Page 47 of Guarded from Sabotage

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he says tightly. “They’re just not—shit.”

As we come around the corner too fast, the tires squeal, but we stay on the road. But instead of staying the same speed, or even slowing—if Dante’s not pressing the gas, we should be—we’re actually movingfaster.

Fear settles on my chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. Through a narrowing throat, I whisper, “Why aren’t we slowing down?”

“I can’t control the gas.”

What?

Though his tone is calm, I can’t miss the worry in his voice.

A glance at the speedometer tells me we’re now going eighty miles an hour, eighty-one, eighty-two…

Oh, God.

I can’t freak out. Not now. Not when Dante needs to concentrate on—what? If he can’t control the brake or the gas, what are we going to do?

“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen.” The only outward sign of stress is the muscle working in his jaw. “In a second, I’m going to steer off the road. Right at that flat spot up ahead. Then I’m going to use the emergency brake. It’s going to be bumpy. But it’s going to be okay.”

I look ahead at the stretch of land he’s indicating, and my stomach falls to my feet. There’s a stretch of grass, yes, but beyond it is a wall of shrubs and trees. Trees we’ll no doubt crash into.

But I don’t say that. I just nod and whisper, “Okay.”

“Right up here,” he says.

I stop breathing.

One last check of the speedometer says we’re going ninety.

Oh, please. I don’t want to die. Not when I just found the man who might be the one.

Dante turns the wheel.

We’re going so fast, everything is a blur.

The car careens off the road with a jarring thud.

Now we’re speeding across the grass, the car thudding hard over every bump.

He grabs the emergency brake and yanks it, but it doesn’t do much to decrease our speed.

The line of trees is running parallel to us, but getting closer by the second.

We go over a large bump and actually catch air before coming down with a heavy clunk.

Dante says something, but I can’t hear him over the frantic pounding of my heart.

I thought I knew what fear was like. I was wrong.

This is my fault. It has to be.

“We’re slowing down,” Dante says, and this time I can actually hear him. “But soon, I’m going to have to hit some small shrubs. To decrease our speed even more.”

A few seconds later, we hit the first of them with a bone-rattling thud. Then another. And another.

It’s like a giant hand has hold of the car, shaking it.

“Almost…” Dante puts out his arm, clamping his hand over my stomach. “Close your eyes, Sarah.”

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