Tennessee Takedown. Lena Diaz
gleamed up ahead at a crazy angle.
Dillon’s eyes widened and he slammed the brakes, bringing his car to a skidding halt at the edge of the roadway. The last twenty feet of asphalt had washed away. The bridge was completely underwater, its support beams sticking up out of the angry, roiling waves like the skeleton of some prehistoric water beast. The truck had slid off the collapsed roadway, narrowly missing the bridge’s first support beam and sliding half into the river.
Dillon grabbed his flashlight and hopped out. He sprinted to what was now little more than a cliff, a fifteen-foot drop down to the strip of mud at the water’s edge. The front of the truck was submerged beneath the water, all the way up to the doors. The bed of the truck stuck up in the air, and even as Dillon watched, the truck slipped a few more inches into the water.
He took off, racing parallel to the shore until he found a break where he could climb down. His boots slipped and slid in the muddy, rain-soaked ground.
In the beam of his flashlight he saw Ashley frantically tugging at her seat belt, her frightened eyes pleading with him for help as the water sucked and pulled at the truck. Dillon waded waist deep into the churning water to get to her door. The window was still rolled up, probably electric and stuck. He looked past her. The driver appeared to be passed out over the wheel. A rivulet of blood ran down the side of his face.
Ashley managed to get her seat belt off and yanked the door handle, but it wouldn’t open against the current. She pounded the flats of her hands against the window.
“Turn away from the glass,” Dillon yelled.
When Ashley moved back, Dillon used the hard case of his flashlight like a hammer against the window. It bounced and thudded against the glass. He tried again and again but the glass still held.
The truck slid deeper into the water.
Ashley screamed.
The driver stirred beside her.
Dillon shoved the flashlight under his arm and pulled out his gun.
“I have to shoot the window out,” he yelled.
She nodded, letting him know she understood. She pulled her legs up onto the seat, squeezing back from the window.
Dillon aimed toward the corner, so his bullet would go into the dashboard, and squeezed the trigger.
The safety glass shattered but held. He slammed the butt of his gun against the window. This time it collapsed in a shower of tiny glass pieces. He started to shove his gun into his holster but Ashley dove at him in the window opening, knocking both the flashlight and the pistol into the boiling, raging water.
He grabbed her beneath her arms and pulled.
She screamed.
He froze, horrified that he might have cut her on the glass.
“Let me go. Let me go,” she screamed again. But she wasn’t talking to him.
Dillon looked past her into the steady, dark eyes of the driver. He had a hold of Ashley’s waist and was playing a deadly game of tug-of-war.
“Let her go,” Dillon yelled. “I’ll pull her out, then come back for you. The truck’s back wheels aren’t going to hold much longer.”
“We’ll take our chances in the river.” The man’s voice was deadly calm, as if he wasn’t the least bit concerned. He heaved backward, pulling Ashley farther into the truck, slamming Dillon against the door. His grip slipped.
Ashley frantically flailed her arms. He reached for her and grabbed her hands.
The wheels made a great big sucking noise as they popped free from the mud. Ashley’s hands were yanked out of Dillon’s wet grasp. The truck went twisting and floating down the rain-swollen river, with Ashley’s terrified screams echoing back, tearing at Dillon’s heart.
The normally calm river was now a dangerous cauldron of rapids and swirling currents. The truck wouldn’t stay afloat for long. Even if Ashley made it out and into the water, she wouldn’t survive. No one could swim in that current. Only a fool would go into the river now.
He cursed and tore off his jacket. Apparently, he was a fool.
He dove into the river.
Chapter Four
Another wave crashed over Dillon’s head, shoving him back under like a waterlogged towel tossed in a giant washing machine. His lungs burned. His muscles ached from fighting against the current.
He kicked his legs and clawed his way toward the barely discernible sliver of moonlight that told him which direction was up. He burst to the surface, gulping air into his lungs. Lightning flashed in the sky, followed by a boom of thunder so loud it hurt his ears. The rain pummeled his skin like hundreds of tiny icy needles.
Another wave crashed down. Again he went under. Again he fought his way back up for another precious lungful of air. He’d lost sight of the truck. And he wasn’t trying to swim in any particular direction anymore.
He was just trying to survive.
It was too dark to see more than a few feet in front of him. He didn’t know where he was, or even if he was within reach of land. His muscles screamed for relief, cried out for rest. He couldn’t keep fighting much longer.
Moonlight glinted off the whitecap of another wall of water rushing toward him. He inhaled deeply just as the wave slammed into him. Like a spear in his chest, the water pushed him down, down, down until he bumped against the muddy bottom of the river.
The pressure pinned him against a rock. He latched onto it, fire lancing through his lungs as he waited for the current to shift. His vision blurred. The irony that he might actually drown suddenly struck him as funny. A laugh erupted from him, sending a froth of bubbles up toward the surface. His lungs protested the loss of desperately needed oxygen.
He pictured the fireplace mantel in his parents’ farmhouse, still filled with his decade-old swim trophies from high school, like open wounds that had never healed. What would his mother do when she heard her swim-champion son had drowned? Would she throw away the trophies that had made her so proud? Would she hate him for giving up?
He clenched the rock harder. Tired, so tired. All he had to do was open his mouth and take a deep gulp of water and it would be over. He wouldn’t have to fight anymore. His eyes drifted closed. The last of his air bubbled out of his nose. He sank deeper against the rock.
The image of his mother’s face drifted through his thoughts, surprising him with the anger in her faded blue eyes. She reached out, but instead of hugging him goodbye, she grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
She needs you. Help her.
His mother’s face faded, replaced by Ashley Parrish’s wide-eyed stare, her scream of terror as the truck went into the river.
Dillon’s eyes flew open. He couldn’t give up. Not yet. He had to try. One more time.
He let the rock go and pushed toward the moonlight again. Up, up, up. He broke the surface, inhaling deeply. The rush of air into his starved lungs was painful, like the rush of blood into a circulation-starved limb. He ducked beneath the next wave and came right back up this time. He was used to swimming in pools or the pond on his parents’ farm, not this roiling nightmare that pounded at him and made his muscles shake with exhaustion.
Maybe that was the problem. He was fighting too hard. He thought back to the basics, something his first swim coach had taught him, something he’d never had use for. Until now. Dead man float. He dodged the next wave, gulped in a deep breath, another.
Then he stopped fighting.
Lying facedown in the water, he held his hands out in front of him to protect his head from any debris. He held his breath, no longer struggling against a monster he couldn’t defeat, and let the current take him wherever it wanted as the freezing rain beat down on his back. He jerked his head out