Page 130 of Fire Fight

Not standing.

Not even raising my torso… or my head.

Precious seconds tick by, and shock holds me immobile. Blinded by the pelting rain. Deafened by the horrendous wind that howls through the gap between the house and the cliff, turning it into a gale-force tunnel.

Cadence’s scream jerks me back into focus.

I concentrate and the internal order to move connects, letting me sit upright, my hands exploring for damage.

But there’s nothing.

Just the insistent ring of tinnitus in my left ear, louder than the storm. The only pain is from the impact from the fall, my feet having slid out from under me at the perfect time.

With slow movements, I lever myself to my feet, swaying with the gusts of wind, turning in time to see Cadence fighting across the yard towards me.

I wave, gesturing her back towards the house when all I want is to hug her, hold her, reassure myself she’s safe. She’s alive.

But not until I’m finished.

When I turn, Arnold is nowhere to be seen and my stomach drops, spinning in a circle, my nerves winding tighter with each degree turned until panic threatens to dominate my responses.

I force my eyes closed. Inhale. Exhale.

The path is the likeliest escape route, and I face the battering rain, each drop hitting like a buckshot pellet, head lowered as I fight my way to the iron railing and grab hold, only then gazing down the steep-cut slope leading down to the beach.

My first sweep misses him.

The second catches sight of his left hand, clinging in desperation to a jutting rock near the top of the path.

Or rather, where the path used to be.

Torrents of water cascade along the edge, doing more damage to the loosening shale with every passing second. The tiny slip where Cadence almost fell all those weeks ago, now gone as a larger landslide carves a new path down the side of the cliff. This one heading straight down.

Kickback from the blast must have pushed him back far enough that the ground gave way under him.

And the idiot still clings to the shotgun with his right hand, the threat of violence more alluring than a handhold.

“Drop the gun!”

Between the roar of thunder, the hammering rain, and the crash of the ocean, I don’t think he hears me. I’m not sure he even understands I’m standing above him. His gaze moves between his handhold and the rocks waiting to claim him below.

I’m scared to move closer. There’s no way to tell if the rock he clings to is secure enough to take my weight.

Lightning streaks across the sky. A strobe light picking out everything in jagged detail.

Arnold sees me. His mouth opens in a shouted plea.

“Drop the gun!” I repeat, pointing to the weapon.

For seconds, he doesn’t move. Preferring to risk his life rather than accept my help and be at a disadvantage. As though hanging off the edge of a cliff is a power move rather than a last gasp at life.

Then he points it towards me.

Even knowing it can’t be loaded—he didn’t have time—my heart leaps into my throat.

Then he opens his fingers, and it falls, bouncing off the cliff face, lost as it hits the beach below, disappearing into the soft rubble of the recent landslip.

I drop to my hands and knees, self-preservation screaming as I edge closer, extending my right arm for him to grab.

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