The albino slipped from the cliffs edge and sprinted across the fifteen yards separating him from the stone chimney. He stood at its base, listening intently, trying to hear the slightest scrabble overhead that would indicate he’d been seen or heard.
Satisfied he had escaped notice, he unlaced his boots and stepped out of them. He flexed his toes as he tested the chimney for his first handhold, then took one of his leaf-bladed throwing knives and placed it between his teeth. Leaning into the rock and digging his fingers and toes into the cracks and crevices, he started up.
“DO YOU SEE JAK?” Ryan asked, raking the sniper’s position through the Steyr’s scope. The cross hairs settled comfortably between the albino’s shoulder blades, thirty feet up the sheer wall under the overhang.
“Yeah,” J.B. replied, punching fresh bullets into the Uzi’s magazine. When he put the last one in and shoved the clip home, he doffed his hat long enough to wipe his brow on his shirtsleeve. “Going to have to be careful and not hit him.”
“If we stop coming in on the sniper, he’s going to know something’s wrong.”
J.B. nodded. “If Jak runs into trouble, we’re not going to do him much good way the hell out here.”
Ryan squinted his eye and stared hard at the chimney rock. “You see a trail behind that rock?”
“I was thinking mebbe,” the Armorer said. “The distance and the dust, it’s hard to make out.”
“When he gets to the top of those rocks, I’m going to make for that trail. If Jak has a real fight on his hands, you take out whoever you see on that ridgeline and leave Jak free.”
“Sure.”
Ryan readied himself, ignoring the cramp in his left calf that came from the constant dodging and powering into sprints. The chimney rock was still nearly 130 yards away.
The brushwooders had seriously cut their lead, though, and were drawing closer by the minute.
“Go,” J.B. said, opening up with the Uzi.
Even as the machine pistol belched an angry snarl of death, Ryan shoved himself from behind cover and ran, counting.
CLINGING TO THE SIDE of the chimney rock, Jak saw the long barrel of the Sharps buffalo rifle stick out over the lip of the ledge. It was still beyond his reach.
Sweat from his efforts and the residual humidity in the air drenched his clothing. His arms and legs trembled slightly with the constant strain he’d expended crawling the past thirty-five feet.
He moved his left hand, prying for his next handhold, precariously balanced on his right foot and holding tight with his other hand. He pressed his left knee against the stone, finding enough of a grip to feel confident about searching for the new hold. Going down at this point would be harder than continuing up.
Shoving his fingers into the small crevice as hard as he could, he heard the definitive bang of the Sharps as the round was touched off. The hold he’d discovered was a good one. He eased his weight around, searching for a foothold and found it.
Jak shoved himself up, gaining nearly two feet this time. His right shoulder blade spasmed, and he nearly let out a foul curse before he caught himself.
The barrel of the Sharps nosed over the lip of rock above him.
Just as he was getting ready to shift his weight again, the irregular notch of stone he clasped in his left hand gave way. Bits of rock tumbled down the side of the stone chimney.
Swinging wildly for just a moment, Jak helplessly stared at the ground nearly forty feet below, hanging by his other hand as first one foot, then the other slid free. An effort of iron-willed determination kept the fingers of his right hand in place, supporting all his weight.
The big rifle banged again, and the echoes cracked against the open spaces where Ryan, J.B., and the others were pinned down.
Slowly, and in agony, Jak pulled himself back into place. Once his feet were on firm footing again, he pushed himself upward, not wanting to give his muscles a chance to cramp up. Fire burned through his limbs and back.