Page 23 of Heston
“Nevermind. Show me the brackets.” Two men taking a cattle guard apart didn’t make sense. Cattle guards were heavy contraptions, not made to be broken down into convenient-to-carry pieces.
“If you’re thinking fingerprints, think again,” London replied, even as she aimed her snowshoes toward the bridge. “There’s no way to know how long it was in place, and there’s been a lot of weather up here. It’ll be a miracle if you find any evidence on it.”
“Ifwefind anything. You’re part of this investigation.We’llsee,” he said with confidence. Killers and kidnappers were just people, and stupid, eager people made mistakes.
By the time he and Asher struggled through the heavy snow to where London already stood at the bridge in her flat, extra-wide snowshoes, he was winded, and his hamstrings werescreaming. But hope kept him going. The underside of that bridge, possibly the entire thing, needed to be dusted for prints. All he needed was one print, but if Mother could clean up those photos, maybe between a couple prints and a clear photo, they’d get the guys behind the shootings. Maybe then Alex could rest.
Heston had barely caught his breath when London took a few steps down the rocky bank to the noisy, splashing water line. It was all he could do to not reach forward and jerk her out of harm’s way. To keep her from falling into the river. But this was her world. Her job. And his job today was to respect that she knew precisely what she was doing. Just that.
Respect was all she’d wanted years ago, and by hell, she was going to get it today. Maybe. His fingers still clenched with a desperate need to protect her from herself. His whole body leaned closer in case she slipped or the river grabbed her. He couldn’t lose her like Alex had lost Kelsey. He wouldn’t survive.
It was a struggle, his better sense against his willful ‘I know better than you’ ego, but Heston managed to keep it together. At least, he didn’t make an ass of himself.
London shot him a smile over her shoulder. A real smile. A daring, teasing smile that told him she knew how hard it was for him to treat her as a highly qualified equal. But she was, wasn’t she? She was one of this generation’s intelligent, capable, able-bodied women who needed to fly in order to live. And he was the sap who desperately needed London to live—her life, not his. So Heston gulped and swallowed a big mouthful of arrogant male pride. He suppressed his inner caveman and let her be what she was meant to be. In charge.
“There,” she said, pointing a finger beneath the left side of the overhang, the side where they’d stopped. “See it? There’s two of them. One here, one way over there.”
The footbridge was maybe ten-feet-wide, at least a good twenty, maybe twenty-five feet long. Built of sturdy four-by-eight wood planks laid over a sturdier wooden framework that, in turn, was attached to vertical steel beams pounded deep into the volcanic bedrock of the riverbed, at eight-foot intervals. Overall, there were sixteen steel beams. The top planks overhung the supporting framework by a good two feet. The force of white water roaring down the mountain had had no effect on the steel. They were weathered but tight, and the bridge didn’t shudder, which spoke to the strength of its workmanship. Wooden handrails up top kept travelers safe. The safety net stretched beyond the handrail along both sides of the bridge kept debris, slippery cell phones, wayward children, or mischievous teenagers from falling into the river.
Heston peered closer. Industrial-sized lug bolts secured the brackets to the framework. Both brackets and bolts were tucked beneath the overhang, where, until this snow hit, they’d kept fairly dry. Fingerprinting might be the smart thing to do.
But that two feet of extra overhang was a problem. To remove either bracket, some idiot would have to traverse under the overhang by his fingertips, hanging like a monkey from the planks with no safety net. Once he made it to the first bracket, he’d have to hang by one arm while he removed lug bolts, washers, and brackets with the other. Which wasn’t a problem if he rigged a bag to catch both brackets and bolts once they were loose. Because, yeah. He was that idiot.
“I’m going in,” Heston said to no one in particular, stripping out of his jacket and boots, down to his double holster, his jeans, shirt, and stocking feet. Anxious to get this over with.
London smacked his forearm. Her fingers dug into him, holding him back. “No. That’s crazy. You’ll be hanging over white water, Hes. It’s not safe. Let me call—”
“You’recallingmecrazy?” he asked, teasing her while he traded his snow gloves for climbing gloves out of his gear bag and secured the straps tightly at his wrists.
“No. Never,” she answered breathlessly. The liar. Her pretty eyes had turned dark turquoise with worry. “I know you’re strong and capable, but the net’ll be way above your head, Hes. Not under you, and I don’t have a safety rope. If you fall—”
“Asher has a rope. London, don’t worry. This is my call, my job,” he said gently, cocking his head to maintain eye contact with the woman he had never gotten over. “Not yours.”
He knew how high her anxiety was. How it was burning a hole in her gut. That her adrenaline level was out of sight. Because he’d been in her shoes the night of their fight. He’d been scared, and he understood now why he’d been an ass to her. Because he had witnessed two men die earlier that same day, and the fear that she could die just as quickly as they had, had been a godawful powerful motivator—just as powerful a manipulator. That was what he’d been running on, the high-octane fear of losing her. Fear of her dying in some distant country without him there to catch her, to hold her, to comfort her while she took her last breath. And enough adrenaline to power that fear, enough to make him say anything to make her stay. To keep her safe.
“But, Hes—”
Damn, he loved it when she used his name. “Trust me, babe. I know what I’m doing. Done crazier stuff than this before. Asher, I need a rope and harness,” he ordered, needing to get those brackets bagged before he froze to death.
“You got your Leatherman on you?” Asher asked.
“Yes, but I need to be beneath the overhang before I pull it out. Can’t risk dropping it.”
“Then use this for the evidence.” Asher tossed a small nylon bag with a carabiner attached at one corner. “And this one’s” —he sent another bag flying— “for your tools.”
Heston caught both bags and snapped the carabiners to his belt loops. “Good thinking.”
“And this,” Asher tossed a foot-long S-hook.
Heston caught it and threaded one end into his belt loop. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. That harness and rope won’t keep you from falling, only from being swept away if you do something stupid. You’re taking one hell of a risk, Contreras. The water won’t kill you. The rocks will.”
True story. The White River was a churning washing machine, and the sharp volcanic rocks sticking through the foam were damned wicked agitators.
“Don’t go,” London whispered. “Please, Heston. Don’t do this.”
He winked at her, hoping if he looked cocky enough, she’d understand that there was no way he wasn’t doing this. Rangers took chances. Intestinal fortitude was drilled into them. Surrender was not in the Ranger vocabulary. He’d volunteered to be a Ranger, and he’d volunteered to help Alex nail the bastards who’d hurt Kelsey. End of story.
