Page 4 of Legacy's Destiny

When they reached the fan, there was no discussion. The five men worked in tandem to disassemble and tear out the rusted industrial-sized fan. Ranger kicked through the last screen, and Deacon slipped through the opening. He held his flashlight up. The beam was too weak to illuminate the entire shaft, but he could see a pale light filtering in from the top.

“No telling what’s covering the top,” Ranger said from where he was crouched at the entrance.

Deacon nodded. “I’ll take the cutters with me. Also the rope.” If there was an obstruction to getting out, maybe he could fashion some support to hold himself up there. Ranger stood up. It was tight with the two standing in the four-foot-wide shaft.

Deacon ran his hands over the surface of the vent. “It’s concrete. That’ll give us grip as we go up.”

“I can go up first. Your leg is injured.”

Deacon shook his head, determination etched into his expression. “You’ll go up second, and together, we’ll bring upthe rest of the team. I’m the best climber here.” There was no argument. He and Ronan, his twin, had tested their mettle on cliffs and mountains worldwide, scaling rock faces for the sheer thrill of it. They were skilled and calculated. But this wasn’t a hobby climb—this was survival. Free climbing without ropes meant death if he fell, and even with ropes, the stakes were brutally high.

Deacon shrugged off his pack, the damp fabric of his fatigues clinging to his skin. The humid, stale air in the shaft was heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang mixed with the acrid smell of lingering explosives. He fished out the kitten and handed him to Ranger. “Put him in my pack and send him up.”

“Ah, Cap … you’re a marshmallow. You saved the kitty.” Ranger chuckled and took the fur ball.

“Should I remind you about the puppy you brought out of that mission last year?”

“Probably not.” Ranger laughed.

Deacon secured the rope around his waist. Looping it across his chest would only get in the way in such tight quarters. The cool metal of the cutting tool and the weight of the Halligan bar in his pockets pressed reassuringly against his thighs. He tugged on his gloves, their texture rough and worn, a familiar barrier between his hands and the unforgiving concrete walls.

Tilting his head back, he squinted up the tube to see dim light filtering through a grid far above, casting faint, ghostly patterns on the damp walls. The space felt oppressive. “All right, duck out so I can brace up.”

Ranger nodded, and he and the kitten disappeared into the mine shaft, his boots crunching faintly on debris. Deacon leaned back, pressing his shoulders into one side of the shaft and bracing his boots against the other. The cold, clammy surface sent a chill through his soaked shirt, but he ignored it, focusing on the outward pressure that locked him into place. The grittywall bit into his shoulders and boots as he pushed upward in small, deliberate movements.

The faint scrape of concrete against his back was amplified in the shaft, a steady, grating rhythm as he climbed. Sweat gathered, trickling in stinging rivulets down his temples and pooling at the nape of his neck. He blinked furiously as it dripped into his eyes, the salt burning. The damp walls seemed to sweat with him, a slick sheen of moisture that made his boots slide precariously. His heart jolted each time his foot slipped, but his focus never wavered. He inched higher, his muscles trembling from the effort.

A soft sound below signaled Ranger’s return, but Deacon didn’t glance down. His world was the tube’s curved walls and the faint glow of daylight above. When he finally neared the top, the light was muted, pale against the encroaching darkness outside. The air shifted, cooler and fresher, tinged with the earthy scent of wet foliage. His radio crackled as he grunted upward, each movement deliberate.

“Can you hear me now?” he asked, his voice rough with exertion.

Click’s Southie accent came through clearly. “I can. Status?”

“All alive. Climbing out the shaft,” Deacon replied, his breath coming in labored bursts. His eyes locked on the grating above, every instinct focused on the task.

“Weapons?”

“Buried in ten tons of rock,” he muttered, pressing forward, the pain in his legs burning like fire.

“Bogies?”

“Either buried or heading our way.” His tone was grim. He wouldn’t discount the latter, not with so much at stake.

When he finally reached the grating, the corroded rebar was a mix of rust and grime. He could smell the decay, a metallic tang mixed with the damp air. Taking out his flashlight, hecounted four bolts holding the grate. He cursed under his breath.

“Hang on, Click.” Deacon maneuvered the rope through the grid, his shoulders screaming in protest as he wedged the sling he’d built beneath him. The rough fibers of the rope bit into his back, and he used every ounce of strength to steady himself. He fed the diamond dust wire of the cutting tool through the first bolt. The high-pitched scraping sound as the wire bit into metal set his teeth on edge. Rust flaked away, sharp bits falling into his hair and neck, irritating his skin.

The bolts gave way one by one, faster than he expected, though the process was far from easy. He had to change the wire six times, each movement taxing his aching arms. By the time the last bolt snapped, darkness had fallen outside, blanketing the jungle in shadows. Bracing himself once again, he maneuvered out of the improvised sling. The chill of the metal against his gloves grounded him as he slid the grate aside. It fell onto the jungle floor with a distinct clang, the sound swallowed by the surrounding jungle.

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. Muscles quivering, he hoisted himself up, gripping the rough lip of the ventilation shaft. The cold metal dug into his gloves, but he powered through, hauling his body over the edge. He collapsed onto the damp earth, the scent of rain-soaked vegetation filling his lungs. The cries of monkeys and the rustle of underbrush blended with the distant growls of predators, a noisy song of life that reassured him no humans were nearby.

“I’m out. The area is clear,” he whispered into his comm, his voice barely audible over his pounding heartbeat.

“Copy,” Click responded.

Despite his fatigue, Deacon worked methodically, anchoring the rope to a nearby tree with weary hands. The bark felt rough and cool under his fingers, grounding him. He padded the edgeof the shaft with his gloves to prevent fraying, then dropped the rope down.

Ranger was the first to climb after sending up the packs. A kitten popped out of the top of Deacon’s pack and went absolutely wild, squeezing through the smallest hole at the top. Then another skittered out. He flipped open the top of the pack, and the mother cat hissed at him, striking with claws that were unlike a domestic cat’s. She bolted out of the bag and darted away.

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