Even if she couldn’t find a weapon, if she could just get around him and get out she could disappear into the thick stand of trees she’d glimpsed outside.

“Shut up, you bitch!” he cried, and slapped her so hard her ears rang.

The fight wasn’t going well. She was losing, and she knew it. It was only a matter of time before he subdued her again. And then what would she do? She’d already sprung her surprise, knew she would never have another chance, not now that he understood how determined she was to get away.

“I’ve got a gun! Do you want me to kill your baby?” he yelled. “Kill you? Here I am offering to love you, to pleasure you. And this is what I get. Haven’t I been good to you?” he railed, and, shaking her like a rag doll, started to choke her again.

Stars danced before Evelyn’s eyes. He’d mentioned a gun. That had to be what he’d been searching for before. If only she could find it.

In order to do that, however, she had to get him off her.

Although she clawed at his hands, his arms and his face, it was no good. She was growing weaker, could feel herself losing consciousness.

And then, suddenly, the pressure eased. He grabbed something from the floor not far away—she was pretty sure it was indeed the gun he’d mentioned—and jumped off her.

She gasped for breath, filling her lungs with air. Her eyes were watering, and her limbs felt like rubber.

Why hadn’t he shot her? Where had he gone?

It took several moments before she could think straight, which turned out to be a tragedy. Had she been able to gather her wits sooner, she might’ve had another chance to escape. But it wasn’t until Bishop slammed the back doors, jumped into the driver’s seat and revved the engine that she realized he’d been interrupted.

Someone else had come upon them. In her short-term memory, she could recall hearing voices: Hey, what are you doing out here? What’s going on?

She screamed and banged on the walls of the van, but she was afraid whoever it was—Hunters? The police? A nearby home or cabin owner?—couldn’t hear her.

And then the chance was gone.

She fell back, rolling into the opposite wall as Bishop put the transmission in gear, backed up so fast it caused the van to sway from side to side and took off, the tires bouncing over boulders and ruts as he drove relentlessly away.

Between Anchorage and Fairbanks, AK—Thursday, 2:20 a.m. AKDT

Bishop could feel something wet soaking his shirt and knew it was blood. The bitch had stabbed him! He didn’t know what she’d used. He’d been too frantic to pay attention to it in those rage-filled seconds immediately after. But he was hurting, and it was her fault. He’d also injured his lame leg in the mad scramble to reach the driver’s seat and get out of the forest before those hunters, who were out spotlighting, no doubt—as if what they were doing was any more legal than what he was doing—could figure out he had a high-profile kidnap victim in his van.