Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

Sawyer and Ryan climb into the Audi SUV. I had no idea our security had followed us here. I pause before I set out onto the main road.
    “You’re sure about this?”
    “Yes,” Christian says tightly, telling me he’s not sure about this at all. Oh, my poor, poor Fifty . I want to laugh at both him and myself because I’m nervous and excited. A small part of me wants to lose Sawyer and Ryan just for the kicks. I check for traffic then inch the R8 out onto the road. Christian curls up with tension and I can’t resist. The road is clear. I put my foot down on the gas and we shoot forward.
    “Whoa! Ana!” Christian shouts. “Slow down—you’ll kill us both.”
    I immediately ease off the gas. Wow, can this car move!
    “Sorry,” I mutter, trying to sound contrite and failing miserably. Christian smirks at me, to hide his relief, I think.
    “Well, that counts as misbehaving,” he says casually and I slow right down.
    I glance in the rearview mirror. No sign of the Audi, just a solitary dark car with tinted windows behind us. I imagine Sawyer and Ryan flustered, frantic to catch up, and for some reason this gives me a thrill. But not wanting to give my dear husband a coronary, I decide to behave and drive steadily with growing confidence toward the 520 bridge.
    Suddenly, Christian swears and struggles to pull his BlackBerry from the pocket of his jeans.
    “What?” he snaps angrily at whoever it is on the other end of the line. “No.” he says and glances behind us. “Yes. She is.”
    I briefly check the rearview mirror, but I don’t see anything odd, just a few cars behind us. The SUV is about four cars back, and we’re all cruising at an even pace.
    “I see.” Christian sighs long and hard and rubs his forehead with his fingers, tension radiates off him. Something’s wrong.
    “Yes . . . I don’t know.” He glances at me and lowers the phone from his ear. “We’re fine. Keep going,” he says calmly, smiling at me, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Shit! Adrenaline spikes through my system. He picks the phone up again.
    “Okay on the 520. As soon as we hit it . . . Yes . . . I will.”
    He slots the phone into the speaker cradle, putting it on hands-free.
    “What’s wrong, Christian?”
    “Just look where you’re going, baby,” he says softly.
    I’m heading for the on-ramp of the 520 in the direction of Seattle. When I glance at Christian, he’s staring straight ahead.
    “I don’t want you to panic,” he says calmly. “But as soon as we’re on the 520 proper, I want you to step on the gas. We’re being followed.”
    Followed! Holy shit. My heart lurches into my mouth, pounding, my scalp prickles and my throat constricts with panic. Followed by whom? My eyes dart to the rearview mirror and, sure enough, the dark car I saw earlier is still behind us . Fuck! Is that it? I squint through the tinted windshield to see who’s driving, but I see nothing.
    “Keep your eyes on the road, baby,” Christian says gently, not in the truculent tone he normally uses where my driving is concerned.
    Get a grip! I mentally slap myself to subdue the dread that’s threatening to swamp me. Suppose whoever’s following us is armed? Armed and after Christian! Shit! I’m hit by a wave of nausea.
    “How do we know we’re being followed?” My voice is a breathy, squeaky, whisper.
    “The Dodge behind us has false license plates.”
    How does he know that?
    I signal as we approach the 520 from the on-ramp. It’s late afternoon, and although the rain has stopped, the roadway is wet. Fortunately, the traffic is reasonably light.
    Ray’s voice echoes in my head from one of his many self-defense lectures. “It’s the panic that’s gonna kill you or get you seriously hurt, Annie.” I take a deep breath, trying to bring my breathing under control. Whoever is following us is after Christian. As I take another deep steadying breath, my mind begins to clear and my stomach settles. I have to keep Christian safe. I wanted to drive this car, and I wanted to drive it fast. Well, here’s my chance. I grip the steering wheel and take a final glance in my rearview mirror. The Dodge is closing on us.
    I slow right down, ignoring Christian’s sudden panicked glance at me, and time my entrance on to the 520 so that the Dodge has to slow and stop to wait for a gap in the traffic. I drop a gear and floor it. The R8 shoots forward, slamming us both into the backs of our seats. The speedometer whips