The Goodbye Man. Jeffery Deaver
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on has some give. You achieve that speed in about ten to twelve yards of free fall. Farther than that, combined with a rock landing, you’ve pretty much had it.
Never tense up in a fall.
Ashton would remind the children of this rule before he had them jump from eight-foot-high ledges onto the ground. You would have far less damage from impact if you went rag-doll limp. Shaw had been on a reward assignment one time when a kidnapper tried to escape from him by leaping from one roof to another. He missed and fell thirty feet to the grass. The man was uninjured, except for a broken pinkie. The EMS tech confirmed that a likely reason for this was his completely relaxed state—thanks to half a bottle of vodka.
If Shaw lost footing, he would tumble the hundred-foot length of the cliff face. Possibly fatal but more likely, he foresaw, broken bones. The fact was he would prefer death to a cracked back or neck—and being forced to live out his life the opposite of itinerate: chairbound.
He would go over the side, execute a free solo descent for about ten feet, then climb sideways and ascend behind them. He’d move in fast, disarm Adam and have them zip-tie each other’s wrists.
If he wasn’t heard, wasn’t spotted.
And if he didn’t fall.
He had no chalk or climbing shoes. He knew how to climb barefoot but he needed to keep the Eccos on. If it came to a pursuit on the gravel-strewn road, he wanted the protection.
He estimated this approach to offer a seventy-five percent success rate. Importantly, of course, the twenty-five percent failure possibility incorporated more than simply not collaring the boys; it embraced a debilitating if not lethal tumble to the valley floor.
But no other choices.
So get to it.
Now.
Shaw looked down, studying the face he would have to negotiate to come up behind Adam and Erick.
It was what climbers loved: craggy and cracked. He now did what all good climbers do first: planned his route. He lay on his belly and backed toward the edge, his feet finding outcroppings he’d noted before and memorized. Descending from the top of a cliff was always more difficult than ascending; you can’t brush or blow off the dirt covering hand- and footholds. Without chalk on your hands, even a faint dusting of soil can be deadly. Shaw usually rappelled to the ground, rather than climbing.
He started down. Farther, farther, his feet searching for places to support his weight. His hands gripping rocks and branches to hold him in case his shoes slipped. Finally he was far enough over he could look down, which was a huge relief. Now, thanks to rocky protuberances, two- to three-inch cracks and a conveniently placed—and sturdy—branch, he descended the eight feet to the ledge.
Then he moved sideways slowly to the spot just below where he estimated the suspects to be. The ledge angled downward and the boulder on which they sat was at this point about twenty feet above him. He looked up and plotted his climb. He reached up and brushed soil from a handhold, then gripped and pulled himself up. He kept his hip against the rock, which brings the shoulder close too, which in turn meant that his body stayed vertical—the best way to climb. He was edging with his feet, and using cracks into which he’d insert his hands and spread his fingers and palms. Then he’d bend a knee, find a foothold and straighten his leg to move up a foot or so at a time.
Not too fast. Fast is noise. Fast is mistakes. Fast is the black muzzle of a gun awaiting you at the crest.
He came to a smooth portion of the face that was about five feet square. On a normal climb, he would “smear”—use the soles of his shoes for traction by keeping the heel down and pushing the rubber hard against the face. You need good handholds for this, and while there were adequate ones here, he didn’t trust the street shoes for the maneuver. He executed a side pull to go around the smooth portion, then up a rough slab with plenty of handholds, then he did another side pull, in the other direction, to put him back on vertical course.
Now he was three feet below the crest. He rested for a moment and controlled his breathing, preparing himself for the contortion that was coming next: a mantle—the maneuver climbers use to top out at the summit. He gripped a crack with his left hand, brought his left foot then right up to a nub nearly even with his elbow. His right hand aiming for an outcropping near the top, he extended both legs from the crouching pose and rose to the edge, grabbing the rock he’d sought.
Shaw slowly lifted his head. He half-expected to find Adam aiming at him.
No, the suspects were ten feet away, still facing in the other direction.
Adam: “I don’t know. Probably twenty minutes. They weren’t sure.”
“My parents’re going to be worried.”
“I keep telling you: this’ll be worth it.”
“I just wish I could get them a message.”
“Not after that shit at the church.”
Shaw’s left hand found a secure oak sapling and he pulled himself to the surface, breathing hard … while trying to do so silently. This was not easy.
He crouched, tapped the Glock with his hand to remind himself exactly where it was holstered. He then moved toward them, glancing back and forth from Adam’s hands to the ground in front of himself, aiming for the most quiet places to step.
Nine feet, eight, seven. Shaw paused as the boys looked up the road.
Were the neo-Nazis approaching?
Or Welles and his band?
Don’t worry about it now.
Just like he’d planned the ascent, he planned the takedown.
And executed it.
Keeping his Glock in the holster, he came up behind Adam and in a fast, firm gesture gripped the stubby revolver, pushing downward first so that the hammer wouldn’t catch and pulling it free.
“The fuck!” Adam rose and turned. Before he could even draw back to slug the intruder, Shaw’s fist slammed into his gut. The young man grunted and dropped to his knees, cradling his belly.
Shaw pocketed the Smittie and drew his Glock, aiming toward, though not at, Erick.
“No, man, please … No!” His eyes were wide. “Who—”
“The fuck,” Adam repeated. “I’m going to puke.”
“Then do it and get it over with. We don’t have any time. You’re both in danger.”
“You hit me.”
Erick whispering, “Who are you? What’s—”
From his back pocket, Shaw handed Erick two of the zip ties he always carried with him. “On his wrists, hands in front. Then do your own. Now.”
Wide eyed, Erick took the off-white nylon strips. He glanced at them, figuring how they worked.
Adam grunted, “You’re a cop, you gotta identify yourself. Otherwise an arrest isn’t legal.”
“That’s not true, and I’m not a cop.” He said to Erick, “I’m here because of your parents.”
“Mom, Dad?”
He pointed at the zip ties. “Now. I’m not going to tell you again. There’re men nearby who want you dead. I can save you. Do it.”
Erick eyed Adam, who rose slowly. He said nothing but looked both sick and disgusted.
“You have to—”
“The wrists. Now!”
Erick zip-tied Adam and then held his own hands out to Shaw.
“No,