Page 116 of Facing the Enemy

“And we all make a lot of money.”

A few pieces slid into place. “Genius. Your boss could be anywhere in the world and have more operations than a single baby ring.”

He smiled. “Too bad you’re headed for elimination. You and I would get along just fine. Start our own operation.”

“And just what would we do?”

“Start small and build ourselves up.”

“You’ll never know if I’m dead. We could make a ton of money.” I needed to stall him, find a way to get inside his head.

He gave me a pout. “Won’t ever find out, will we?”

“Just where are we going?”

“Sweetheart, you just asked me that. But I’ll fill in the blanks in your pretty little head. We are meeting at Lake Houston for a boat ride. A deserted area during the holidays. While everyone is doing their Christmas joy thing, I’ll celebrate with my own plans. I’m an expert with torture methods. King, as a matter of fact.”

He planned to end my life slowly and dump what was left in Lake Houston in anticipation of a gator feasting on my remains. I should have fought Wright at the maternity home, but the idea of one more person giving her life for me stopped my move. Those precious birth mothers and their babies deserved a chance to live. Another thought focused on any security cams picking up my abduction. I willingly got into Florakis’s car. I didn’t have time to analyze it all.

I saw the West Lake Houston Parkway bridge in the distance, and I had an idea where he planned to take me—the same place where Luke’s body and car had been found. This could be the day I met Jesus, and unforgiveness for the killer beside me would go to my death. I refused to meet Jesus without doing all He’d asked of me.

I forgive Peter Florakis and anyone else I’ve failed to show the same forgiveness You have given me.

Keeping my eyes on the road, my mind raced to taking a chance. My wild streak might kill us, but I’d rather die fighting than face Florakis’s evil plans.

The car traveled onto the bridge, and I reached deep for courage. Three-quarters of the way across, I released my seat belt. I swung my right fist into his left hand while slamming my left onto his nose.

The gun fired through the passenger-side window. I grabbed his phone from the console and tossed it into the back seat, praying it didn’t set off a bomb. I scuffled with him for the firearm.

He fought hard to gain control and the car. But I had determination going for me—and a whole lot of power behind prayer.

He squeezed the trigger again, and the bullet whistled past my right shoulder, taking a little real estate with it. The sting forced more adrenaline into my body.

Florakis pressed the gas pedal, and we headed to the other side of the bridge. Oncoming cars honked and sped around us. A small grove of trees on the left side held my attention. I’d take the chance of hitting them without my seat belt fastened.

We sped across the bridge, and I yanked the steering wheel left, sliding into the embankment, heading to the farthest tree. It could stop us with the impact on the passenger side. Our speed scared me. I calculated the second we’d hit and used all my strength to bash Florakis’s head onto the steering wheel.

The impact exploded the airbags, cushioning the crash and jamming the right side of the car into the tree. Limbs and branches scraped the right side of the BMW. My chest ached, and my lungs burned from the chemical release. I caught my breath, noting warmth flowing from my nose. I swiped at the blood with my sweater sleeve, hoping my nose wasn’t broken. But it hurt.

Florakis moaned, his head resting against the steering wheel. I yanked the gun from his grasp and pressed the barrel against his temple while opening the driver’s-side door. “Get out.”

He appeared to be in a semiconscious state.

I unfastened his seat belt and pushed him onto the ground. Then I crawled out over his body.

He reached for my leg, and I shook it off. “Don’t even try. Nothing I’d like better than to blow a hole through your head.”

Two cars had stopped. Plopping onto the grass, I kept the gun aimed at Florakis.

A middle-aged man in a suit approached. “Ma’am, I’ve called 911.”

I peered up at him, and he backed up at the sight of my gun. “I’m FBI Special Agent Risa Jacobs.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“But I’m alive.” I took a breath. “Would you check for a phone in the back seat? It’s a trigger for a bomb.”

The man held up his palms. “No thanks. I’ll let a police officer handle it.”