He rummaged through her oversized purse and found the keys. Maybe he just wants the car, she hoped. But her hopes dissolved when he unlocked the passenger side door and shoved her in.

“Climb over,” he ordered. “You’re driving.”

She crawled over the console, banging her knee on the gearshift. Keeping the gun trained on her, the man got in beside her and fit the key into the ignition.

“Where are we going?”

“Just head for the Golden Gate Bridge.” He waved the gun at her. “Move it.”

Slowly she slid the car into the stream of traffic. As she navigated San Francisco’s famous hills, her mind scrambled for an escape plan. Suddenly she recalled one of those Read this: It could save your life! e-mails she’d received. Biding her time, she began scouting about for something big and solid she could ram the Kia into, launching the air bags and bringing police to the scene of the accident. Soon she spotted a concrete bridge abutment, aimed for it, and sped up.

“Hey, what are you doing?” the jester demanded, grabbing the steering wheel.

Miranda jerked the wheel as hard as she could and banged his other arm with her elbow, dislodging the gun. It toppled onto the console. Quickly, Miranda snatched it.

It was a toy.

A car blew its horn as the Kia swerved into the other driver’s lane. She pulled back into her own lane and slowed down, clutching the wheel to steady her shaking hands.

“What the hell?” she shouted and threw the plastic pistol at him.

With a sigh of resignation, the man removed his mask and the ridiculous hood with the jingle bells, revealing amber-colored hair, pale green eyes, and a face right out of a Calvin Klein ad. He smiled sheepishly.