Page 41 of Beyond Her Reach (Bree Taggert #10)

Bree’s heart catapulted into her throat as she straightened the wheel.

Fissures spiderwebbed across the windshield, completely obscuring the view.

Fuck!

Disoriented by the lack of visibility, she pulled her foot off the gas pedal.

Before she could stomp on the brakes to slow the vehicle, a tire blew out.

The SUV fishtailed. Bree fought to keep the wheel straight, but the vehicle didn’t respond.

The SUV careened, out of control, the movement sending Bree’s body weight sideways.

The seat belt snapped tight. Tires skidded.

The SUV shimmied. A wheel—or two—lost contact with the pavement.

Bree could feel the vehicle start to tip.

No. No. No. Don’t roll!

She turned into the skid, hoping she was going in the right direction and that no cars were approaching in the other lane.

Her maneuver leveled the vehicle, and the tipping sensation disappeared.

She avoided the rollover, but the car continued to slide sideways.

She was powerless to even slow the momentum as it crossed the oncoming lane and slipped over the shoulder into the roadside ditch.

As soon as the wheels left the road, Bree knew she could no longer steer.

She was helpless as the vehicle plowed along the ditch.

Debris and foliage thwacked the window. Metal scraped, bent, and screeched.

The tempered glass of the side windows shattered.

Glass pebbles rained through the still-moving vehicle.

A sudden explosion around Bree struck her in the face and side.

Pain slammed through her nose. Her nostrils filled, and something warm and wet gushed down her face.

The vehicle came to a shuddering stop. Everything went abruptly still and quiet, except for a ticking sound emanating from the direction of the engine.

Bree held still for a minute, getting her bearings. She was alive.

The SUV had come to a stop in the ditch, tilted on the driver’s-side door at a nearly ninety-degree angle.

She was lying on her side, the seat belt digging into her collarbone and abdomen.

The airbags had deployed. The pain in her face told her it might have broken her nose.

Blood smeared the deflated airbag draped over the steering wheel.

She touched her face. When she lowered her hand, it was covered in blood.

She moved her arms and legs. Her limbs felt heavy and shaky, but she didn’t think anything was broken. A whining sound from behind the seat made her head swivel. She ignored the burst of pain in her head and neck as she tried to see into the rear of the vehicle.

“Turbo?” she croaked.

The dog poked his head over the seat and licked her face.

Bree twisted sideways to run one hand over his head and neck.

No blood. She couldn’t reach the rest of him.

She was pinned by the wheel and taut seat belt.

She tried to release the seat belt, but the button was jammed.

But the dog was conscious and on his feet, so she took that as a good sign.

Her gaze skimmed over the smashed passenger window.

Would the dog bolt? If he did, she couldn’t stop him.

She scanned the vehicle interior for her phone, which had been in a cup holder when she’d crashed. She didn’t see it, so she tapped her lapel mic and reported the accident to dispatch over the radio.

“Are you injured, Sheriff?” the dispatcher asked.

“Just superficially,” Bree answered. “I think.”

“10-4. Deputies and EMTs are en route,” the dispatcher said. “ETA eight minutes.”

Bree didn’t like the trapped feeling. She didn’t want to wait in the vehicle, suspended by the seat belt, until help arrived.

She reached for the console, where she kept a multi-tool.

She’d need to cut the belt and climb out through the passenger window.

Powder from the airbags triggered a cough. Pain seared through her face.

Ow. Fuck, that hurts.

She wheezed and swallowed, trying hard not to cough again. Her face throbbed as if it had its own heartbeat.

If I sneeze, I’ll spray blood and possibly pass out.

She was lightheaded, and the thought made her bizarrely giddy.

Not good.

Stuck in a vehicle, vulnerable. Could the car catch fire? Behind her, Turbo growled. Bree went still. Did he smell smoke? She couldn’t smell anything at all.

He slunk forward, his eyes focused on the shattered passenger window. Bree heard the sound that triggered him. Footsteps on gravel. A passing motorist?

The dog growled again, the warning rumbling low and deep in his throat. Defensive and growly wasn’t his normal disposition. Matt’s voice rang in her head.

Trust the dog.

Bree’s pulse ramped up again. Something was wrong. Not just wrong. Turbo was acting as if there were a threat outside. An image of the broken-down vehicle on the overpass flashed through her mind. Had the motorist thrown something onto her vehicle? Bree’s bones went cold. She was trapped.

Her hand went to her duty belt, but her awkward position jammed her holster between her hip and the vehicle seat. She yanked at her duty belt, trying to shift it.

The footsteps came closer. Turbo climbed over the seat, crawling on top of her. One rear paw stepped on her face, sending a fresh burst of agony through her nose into her forehead. More blood flowed over her mouth and chin. She breathed through her mouth and tried to remain silent.

Turbo stood awkwardly, two paws on her body, one foot planted on the center console, and another on the broken dashboard computer. He placed himself between Bree and the open window.

Between Bree and the threat.

Outside the vehicle, a shoe scraped on gravel.

Could it be an innocent person who’d stopped to offer assistance?

But then why weren’t they hurrying or calling out?

No. The footsteps were deliberate, almost cautious.

Bree could feel the sinister intent in her marrow.

She knew in her bones that whoever was outside the vehicle had caused the accident.

Were they coming to see if they’d killed her? Maybe finish her off?

Another scrape sounded. This one closer still.

Bree shoved her elbow past the dog’s back leg to work on her weapon again.

But the dog on top of her limited her movement.

She forced her holster forward and slipped off the safety strap.

But before she could slide the gun out, Turbo leaped upward toward the window like a canine superhero, as if he were truly turbo-powered. All he needed was a cape.

Dog nails scratched for purchase as he climbed through the open window.

Boots skidded and scrambled. The dog barked as he clambered for his balance.

More footsteps sounded, but this time, they were running away from the vehicle.

Would Turbo give chase? No human could outrun him.

If he pursued, he would catch whoever he was after. Would he bite and injure someone?

But a few seconds later, dog tags jingled, and he leaped onto the outside of the passenger door. He stuck his head through the open window. His tongue hung three inches out of his mouth, flapping with his breaths. Her hero was also a goofball.

“Good boy.” Bree finally jerked her gun free of its holster. Way too late. Turbo lifted his head and scanned the surroundings. On guard. She watched him. Soft body posture. No growling. The threat he’d perceived was gone.

Bree stuffed the gun back into the holster and reached for the console.

When she flipped open the lid, the contents fell out.

Three pens, a pad of sticky notes, a protein bar, a compass, and the multi-tool dropped onto her.

She opened the knife and cut through the seat belt.

Once free, she fell against the driver’s door.

Pain rattled her hip, and she couldn’t wait to shower and count her bruises.

With the pressure on her collarbone and across her hips released, she breathed in relief for a minute.

Except for a potentially broken nose, she didn’t sense any major injuries.

Of course, adrenaline could mask pain in the short term, but her hands and feet were working just fine, and she could breathe, so her ribs were probably intact.

The vehicle had slid sideways, with less impact than if she’d hit the ditch nose-first. Still, everything would hurt tomorrow.

She eased her ass onto the driver’s door, then got her feet under her body.

From a crouch, she climbed across the console and passenger seat, using the same grips that the dog had, although Bree’s exit was far less graceful.

Turbo moved aside as she clambered out the window.

Thankfully, the shattered glass was tempered, and the broken bits dull, because she couldn’t avoid them all.

Once her body had cleared the window, Bree scanned the area.

No one in sight. She climbed off the passenger door and scrambled onto the shoulder of the road as nimbly as a fawn dismounting from a balance beam.

When her feet hit the road, her balance faltered.

Her brain lost track of up and down. Her knees buckled, and she ass-planted.

Pain zinged up her tailbone. Great. Another pending bruise.

Turbo was at her side in a second, whining and licking her face. She rested her forehead on him. As soon as the dizziness passed, she lifted her head. “Are you Ok ?”

She brushed her hand across his back and sides, probing for cuts or tender spots. She checked his legs and the pads of his paws. The worst injuries she found were an abrasion on the bottom of his rear paw and a small gash on his foreleg. “We’ll have a vet check you out.”

He whined and licked her face again. It was gross, but she didn’t resist. She plucked a sticker from his ruff.

Now that they were both safe, she replayed the accident in her head. The cinder block dropping onto her vehicle. The tire blowing out. It hadn’t been an accident at all. Before she looked up at the overpass, she knew what she would see.

The disabled vehicle was gone.

The motorist had thrown the block off the overpass. Had they come down to see if the vehicle crash had killed her? If it hadn’t, had they planned to finish the job?

If the cinder block had struck her windshield instead of the hood of the SUV, it could have killed her. A shudder ripped through her. Nausea followed as adrenaline ebbed. Turbo leaned on her. Or was she leaning on him?

She slung an arm over his shoulders. “Thanks. I’m pretty sure you just saved my life.”