Page 99 of Ground Truth

His body tumbled backward over itself. He was suddenly sliding down the cliffside on his back.

Flint heard a loud and sickening crack as Brand’s bag of bones passed him on the slope, bouncing against the rocks.

In the struggle with Brand, Flint had lost his grip on the shrub. He quickly grabbed another bush and held on to the undergrowth now for dear life.

Brand continued rolling down the side of the cliff for what seemed like an unnaturally long time. As if time had slowed to a crawl.

When he finally hit the sharp rocks at the bottom of the hill, there was no shriek at all.

He’d stopped howling long before he reached the serrated peaks.

Brand, as a threat, was done.

But Flint was still in trouble.

He closed his eyes against the grit and the sun and drew deep breaths into his lungs to control his nausea.

Didn’t work.

He leaned over and retched in the dirt. He barely managed not to fall into the mess when he rolled to one side and lay flat on the ground in the beating sun.

Flint had no idea how long he lay in the dirt below the cliff. He might have passed out for a while.

When he regained his senses, he looked up to the rim of the cliffside.

There were only two ways to go. Up or down.

At the bottom were the piercing rocks where Brand’s body lay impaled.

Which meant there was, once again, only one choice.

Like his friend Kim Otto had said many times, when there’s only one choice, it’s the right choice.

Slowly and carefully, Flint began to crawl up the steep side of the cliff, keeping his belly flat on the sloping ground.

There were small bushes and protruding rocks he managed to hold on to as he made his way up. Every few minutes, his pounding headache and dizziness required him to stop for rest.

He tried not to focus on how little progress he was making and instead concentrated on the slowly approaching horizon at the summit above.

Finally, dehydrated and weak and filthy with dirt and sweat and vomit, he reached the crest and pulled himself up over the cliff and onto the narrow shoulder.

Where he slumped onto flat ground.

The next time he opened his eyes, he saw Drake lying inert behind the sedan. Flint struggled to his feet and stumbled to his friend.

He put two fingers on Drake’s neck to check his carotid pulse. He was breathing erratically. But he was alive.

Flint searched Drake’s pockets until he found the satellite phone.

He fired up the phone and pressed the redial. Gaspar answered immediately.

“Need extraction,” Flint rasped in two-word bursts. “Drake’s hurt. Need medic. Send helo.”

“They’ll see us incoming if we do that,” Gaspar said. “You prepared for the pushback?”

“No.”

“How many armed men does Hedinger have available to attack us?” Gaspar asked.

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