Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

Ruth was sitting rigidly, white-faced; Gregor tried the door handles; the doors were locked! Ahead, the edge of the cliff was coming closer and closer as the heavy car picked up momentum, the deep ruts of the worn dirt road keeping the wheels locked on their inevitable juggernaut course, the sea below frothing over rocks beneath a sheer drop.
Suddenly Gregor leaned back in his seat, raising his two feet, jamming his shoes through the glass that divided the empty front seat from the enclosed rear; a moment later he had forced himself through the shards of broken glass still embedded in the frame, unaware either of the ripping of his clothes or the shredding of his skin as he slithered on his stomach across the seat and under the dashboard, pulling with all his force on the emergency brake. The car responded slowly, as if resenting this interference with its unexpected freedom, swaying from side to side as its great weight seemed determined to overcome the demands of the tightening brake bands.
Gregor blanked his mind to the thought of the approaching cliff, or of Ruth sitting petrified and frightened in the rear of the car; he gritted his teeth and pulled on the emergency brake with all his power...