PROLOGUE
Big Sur, California
June
Brian Walker kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift. The Jaguar F-TYPE convertible purred like a lion, all energy and muscle and streamlined strength.
âGun it.â Bridgette lowered her sunglasses to stare at him. âYou know you can pass him.â
Highway 101 stretched in front of him, a dark line separating the forest and rock on his left from the Pacific Ocean on his right. Heâd driven this section of road before many times, though never in a Jag that went from zero to sixty in four seconds. Top speed? One hundred eighty-six mph. Yes, he could pass the Suburban in front of him.
His parents had given him the sleek black Jag. At twenty-nine, he was a bit old for presents from Mom and Dad, but who in their right mind would turn down an eighty-thousand-dollar gift? Besides, heâd earned it. He was the first professor at Soluna University to achieve tenure before thirty. So far heâd put less than a hundred miles on the car. It was about time he broke it open.
And Bridgette? Well, she was one of several girls he spent time withâtanned, blond, and dangerous.
âGun it, Brian. Show me what youâve got.â
He wasnât usually one to act on a dare, but the setting sun twinkling off the water combined with the breeze through his hair, her look, and the engine purring beneath his hand. Suddenly it wasnât about Bridgetteâwhom heâd known for all of three weeks. It was all about him. The desire to use and control the power at his fingertips was simply too strong.
The Bixby Creek Bridge rolled out before him in the distance, beckoning. The oncoming lane was clear.
So he gunned it.
Ninety miles an hour.
One hundred.
One hundred ten.
They were flying, and the ride was smoother than a sailboat on a calm sea.
They passed the Suburban as if it were standing still.
He glanced over at Bridgette. Sheâd tossed her head back, exposing her neck, and even over the roar of the engine he could hear her laugh. Brian realized in that moment what a beautiful girlâwhat a striking womanâshe was.
He took his eye off the road for two, maybe three seconds.
When he glanced back, sunlight was bouncing off a semi coming toward them.
The speedometer read one hundred twelve miles an hour.
Brian didnât dare tap the brakes. Instead, he accelerated, bulleting past the delivery truck in front of the suburban. Not a problem for the Jag.
His mistake was in pulling over too soon. By that time, he was able to see the expression of the old-timer driving the big rig. The man was hollering, blaring his horn with one hand and clutching the wheel with the other. That struck him as almost funnyâas if holding more tightlyto a circular device could in some way affect its handling. Poor reasoning, but an understandable reaction.
The thought flitted through his mind in less than a second, as he was moving over, as the semi blew past. He safely maneuvered past the suburban and the delivery truck, but there was no chance he was going to avoid colliding with the Volkswagen bus.
Slamming on his brakes would be useless. He careened back over into the now empty opposite lane, and he nearly made it. But the rear fender of his Jag fishtailed, clipping the back of the Volkswagen. It was blue with a white top. Brianâs brain processed all of the details even as he realized the deadly dilemma they were in, he had put them in, all because of two wordsââgun it.â
If heâd been driving the speed limit, the result would have been minimal. But he hadnât beenâheâd accelerated in order to avoid a collision. Metal screeched against metal. In his peripheral vision he saw the bus careen into the bridge railing. Almost immediately the delivery truck slammed into the Volkswagen, and then the suburban rammed the truck.
He didnât have time to focus on them. He was tapping the brakes, turning the wheel,
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