Page 48 of Guarded from Sabotage

Before I do, I see the tree getting bigger in front of us. Not a shrub. Not a little baby tree, but a full-grown one.

Oh, please.

And then.

We slam into it.

Metal screeches and crumples.

Glass shatters.

Just as my body is flying forward, the seatbelt jerks me back.

The airbag deploys, smacking me hard in the face. Hot blood fills my mouth. My ears ring. Everything grays out for a second.

Then I hear a faint voice. Rough. Worried.

The airbag is pushed away from me, and Dante’s face appears.

“Sarah. Talk to me.” He’s touching my face, my hair, my chest. “Can you hear me?”

With a groan, I reach up to touch my stinging lip, faintly surprised to feel wetness there.

“Don’t move,” Dante commands. “Not until I can check you out.” His gaze is all over me, dark with fear and concern. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to get hurt, but there was no other way to stop the car.”

Everything is slowly coming back into focus. “Your head.” My voice sounds like it’s coming down a long tunnel. I move despite Dante’s instructions, touching the rising bruise on his forehead. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m okay,” he replies. “I’m more worried about you.”

For a moment, I take stock. Bloody lip, not too bad. Nose sore, but not broken. My chest aches, but not too badly. The ringing in my ears is diminishing.

“I’m okay, too,” I tell him. “But you… How did you know what to do?”

“I took a driving course in the Army.” Dante touches my lip and his expression clouds. “You might need stitches. And ice. Right away.”

Then he reaches under the seat and pulls out a gun. “Just in case,” he explains. “I don’t think whoever did this is out there, but if they are…” His voice dips dangerously. “They’re going to beverysorry.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DANTE

“Are yousureyou don’t want to go to the hospital?”

I know I’ve asked Sarah some variation of the same question at least a dozen times since we got back to B and A, and my protectiveness is verging on obsession, but I can’t help myself.

I keep seeing Sarah right after the accident, dazed, bloody, bits of broken glass in her hair, and I’m reminded of how close she came to being hurt so much worse.

If we’d been at a different part of the road, there would have been buildings surrounding us instead of grass, and I wouldn’t have had a place to slow down. If there had been more traffic, I might not have been able to maneuver around it. And not even two miles ahead, there was a tight curve I’m not sure I could have made traveling at such a high speed.

Every time I think about how close we came to a catastrophic accident, a sick, clammy feeling comes over me. Bile rises in my throat. My chest squeezes.

It was too close.

I’ve been in situations where death wasn’t just possible, but a probability. Missions when the odds were stacked against us ten to one. But I never felt the same kind of fear as I did when wewere rocketing down the road, the car accelerating on its own, and the wrong decision could cost Sarah her life.

Fear still has its claws in me, which is why I’m battling irrational worries about Sarah being injured more badly than I initially thought. Even though I’ve been a medic for almost twenty years, the residual fear has me doubting my abilities.

If I missed something—a broken bone, a spine injury, internal bleeding—I’ll never forgive myself.

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