Page 120 of Walking the Edge

An intense burning sensation streaked up his arms. Had he been shot? In both wrists? That couldn’t be right, but every twitch torqued up his agony.

He bent his head, touched a metal bar and a grooved nylon strip. What the… His brain stalled. A zip tie wound around his wrist, pulled tight enough to draw blood and numb his fingers. The strip tied both hands together and they were caught on a metal rung of some kind.

He must be trapped inside some sort of chamber. Hanging by his wrists. If he made a false move, he would send himself plummeting into the darkness. Exhaustion drained every muscle. Like when he’d crumpled under his buddy’s weight and failed to get him to the chopper in time. Sweat trickled into his groin. His breath came in gasps. Mitch waited for the nightmare.

That didn’t come. He inhaled a huge—stale and moldy—breath. What was he doing in here?

The truck. He’d parked the truck on the curb. The window shattered. Someone dragged him out. He fought with a masked man. Cathy screamed.

Cathy! He had to get out of this utility cistern or manhole or wherever he was stuck. He had to save her from that bastard DiMartino. Now.

His training automatically kicked in. His scissoring legs stabbed needles of pain up his arms.

Stop this shit. You’re hanging from your bleeding wrists.

Focus. His knee had bumped a metal rung a moment ago. He swung his feet on purpose and managed to hook a boot onto a lower bar. With both feet on the same rung, he raised himself on his forearms to ease the pressure on his wrists.

Sweat stung his eyes. He climbed a rung at a time, moving his arms up first, then his feet. His head banged against something hard. He hooked an elbow through the topmost rung he’d reached and heaved his shoulders upward. As hard as his trembling body allowed. The barrier moved. A strip of daylight along the rim allowed his eyes to adjust. A loud noise roared overhead, and the lid rippled along his spine.

“Whoa, man.” A young male voice cried out above. “Did you see that?”

His heart thudded. Mitch called out. After a few minutes, the lid slid open and two teenagers looked down into his hole. He swallowed to moisten his throat. “Can you help me out of here?”

They tugged on his arms and pulled him into the street. “How’d you get in there?”

“Don’t remember. Can you get my knife and cut me free?” Mitch rolled onto his back and pressed his hands on the pocket to search.

“Your wrists are all bloody.” The blond kid gagged.

“The zip tie did its job. Never broke.” Mitch flinched when the second teen pushed the blade over his stinging wrists. “Give it a good jerk.”

Agony arched from his wrist, but the teen managed to cut through the nylon on the third try.

“Thanks.” Mitch swung his arms and rotated his wrists. Everything still worked. “I owe you.”

“How long were you stuck in there?” The second, older teen asked.

More than a minute in that manhole was too long. He nudged a button on his blood-streaked watch and his chest clenched. “Way too long. Where are we?”

Band music floated his way from the parade in full swing blocks away. Sedate mansions with their high fences and elaborate gardens bounded both sides of the street. This looked like the same area where he and Cath had been bushwhacked. Mitch frowned. “What street is this?”

“I don’t know, but we’re close to St. Charles.” The blond flicked his long hair from his face.

His companion ran to the corner and called, “It’s Chestnut.”

Two blocks over from where he and Cath had been ambushed. Where Cath faced down DiMartino. Alone. “Gotta go.” Mitch folded the closest teenager’s hand over his business card. “Someone needs me.”

“You sound like Superman.”

“Wish I was. Call me.” Mitch took off. Every step sent a new stab of pain through his skull, but he forced himself into a jog. DiMartino could have taken Cath away. Or left her bloodied in the street. No, she had to be alive. She had to.

He sped down the sidewalk. Weapon in hand, he surged around the corner and panted to a stop.

A clump of people stood in the street halfway down the block. An unmarked cop car with a portable flasher on its roof strobed the scene with red. Jack’s big, black SUV idled at the curb. Mitch squinted. Two people occupied the back seat. But where was…? His gaze swung back to the huddle talking in the street.

The mass of bodies shifted, and auburn hair caught the sun breaking through the clouds like in a corny movie. His lovely redhead. He sagged against the wrought-iron fence behind him, his legs about to give out. Her urgent voice carried back to him on the quiet street. “We need to find Mitch first.”

If she could argue, she was okay. He clutched a fence spike, too weak even to call to her. She turned, saw him, and broke away from the group to run to him. Her arms wrapped around him, and his fear sputtered like a leaky balloon. Then he feasted on her mouth.

---