The whole car jerked sideways, but Clara didn’t even flinch. She planted her boot on the center console, steadying herself as she snapped up her gun and fired straight ahead.
Her shot nailed the lead car, flipping it over and blocking the rest of the convoy behind it.
It would only buy them a few seconds, though. The others would be back on their tail any moment.
Clara slipped back in through the open window, already reloading the gun with practiced, almost automatic movements.
Halfway through, she paused, frowning. “Wait… did I ever actually learn how to use a gun?”
And yet, her hands knew exactly what to do.
She’d been wondering about it since earlier, when she’d spotted the scattered gun parts and somehow, without thinking, assembled them in seconds.
She glanced at Dylan sitting beside her.
He had his eyes closed, silent.
Aiden up front was quiet too.
Sensing the strange tension, Clara decided not to push it.
She rolled up the window and scooted closer to Dylan. “Feeling any better?” she asked softly.
He opened his eyes, gaze drifting to the gun in her hands.
Clara gave him a crooked smile. “This thing’s pretty handy. Guess I must’ve learned somewhere… just can’t remember who taught me.”
Her words faded as a surge of blurry, chaotic memories crashed through her mind, making her head pound.
She didn’t let it show. Instead, she grabbed a tissue and gently wiped the sweat from Dylan’s forehead.
“Dylan, I’m talking to you. Are you okay?”
He nodded slightly, his eyes searching her face. Finding nothing unusual, he reached out and pulled her into his arms.
Clara found herself half-trapped against his chest, unable to move.
Comments
The readers' comments on the novel: Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run