Page 68 of The Engineer

No. Chills skated the length of her spine.

He yelled again. Louder. The dogs howled, excited by the proximity of the prey.

Jo dug her hand into her pocket, pulled out the plastic-wrapped USB. She clutched it so hard, the plastic must imprint itself on her hand.

Griff kept calling. His voice sounded more distant already, luring their pursuers away.

She had to make his sacrifice count. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned away from the man who’d stolen her heart. The man she loved. She stumbled and then found her pace, his voice resonating in her head.

Run.

45

Griff ran.

It took everything he had to leave Jo unprotected, to turn and head in the opposite direction, but this was what he needed to do, to misdirect. It was their best chance. The forest was doing everything in its power to stop him. Thick pine branches laden with snow caught his arms, snagged his sides and scratched his bare cheeks.

Yet, in his adrenaline-fueled urgency, he barely felt the sting of the cold or the bite of the prickly needles. His singular aim was to ensure Jo’s safety so she could take the USB stick carrying crucial information out of this wilderness intact.

Ragged breaths tore through his lungs, the frigid air harsh against his heaving chest, amplifying the persistent ache beneath his diaphragm. He was running on empty. Snow dusted his shoulders and arms as his steps faltered. The dense taiga gave way to scrubby thickets, and straight ahead, a steep rocky cliff loomed. His pace slowed to a desperate jog, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar landscape. This wasn’t on the map.

Had he misread it in his panic to ensure he drew their pursuers away from Jo? The rocky wall extended as far as he could see in either direction. Shit.

He could keep running or he could go up.

Realization sank in. This was no longer a simple pursuit. To evade the dogs and shake off their pursuers, he had to climb.

He retreated a few paces, surveying the cliff, meticulously selecting the optimal starting point for the ascent. There was no room for mistakes. His gaze lifted skyward, measuring the formidable height—at least fifty feet. He needed a path, a strategy to carry him to the summit.

He walked parallel to the rock face, running his fingers across the rugged stone, reading its texture as if it were a living entity. Here. He halted and assessed the craggy rise of speckled granite, zeroing in on potential hand and footholds, his mind charting the route. Here there was a path.

Hooking his fingers onto a small ledge, he tested its strength, anchoring himself to the rock. The stone held firm, accepting his weight. Identifying a second hold, he propelled himself upward, his cheek brushing the familiarity of rock and lichen, the grinding burn in his shoulder silenced by the reassuring solidity beneath his fingertips.

As he climbed higher, the ascent became more serious. The initial movements were manageable, and for those precious moments, he was back in his space. It was just him and the rock, working as one. Nothing else mattered.

He’d missed this so fucking much.

But then the climb intensified, forcing him to use the full reach of his damaged arm. Muscles and tendons protested violently. It took everything he had, but he shut down, directing his attention only to the cold rock, the abrasive grit under his skin, the scud of sunlight across the rough-hewn stone, pushing himself higher and higher.

Dogs burst into the clearing below, shattering the soft pant of his breathing and the sigh of the wind. They scoured the ground, sensing his presence.

Hell.

Griff wedged himself into a vertical crevice, shielding his body from the hunters below. They might have spotted him now, but he refused to make it easy for them. He paused, catching his breath, taking his weight on his good arm, conserving his energy for the rest of the climb ahead. A man called the dogs. One voice. A single pursuer?

Griff exhaled and pushed upward through the crevice that would shield him for a few meters. Would his pursuer give up now? He gritted his teeth, blood pounding in his temples.

Loose rock crumbled as he searched upward with his fingertips. The upper reach of the crevice was increasingly unstable—hairline cracks were potential trigger points for a landslide.

The dogs continued to bark, but more haphazardly, as if no longer involved in the chase. It could only mean one thing. His pursuer was following him up the rock face.

Griff exhaled and peeped below his arm. A dark head ducked in pursuit, while a second man was corralling the dogs.

Fuck. Griff scrabbled ahead, his fingers reading the rock like braille. His fingers closed over a protruding boulder. It rocked slightly, wedged in the rock face but not fully anchored.

Heavy breathing whistled below him. His pursuer was gaining on him fast. My arm is fucked. He might make it to the top first, but then what? More running? There was only so long he could avoid pursuit. He needed to end this, and soon.

He rocked the boulder harder, punching it with the heel of his hand. Fine silt wafted from the surrounding cracks. He worked it harder. Now he had some leeway. Sweat popped on his brow.

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