Page 113 of Theirs to Hunt
"REAGAN!"
I slammed the brakes, tires screeching as I jumped out, heart in my goddamn throat.
The driver’s side was caved in, but the Bentley held.
Bent. Crushed. But intact.
The sound of metal crumpling still echoed in my head as I sprinted to the driver’s side, gravel slicing into my shoes.
Smoke billowed from under the hood, acrid and sharp.
She was not moving.
I reached for the handle. Locked.
I yanked harder. Nothing.
"Reagan!"
Her head lolled to the side.
Blood trickled from her temple.
Her skin, too pale. Too still.
I pounded on the window.
Tried to smash it with my elbow.
Nothing.
The bulletproof glass did not give.
Not even a crack.
"God, fuck, come on!"
People started gathering.
A bystander ran up with a tire iron, took a swing.
Nothing.
Another woman already had her phone to her ear, calling 911.
"Fire department’s en route!" she called out. "They’re coming!"
It was not fast enough.
I dropped to my knees beside the door, chest heaving, hand pressed flat to the glass like she might feel it.
"Come on, Bambi. I’m right here, okay? Just... just wake up. You can yell at me for being overprotective, but you gotta wake up."
Nothing.
Then it hit me.
The remote system.
