Aw, goddamnit.
The river’s dropped beneath us to a chokepoint where the water churns furiously, trying to push through the narrow space between the rocks, and there’s an honest-to-god bridge leading from this side of the bank to the other. There’s a groomed trail there, too. But it’s got to be sixty feet down from where we’re standing. The cliff face is sheer, and only scraggly-looking bushes grow in the cracks. There’s no way to navigate around this point. The only way is down.
And it issofar down.
The bridge looks sturdy and well-built enough that surely, civilization isn’t far behind. But I’m never going to be able to climb down that cliff face.
Those shooters aren’t far behind us and I feel like a fox, racing desperately away from the hunters only to have my foot caught in a trap. Is that why those poor animals gnaw off their leg, knowing it’s preferable to what’s about to happen to them from the men with guns?
Ethan’s head tilts back for a moment before his jaw tightens. Dropping to his knee, he pulls a length of rope out of his kit bag. “The drop is around eighteen meters,” he says calmly, “my rope is not going to be long enough.” I hear a gunshot off in the distance but they’re too far away to hit us.
“Here’s what we’re going to do.” Taking my arms in a firm hold he gazes at me, his eyes furious and pitch black. “I’m looping the rope under your arms. You’re going to wrap your arms and legs around me and I’ll get us to the bottom.”
“Y- you said the rope was too short.”
Cupping my face, he smiles at me, even though his glittering black eyes look like a shark’s. “I’ll get ya down safe, not to worry. It’s gonna hurt, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I shake my head firmly. “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it. We got this.”
His thumbs run lightly over my cheekbones. “A tough lass, ya are. Here we go.”
With quick, sure movements he wraps a loop in the end of the rope and pulls it over my head, settling it under my armpits. Double knotting the other end to a stout tree trunk, he loops the handles of his kit bag tightly over his shoulders and picks me up, hands cupping my ass. I wrap my legs around his narrow waist in a death grip and hide my wince when I put my arms around his neck.
As he steps back, I look over his shoulders and want to vomit. It looks so much farther than I thought. He got that heavy bag and he’s holding me, too. All with nothing but a grip on the rope. God, I hope his hands aren’t sweaty. That rope would slide through my grip like it was coated in coconut oil. I suck in a deep shuddering breath. I can’t throw up. I can’t lose it.
“Lass. Look at me.”
Trying to keep my panic out of my expression, I do.
“We’re going over this cliff. I will get ya down safely. Your job is to hold onto me as tight as ya can, aye? I know you’re exhausted. But we must do this.”
“I know,” I say. “But the rope’s too short, what are we going to do?” Another bullet sings past us, this time hitting a tree that’s far too close.
“We’ll figure it out when we get there,” he says with a rakish grin, and it occurs to me, and not for the first time, that he is deranged.
Another bullet hits the boulders with a thud, and another.
“Time to go, love. Dinna let go, ya hear me?”
Twisting my head, I can see three men racing down the path behind us. Too close. Too fucking close. When my world spins and I’m dangling over the cliff, I bury my head in his shoulder like a coward. I don’t want to see the bottom where our remains will no doubt be scattered into bloody confetti after we fall from here. But, his boots stay firm on the cliff, navigating the vertical surface with confidence and I try to keep as still as I can.
There’s a shout and a curse, and one of the men chasing us has slipped off the rock, landing on an outcropping about ten feetbelow. One of the other men is checking on him while the last asshole is still running for us, gun in hand.
Ethan wraps the rope around his wrist. “Dinna move.” He pulls his gun from his holster, bracing his legs against the rock and I know that me, him, and that heavy bag of his are all dependent on his single grip. Sighting the man leaning over the cliff, he shoots him first, the man pitching over the edge and screaming on the way down.
It’s a long way. He has time to scream, catch a breath, and scream again. Ethan’s grip on the rope is white-knuckled, and I can see some blood on the rope from where it must be cutting into his hand.
“I can shoot,” I blurt.
“What?”
“I can shoot,” I insisted, “I took classes for self-defense. I can hold on and still shoot, you need both hands free for the rope.”
He checks the ammo clip. “Ya got six shots, lass. Make ‘em count.”
It’s killing him to hand over the gun, I know it. But if he can’t climb down, we’re just an easy, dangling target. “What’s this made of, lead?” I mumble. The gun is heavy as hell and I tighten my grip. I cannot drop his gun. He’ll kill me himself.
“Sight…” I whisper, “point. Slow, pull on the trigger and-”
