need to gather my courage and come up with a plan.

First, the car. Focus. Get the car under control. Slow down. Steady my hands so I don’t drive off the road.

Once I’m closer to the speed limit, I chance a quick look in the rearview mirror. As soon as I do, I wish I hadn’t.

The person behind me is wearing a black ski mask. In one gloved hand is a little hand-held device, in the other, a very real-looking gun.

A voice changer. That’s what they’re using.

My brain is kicking back online, finally processing.

What should I do next? Aside from driving blindly toward wherever this person wants me to go?

“You can have my car,” I say, my voice cracking. “Take it. Please. Just let me go.”

There’s a pause, and then the mechanical voice chuckles. “No, Thea. I’m not letting you go.”

They know who I am. Bile surges, and I almost vomit all over the steering wheel.

My breaths are coming in short, shallow bursts, making me feel lightheaded.

Not a carjacking. Not going to let me go.

“Please,” I try again, the word coming out in a wheeze. “Let me go.”

“No.” Another pause, and then, “Turn left at the next stop.”

The road I’m supposed to turn down is a country road that will take me even further away from Sleepy Hollow. And further from anyone who could help me.

I can’t let that happen. But what else can I do? There’s a gun pointed at my head.

Except.

It’s not really pointed at my head now. When I glance into the backseat again, I see that the gun has drifted away, pointing more at the floor than at me.

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