CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As I barreled down the street, I spared a glance in the rearview mirror. The men “coming to my aid” had disappeared, except for the silhouette of a leg slipping behind the car’s open door. The vehicle moved after me, door shutting as it did. It was obviously much more powerful than mine—a full-size Ford or Chevy. If this was a race, my Fiesta was a tortoise to their hare.
I pressed the gas pedal hard as I dared, looking both ways and praying as I blew through a stop sign. With a wrench of the wheel, I careered to the right down a side street. I swear my side of the car lifted off the ground. At least, it felt that way. When I checked the rearview, a car that could've been the one in pursuit rounded the turn I'd taken. I swung left onto another street, punched the gas, then turned left again.
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