Page 73 of Mountain Struggle

Her writer’s mind catalogued everything that was going on—every feeling, every sensation—trying to put words to them. She couldn’t help herself, it was just the way she was built.

Her left hand touched the burning area on her right shoulder and came back bloody. She looked down. Deep red blood spurted from the wound.

On TV, when people got shot, they usually contained the bleeding by holding on to the injured area with their hand. Sometimes, a few crimson drops escaped around their fingers.

The reality, she was finding out, was much more gruesome. Blood pooled around her hand, making everything slippery, to the point where it was almost impossible to put pressure on the wound.

She gasped. Panic made it hard to breathe. She wondered if the bullet had grazed her lung.

Don’t be an idiot, your lungs aren’t up there.

The thought made it easier to breathe. She inhaled deeply once, twice, while the burning sensation grew into something that could only be described as red-hot agony.

If it hurts this bad, that means I’m not going into shock.

Why am I not going into shock?

“Daddy!”

The single word reminded her why she couldn’t afford to go into shock. She had to get to Jamie. She pushed herself off the floor with her left hand, leaving a bloody print on the metal grating beneath her, and used the momentum to get to her knees. Her head swam a bit but she ignored it, focused on the rope.

The rope was taut—her gaze followed to where Damien was holding it. He was on his knees, wrapping the rope around one wrist. As she watched, Dubois slammed the gun onto the side of his head.

Tess watched the scene play out as if stuck in one of those sticky nightmares where your body refuses to move.

You can’t help Damien.

He wouldn’t want you to, anyway.

Focus on Jamie.

Saying Jamie’s name helped Tess take control of her panic. Jamie was what mattered here. She half-stumbled, half-dragged herself towards the rope, knowing if Damien lost the fight she would be the only thing standing between Jamie and certain death.

And then suddenly the rope was moving—fast—towards the edge. Tess threw herself on it like a cat pouncing on a mouse.

Please, God, don’t let me miss.

And then the rope was sliding through her hands. Her right arm was near useless, but she tightened her palms and turned off the part of her brain that complained at the searing pain. No matter what, she couldn’t let go—wouldn’t let go.

“I’ve got you,” she gasped.

But the weight of the boy on the other end of the rope was too much, and she was quickly sliding towards the edge, with nothing to stop them from falling.

“No!” she cried out. Tears filled her eyes as she looked around her for purchase—there was nothing to be found.

“Let him go, Tess,” somebody said from underneath.

Tess’s mouth opened in surprise. Was she losing her mind? There was nothing under them except the void. And then, peering over the edge she saw a large shape. A man was hanging off a rope in what looked like an impossible position, pulling himself up the overhang on the strength of his fingers alone. With his other hand, he clipped a carabiner around Jamie’s make-shift harness.

He looked up at her—though sweat dripped from his forehead, his gray gaze was smooth and steady.

Drake.

How the hell did he get here?

“Well done, little guy. There we go. You’re hanging off me now, you can let go of that rope,” he said. The gruff man’s tone was softer than she’d ever heard it before.

Tess saw Jamie’s little fingers, which were white from gripping the rope so hard.