Page 49 of Traitor
Chapter Nineteen
Peyton
I wantto ask more questions, but my heart is in my throat. I’m afraid if I open my mouth I’m going to embarrass myself by vomiting all over my lap. All I can do is hold on for dear life, like Ford instructed, and hope.
“I’m going to downshift once we get around the last curve to cut our speed.” Unlike me, Ford is cool under pressure. His eyes are focused on the road, the vehicle, and sometimes on me with a palpable intensity. “Is your seat belt secure?”
“It’s as good as it’s gonna get. What can I do?” I’m not sure I can do anything, but I hate being helpless.
“Ever driven a stick?”
Hysterical laughter threatens to bubble up. I tamp it down, swallowing hard. “Not since I was sixteen.”
“That’ll have to work. When I tell you, I want you to put her into third.”
I grip the gearshift with sweat-slicked hands. “Ford?”
“Yeah, sunshine?” He navigates around a curve, barely managing to keep the Jeep on four wheels.
“I have to tell you when my dad tried to teach me to drive a stick, I wrecked the transmission.”
He barks out a laugh, managing to grin at me. “In this instance, that could be a good thing. Now!”
I slam the gear into what I hope is third, and the Jeep lurches violently along with my stomach. Our speed drops, but only by a fraction. We round another curve.
“Second when I say,” Ford instructs. He waits until a we have a long length of uninterrupted road. “Now!”
The Jeep jolts again, this time with a whine of protest. Ford tries pumping the brakes, but to no avail. “First, now!”
We slow to a more manageable speed and I release the gearshift with numb hands. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding onto it so tight. “What now?” I ask.
“We’re gonna pull the emergency brake and hope to hell it does its job.”
“But we’re slowing down. Once we coast to a stop, we should be fine.”
Then I see the intersection. I’d forgotten about it. The road we’re on cuts east to west and intersects with another going north to south. As luck would have it, as we speed into view, the intersection is packed with cars full of people.
My heart plummets. “Oh, God,” I whisper.
Ford reaches across to tug on my seat belt. I grip the armrest and the center console knowing it won’t do any good if we collide with one of the cars, but needing something to hold onto nevertheless. I think of the outing Ford had described with him relaxing in a hammock while I paint. As we hurtle down the road, I cling to the future with that day in it.
With one hand on the steering wheel in a vise-like grip and the other on the e-brake, Ford rounds a final curve and yanks the e-brake up with enough force that the car jerks, then shudders. I’m thrown forward, hard, against the resistance of the seat belt, hard enough to bruise.
Tires squeal. Someone screams. And time stops.
The engine shrieks and then I’m thrown back against the seat. We rock to a near halt a short distance from the intersection and only a couple yards from the nearest car. Ford angles the Jeep to the side of the road until it comes to a complete stop.
He’s out of the door and around to my side before I even have a chance to unbuckle my seat belt. Ford scoops me from the car and wraps me up into his arms. I cling to him, my fingers knotting into his shirt.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Unable to speak around the fear lodged in my throat, I press my face into his chest until it clears. “My shoulder, I think the seat belt gave me a wicked bruise. But I’m fine. God, Ford, you were amazing. We’d be—”
“Don’t. Don’t you say it.” He steps back to look me over, runs his hands over my body in the removed, clinical way I imagined he did if he was in the field when he was a Marine with an injured friend. “You’re all right. Christ.”
This time, it’s me who soothes him. “I’m fine. Absolutely fine.” I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on, just like he’d said.
We stay that way until the police officers arrive.