Isla’s POV
I never planned to speed. But when you have a hitman behind who’s determined to kill you, you end up speeding. The crack of a gunshot is not like the movies. It’s loud, scary. It’s violent and wrong, like the air itself tearing open behind me.
The first one hits metal, the car jerks.
I scream.
Not loud—not the kind that leaves your mouth. It stays trapped in my chest, lodged behind my ribs as I jerk the wheel hard to the left, tires shrieking as they scrape against asphalt.
“Oh my God—oh my God—”
Another shot, the rear window explodes inward.
Glass rains over the backseat like ice, tiny shards catching in my hair, my clothes, my skin. I duck instinctively, heart hammering so hard it hurts, and slam my foot down on the accelerator.
The car surges forward. I don’t look
