Chapter 427
Chapter 427:
It was spongy. Soft. It sank an inch further than it should have before engaging. Her mind, running like a high-speed diagnostic computer, flagged the sensation instantly. Hydraulic pressure loss. Response time is off by 0.7 seconds. Someone tampered with the brake line. A cold certainty settled in her stomach, pushing aside any trace of fear.
“Slow down,” Belle demanded, gripping the door handle. “You are taking these turns too fast p>
“The thought had occurred to me,” Isolde said, her voice dropping to a low whisper.
She pressed the brake pedal again. Harder this time.
There was no resistance. The pedal went straight to the floor mat with a hollow thud.
A cold, electric shock of adrenaline shot down Isolde’s spine, making her fingertips tingle. The speedometer climbed — 50 mph. 55 mph.
“Isolde!” Belle shrieked. “The turn! Brake p>
“I have no brakes!” Isolde shouted, her voice cutting through the cabin noise.
She slammed her hand onto the gear shifter and forced it from Drive into Low. The engine roared in protest, the RPM needle redlining. The car jerked violently as the transmission fought to slow the wheels, but the wet pavement offered zero traction. The tires simply skidded.
Belle’s face went chalk white. Her phone slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.
𝗔d𝖽іс𝗍i𝘃е 𝘴𝗍o𝗿𝗂e𝗌 𝘰𝗇
“You’re lying!” Belle screamed. “Stop the car p>
“Shut up and brace yourself!” Isolde commanded.
She gripped the wheel and fought the slide. The rear end of the sedan fishtailed, swinging dangerously toward the guardrail. Beyond that thin strip of metal was a three-hundred-foot drop into the ravine.
Isolde corrected the steering with sharp, precise movements. The Phantom racer instinct took over. Panic was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
In the rearview mirror, the black Escalade suddenly surged forward.
Grayson had seen the fishtail. He knew.
The massive SUV roared, closing the gap in seconds. Its engine whine was audible even over the storm.
Isolde looked ahead. Five hundred yards. A ninety-degree dead man’s curve.
They were doing 60 mph. They weren’t going to make it.
“He’s going to hit us,” Belle wailed, covering her head with her hands.
“He has to,” Isolde gritted out through clenched teeth.
She watched the grille of the Escalade fill her entire rearview mirror. Grayson wasn’t slowing down. He was speeding up. He was going to use his car as a battering ram.
Isolde locked her elbows. She took one breath.
“Head down!” Isolde yelled.
The world turned into a blur of rain and gray asphalt.
Then — impact.
The collision was deafening.
Grayson’s armored SUV didn’t hit them from behind — he swerved into the oncoming lane and slammed his passenger side against Isolde’s driver side.
Metal screamed as steel ground against steel. Sparks showered the wet windshield like fireworks.
The force of the impact threw Isolde’s head sideways, slamming it against the window glass. Her vision swam with black spots. Grayson was pinning her car, using the sheer weight of the Escalade to force her sedan toward the mountain wall and create enough friction to slow them down.
“Hold on!” Isolde gasped, wrestling the steering wheel as it fought to break her wrists.
The two cars, locked together like twisted lovers, skidded sideways down the road. The guardrail was rushing toward them.