She whirled.

The backseat was empty.

Smash!

The windshield splintered. The glass stayed in place, cracked into a spider's web. In that confusing instant, it was hard for her to see out through the now-white and broken glass. But she could dimly make out her attacker. A tall wiry man with a white hockey mask and a shotgun. He was using the butt as a club.

He struck the windshield again, and this time the gun came through the glass, stopping only inches from Carly's chin.

Carly dove to her right, grabbing wildly for the door handle. The door wouldn't budge. Then she remembered. She had just locked it. She started yanking at the tiny plastic button. It came up. Then she jammed her shoulder against the door.

She only got part way out the door.

At that same moment, the killer's arm lunged through the windshield. Four greasy fingers clamped down on the collar of Carly's shirt. She struggled to escape, but the killer's strong hand held her back.

And now he was pulling her out of the car toward him. She came scraping and crashing right out through what was left of the windshield. He whacked her head hard against the hood of the car. The killer's dark eyes stared down at her through the mask. Then he took a step back.

   Friday the 13th: Mother's Day, chapter 16