He fought the wheel with all his strength, struggling to control the skid. It worked, and he was just thanking his lucky stars, when the unexpected happened again. There was another explosion, and his left front tire blew out.
Alan wore an expression of shocked disbelief as his Porsche swerved in the opposite direction. Then he was crashing through the guardrail, hurtling out into space, rolling end over end to the bottom of the hill.
When the Porsche hit the rocks at the bottom of the ravine, it flipped over several times, coming to rest on its back, its racing tires spinning uselessly in the air. Alan was trapped in the expensive shell of his luxury car. He didn’t hear a passing motorist call out to him, didn’t smell the stench of gasoline or experience the salty, slightly metallic taste of his own blood. He didn’t see the paramedics flip open his wallet to discover his organ donor card, didn’t feel careful hands pull him from the wreck. The quick action of the well-trained emergency team kept his heart pumping blood and his lungs taking in oxygen, but the brain of the man who had been Alan Stanford showed when checked at the hospital a flat, unending line on the graph—death.