We close in on the French Quarter, and instead of taking one of the convoluted routes I’m used to Scar driving, Mount heads through the heart of it toward home.
I scoff at the word silently. That’s not what it is, and I’m an idiot if I think it’s anything but the same lavish prison cell it was before we left.
We’re not dancing in Dublin anymore.
Mount slows for a few pedestrians at a stop sign before punching the gas and jerking the wheel hard to the right. The car rockets forward, tires squealing, and his body swings toward me as he turns.
What the hell?
His body arches further toward mine, and everything turns to chaos.
People say when traumatic things happen, the world decelerates so you can see it unfold in slow motion.
It doesn’t work like that for me.
The driver’s side window shatters, glass shards flying everywhere. The only thing I comprehend is pain as Mount jerks the wheel again and my head slams against my window. The car crashes into a lamppost before toppling it and coming to a halt.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Holes punch through the spiderwebbed windshield.
Shocked, I struggle to draw in a breath, but I can’t.
Mount’s yell sounds faint as the world fades around me.