Where the heck was I? I opened the door and stopped short at seeing the interior of a train depot, which served as a tourist attraction. It was closed today. I looked toward the displays and gift shop, darting forward to grab the phone to dial Franco with the landline.
“Franco,” he growled, his voice sounding hollow.
“Sheriff,” I gasped. “I found the other end of the tunnel. It’s in the railroad depot. The entrance is in the closet that apparently holds cleaning products.”
The sound of falling rocks echoed through the line.
“All right. We’ll come in that way. Stay out of the tunnel,” the sheriff ordered.
I dropped the phone and ran back into the closet, quickly dropping down the ladder. A bag lay to the side, hopefully not holding more dynamite. Having to duck, I hustled down the tunnel and reached Aiden, who hadn’t moved.
Landing on my knees, I planted my hands on his chest. “Wake up,” I whispered, panicking.
He didn’t even twitch.
I looked around wildly. The earth rumbled again. What if he had a neck injury? Or spine? I didn’t have a choice but to try to move him. Something cracked above us and more rocks fell. Heat flared down my throat. I inched around him and gently reached my hands beneath his shoulders, trying to pull him as carefully as possible from under the debris and toward the tunnel. The large rock on his leg remained in place
He barely moved.
The guy was solid muscle at well over six feet tall. I grunted and managed to pull him a couple of inches, even with the rock on his leg, before my arms gave out.
I had to get him out of there.
Sounds came from the tunnel I’d just left, then running footsteps, then Deputy McCracken bustled into the alcove, dirt on his face, his body hunched over.
“Help me,” I whispered.
He instantly moved as another deputy came up behind him. Grunting, they lifted the rock off Aiden’s legs, shoving it to the side. One deputy grabbed Aiden’s arms, the other his legs, and they hefted him up, both groaning with the effort. Rocks continued to rain down on us, and I yelped.
“Go,” McCracken ordered, the cords in his neck straining.
I ran ahead, paused, and opened the bag near the bottom. Holy crap. It was the silver boxes. I hefted it over my shoulder and climbed the ladder, reaching for my dad to pull me all the way out. Sheriff Franco leaned against the counter, his face gray, one hand on his cane.
The world hitched again. I sucked in air, whirling toward the opening.
It took what felt like forever, but finally, McCracken pushed Aiden’s head out first. My dad rushed forward with several other people and they hauled him out and placed him on a waiting stretcher. The deputies followed, shutting the trap door.
“Everybody out,” the sheriff yelled.
We all hurried outside into the rain with four men carrying Aiden on the stretcher, right into an ambulance.
“We’ll try to life-flight him to Spokane, but if the weather gets worse, they’ll have to land in Timber City,” the sheriff said grimly.
The doors shut, and the ambulance zipped off, headed toward the small airport on the outside of town.
I sagged against my dad.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll drive.”
Chapter 25
The spring storm increased in force, angrily throwing pinecones and broken branches across I-90, as the sun lost any fight to show through the clouds. The windshield wipers fought to keep up, slapping back and forth in a losing battle against the sheets of rain.
My dad drove with one hand steady on the wheel, his other resting near the gearshift. His focus never wavered. I looked at him, unable to breathe. Aiden hadn’t moved. Not once.
“It’ll be okay,” my dad said, his gaze fixed on the rain-slicked asphalt stretching ahead of us.
I swallowed hard. My dad was always calm in a storm. He was a big man, a miner, with the faintest hint of an Italian accent that lingered from my grandparents. His hair was jet black streaked with gray, and he had the shoulders of a linebacker, even in his late fifties. He was solid, steady—the strongest person I knew besides Aiden.
