Which wasn’t me.
Using the chain that connected my cuffs, I trapped the fake detective’s neck against the headrest and yanked back with all my might until I felt like my biceps were going to explode.
His hands left the wheel and flailed about as he tried to connect with my head, but I dodged him by lowering myself behind the seat.
The car veered off the path and bounced from side to side as it ran over a patch of knee-high roots.
The pressure mounted behind my eyes as I tugged back on the cuffs, squeezing tighter and tighter. I didn’t release my hold until the car came crashing to stop and every inch of life had drained from his body.
The fake cop was right. I would never be anything more than the notorious Brantley King.
That was fine by me because the senator had a lesson to learn. You did not take what was mine and not expect to pay in blood, sweat, or *.
He took my girl. He wanted to take my life.
His payment would be in blood.