48
Sara
Ten minutes. The car’s tires squeal as I zoom down the long driveway and barrel through the open gates, gripping the wheel so hard my fingers dig into the leather.
I have only ten minutes.
That is, assuming Yulia’s estimate was correct. I don’t know how she escaped from her lethal-looking husband and disabled all those security measures, but it’s entirely possible he’s already on my heels.
There are no lights along this one-lane road, no signs—nothing to tell me where I’m going. The moon and my car’s headlights are the only sources of illumination. I have no idea which way southwest is, so when I reach a two-lane road, I randomly turn left, going on instinct.
If I just turned the wrong way, I’m screwed.
My heart feels like it’s going to hammer through my chest, my breathing
