Chapter 2

I was dumbstruck by that blond-haired man's request. I had just escaped death with Heather, almost creating a huge mass-casualty wreck, all because this criminal lunatic wanted to satisfy his own vile, predatory urges. That blond-haired man's expression immediately turned hostile when he noticed my lack of reaction. He jerked the steering wheel, causing the black Land Rover to swiftly edge nearer to my car. I knew my car was at its limit; it wouldn't survive another hit to the side. I noticed that the dashboard was lit up with a furious flashing of every conceivable warning light, and the steering wheel was beginning to shudder on its own. It was impossible to know if I would manage to avoid a total wreck during the next incident. I could hear Heather sobbing in the back seat. I knew I had no other choice, even though I was tormented by a crushing sense of shame and utter disgust. I slowly unzipped my jacket, my hands trembling uncontrollably. That blond-haired man spotted the slip top beneath my jacket and deliberately dragged his tongue over his lips. His expression was one of such raw lust, making me feel as though he wanted to consume me completely. I fought my rising nausea, engaged the Lane Keeping Assist system for stability, and managed to fake a smile of compliance. I waved him down, indicating that he should lower his car window, and slowly maneuvered my car into a tighter parallel. I balled up my jacket and hurled it toward him. That blond-haired man caught the jacket, a flicker of delight crossing his face. Then, he executed a vile, sickening motion that churned my stomach—he rubbed my jacket explicitly against his groin. I was sick to my stomach, but I had to fight the urge to throw up, knowing that this window of distraction was fleeting. I stamped on the brake pedal, causing the wheels to let out a screeching protest on the wet surface. I instantly lagged back into a safe position behind his Land Rover once my car's velocity decreased. I wrenched the steering wheel with all my might as he reveled in his twisted satisfaction and finally swerved into the emergency lane. I let out a long sigh of relief, my back completely drenched in cold sweat. I flicked on my hazard lights, monitored the traffic flow, and got ready to pull over to await the authorities. I believed the ordeal was over, but the black Land Rover violently changed lanes and put the car into reverse gear. He was now reverse-driving right at me at a speed of over 60 miles per hour. That lunatic was trying to get both of us killed. He was back, shadowing me like a vengeful specter. He was continuously testing the limits of my space by edging his vehicle closer and closer to my side. I looked desperately past the guardrail as the horrifying truth of his next move dawned on me. There was a steep, rocky precipice beyond it, with a sheer drop of 100 to 200 feet—a fall from there would have been instantly fatal. I reached back and carefully smoothed my hand over Heather's soft hair, while my eyes were filled with tears, obscuring my view. I gently removed the small, dried blood from her brow and whispered, "I just want you to know that I love you very much, Heather." It seemed like Heather sensed the gravity of the situation. She hurriedly gripped my finger with her hand, pleading, "Please don't go, Mommy. I'm scared." I felt a searing pain slicing through my heart. She had been cuddling me and her father, Howard Lowe, begging us to take her to an amusement park earlier that day. Yet, at this moment, she was covered in her own blood, her life hanging by a thread. Howard avoided taking any days off, working constantly to afford Heather's schooling. What would happen to him if he heard that Heather and I had perished? I shoved the devastating thoughts aside. I frantically checked Heather's safety seat one last time, and then I grabbed my phone and sent a voice message to Howard, saying, "I love you, honey. You must take good care of yourself." I floored the gas pedal once I sent the message, causing the engine to respond with a sickening wail as the gauge whizzed past 70, 80, and 90 MPH. It was raining heavily, with the downpour beating furiously against the front window as the car hurriedly gathered speed. I had no alternative but to bet everything on this moment. I was staking Heather's life and mine on the emergency lane to remain totally clear. If I succeeded, it would give me a shot at outrunning him and screeching into the rest stop ahead to find sanctuary. That blond-haired lunatic was still right behind me, refusing to back off. His Land Rover's engine roared across the highway. At one point, he came so close that his front bumper actually grazed the back of my car. I gripped the steering wheel tightly to prevent the car from spinning out as I felt the car bucking and swaying violently. I knew that he was enraged. The stunt I had pulled moments ago had thoroughly and explosively ignited his wrath. I managed to get the dispatcher back on the line, my voice now choking with tears. "That driver is chasing my car right now! He's trying to run us off the road and kill us!" It was then that the dispatcher stated gravely, "I'd like you to know that we've contacted the owner of the vehicle with the license plate 77777. The owner had actually filed a report this morning stating that the car was stolen. It's very likely that the person behind the wheel is the perpetrator. "I have already informed our officer, and they are currently en route at top speed. Barring any unforeseen issues, they are ten minutes away. In the meantime, we're working hard to ensure that the emergency lane is clear of obstructions up ahead." I was instantly crushed by the news. It turned out I wasn't fighting a road-rager but a hardened, desperate fugitive. In this high-speed chase, I felt that lasting ten more seconds was an impossible miracle, let alone ten minutes. I gritted my teeth and once again slammed on the brakes to rapidly decrease speed, which caused the car tires to skid uncontrollably on the waterlogged road, generating an earsplitting shriek. I quickly enabled every single one of my car's driver-assistance features that could help me in this situation—traffic sign recognition, lane keeping, and autonomous braking—after putting a little distance between our cars. I worked hard to alternate my pace—accelerating and decelerating—hoping to create a gap, but it was useless. His 360-horsepower off-roader had vastly more performance than my paltry 165-horsepower family car. That blond-haired man cruised alongside me effortlessly, treating the chase as a joke. He turned to face me as our vehicle ran side-by-side. Through the dense rain, his face was a terrifying portrait of pure malice. "You fucking bitch! I'll fucking kill you!" In one decisive movement, he violently turned his steering wheel, causing the Land Rover to crash into my side with the force and mass of a solid barrier.