Elena's car rockets down the highway, headlights carving a path through darkness. My pulse pounds in my ears as I glance over my shoulder. The black SUV lingers several car lengths back, refusing to drop off.
"Floor it," I urge, but her foot is already pressed hard on the gas. The speedometer climbs. Wind whips through the cracked windows, carrying the tang of burning rubber. My hands grip the dash, knuckles white.
Elena's breathing is shallow, her eyes wide with equal parts terror and resolve. "He's not backing off," she mutters. The SUV edges closer, headlights glaring in the rearview mirror. A spike of pure panic jolts through me. WTF is their plan? Ram us off the road?
Ahead, a sign indicates an off-ramp. Elena veers onto it at the last second, squealing tires echoing into the night. The SUV swerves to follow, headlights bobbing behind us. We share a look—our quiet agreement: we can't let them corner us. It's us or them.