I was wrong again. We’re still trapped.
61
11:55 a.m.
Duncan continued his defense of the castle, though he wished it was from a less precarious perch. Under him, he balanced his feet on a pair of stubbed timbers sticking out of the tower’s inner wall. His left hand clutched a rope hooked to a climbing piton, which was crammed into a crevice between two bricks. The elbow of his other arm rested in the open window, pointing Russo’s pistol out into the cold.
Earlier, he had free-climbed up the wall, carrying the rope and pitons. He had found plenty of purchases for his toes and fingers due to the number of broken or missing bricks in the crumbling surface. Once up here, he had secured this high roost.
From the window’s vantage, he could snipe down at the soldiers below as they struggled to clear the narrow cliffside trail. As they worked, he harried them as best he could. Still, he failed to do more than make them wary. Despite the danger, they continued to dig the snow off the path, keeping sheltered behind the icy mounds. At the same time, other men strafed the tower in short bursts, driving him back.
While Duncan had succeeded in slowing them down, the enemy continued to make steady progress.
And I’m down to my last magazine.
Russo called from below. “How far off are they?”
“Thirty yards.”
Much too close.
He weighed an alternative plan, but he was saving it as a last resort.
Then rounds suddenly hammered the bricks outside in a fierce barrage. A few tore through the window and ricocheted off the far wall behind him. One rebound struck him in the lower back, like a mule’s kick to his kidney. He lost his grip on the rope and slid down a couple feet before his fingers could clamp tight. Still, he kept his toes on the timbers and pushed himself back up.
As the onslaught continued, he kept below the window frame. Once the shooting stopped, he edged up and peered out again. He immediately recognized why the strafing had been so savage just now. On the cliffside path, the soldiers had abandoned their efforts and fled from their worksite, retreating back toward the plateau.
Duncan fired after the men. A lucky round nailed one in the leg, sending him crashing sideways, arms pinwheeling. The wounded man grabbed a neighbor, only to take them both tumbling over the cliff’s edge.
Two birds, one stone.
Still, Duncan struggled to understand this sudden retreat.
He squinted toward the enemy’s landing site. He noted a commotion, clustered around a pile of sandbags that had been stacked. Focused on the trail, he had failed to pay much attention to the activity atop the plateau, especially when being shot at from below.
Now he did.
The enemy must have been holding off until a good portion of the cliffside trail had been cleared before pulling out their big guns.
Really big guns.
Duncan recognized the tube of a rocket launcher.
Across the way, a soldier pressed his cheek to the weapon’s scope and adjusted its aim.
Duncan swore and tucked his pistol into his waistband. The barrel remained hot enough to burn his hip. He ignored the pain, grabbed the line, and slid down its length to the floor. In his haste, he landed hard, jarring his teeth.
Russo looked on with concern. “What is—”
He lunged at her, scooped her waist, and hauled her with him. He fled out the tower and took two steps into the main chamber—then a loud boom, accompanied by a sharp whistle, chased him another step.
Before he could take a breath, the world exploded behind him.
The blast threw them both far, pummeling their bodies with rocks and debris. Duncan cradled Russo to him and rolled with the shockwave. Smoke and dust blinded him. The blast deafened the world to a steady high-pitched hum. As he slid to a stop, he coughed to clear his head, to force his crushed lungs to inflate again.
He got to his hands and knees and crawled farther away, pulling Russo by the arm. A glance back showed the woman’s shin snapped at a sharp angle. Bone stuck from her pants. Blood poured.
“Leave me,” she croaked. He barely heard her through his ringing ears. “Get to the others.”
