Page 36 of Stolen By the Billionaire
Blaze cursed as he glanced at the black-suited men raising guns, slammed the car into reverse, and stomped on the accelerator.
The car shot backward, shoving them forward in their seats.
A pressure headache formed in Blaze’s forehead as his brain sloshed to the front of his skull from the acceleration. On the backup camera’s screen, the cornfields zoomed around them.
Beside him, Sarah gasped and held her hands out at the dash. Luckily, she’d belted herself in. The Vantage’s engine packed a hell of a punch.
He threaded the car between the rushing stalks of corn on the dashboard screen.
A clearing yawned on one side.
Blaze spun the wheel and swung the rear end of the car into the opening, then jammed the car into drive and floored it, gunning the engine and flying through the cornfield.
Sarah was laminated to her seat, her eyes wide as he drove. “What the heck kind of car is this?”
Blaze spun the car onto the paved road beyond the cornfield and opened the throttle, the landscape outside turning from rushing stalks to a green blur in seconds. The headache rotated to the back of his skull and then retreated as the car reached its top speed. “Aston Martin Vantage.”
“How fast are we going?”
The speedometer read two hundred ninety kilometers per hour.
Blaze did the math in his head. “A hundred and ninety.”
Three-plus miles per minute.
One mile every nineteen seconds, give or take.
American measurements felt weird after thinking in military-style klicks for so many years.
“Jesus is Lord, slow down!” she yelled.
“Not yet.”
“I can’t even see the corn!”
He whipped the car onto the entrance ramp to I-80, the pavement smooth under the tires, and shot toward the highway.
When he moved his arm to turn the steering wheel, the streak of pain across his left arm’s triceps burned.
She asked, “Where the heck did you even rent an Aston Martin in Iowa?”
Blaze shrugged but kept his eyes pinned to the road, not even blinking as he dodged the other cars that seemed to be racing backward toward them. “I didn’t rent it. It’s my car.”
Her voice rose incredulously. “You drove your own car to a kidnapping?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a kidnapping,” he grumbled. “After I explained the situation, you were supposed to agree to come back to Chicago with me.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her flop back in her seat and roll her eyes. “I would never leave the farm willingly. You don’t know me at all.”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“I don’t even know your name.”
He’d been negligent. “It’s Blaze Robinson, spelled with a Z.”
“Do we need to be going this fast?”
They were miles from her farm.
