8. Harper
HARPER
Luke’s maybe fifty yards ahead of me, closing on the white van with predatory precision. His headlights are still off, his engine roaring. He’s not trying to stop them—he’s trying to catch them.
Does he know there’s a one-lane bridge around the next bend?
My cop brain screams what my gut already knows: narrow bridge, a hundred-foot drop on either side into a ravine over a churning river that’ll swallow a vehicle whole.
Luke accelerates.
The van swerves, panicked.
“No, no, no—” I slam my foot on the accelerator, but I’m too far back, and Luke’s too committed. I can see exactly what he’s about to do—I can see it like watching a car crash in slow motion.
He’s going to force them off the bridge.
Or follow them over it.