Slaton was hanging by his right hand. Hanging on for dear life.
His fingertips strained to keep the barest of grips on an exposed root. His left shoulder screamed in pain, and when he tried to raise that hand to grasp the root, a bolt of lightning shot through his arm. Feeling his fingers slipping, he explored blindly with his feet and found one slight toehold in the sheer rock wall. The sound of the ocean thundered from below. Slaton glanced down, ignoring the sea for the face of the cliff. He had to get better purchase.
The UMP was still with him, hanging in front and digging into his ribs—in that moment, no more than added weight. He looked down and saw a second root by his left shin. It looked old and rotted—from what he remembered, there wasn’t a living tree within twenty yards of the spot where he’d gone over.
He bent his left knee, and managed to twist his foot onto the root. He tested it with a bit of weight, and there was a momentary slip. He heard clots of dirt tumble down the cliffside, but then, thankfully, things seemed to hold. It gave him three points of contact. Progress of sorts.
He wanted to look at his left shoulder, but couldn’t turn his head in that direction. It had to be dislocated. Writing off any chance of using that arm, he surveyed his predicament. Climbing back up wasn’t an option given his limited mobility. It also failed from a tactical viewpoint—staying below the crest of the cliff kept him out of the sniper’s gunsight. He saw a few possible holds to his right, and ten yards in that direction, slightly below, was a narrow ledge. If he could reach that, he might get a reprieve.
What began as desperation evolved into a process. With two feet and one good hand, he began inching along the sheer rock wall. Another attempt to use his left arm brought blinding pain. Afraid he might pass out, he stopped trying altogether. Slaton tested every cleft that looked promising. He moved as slowly as he dared—even seasoned stonemasons had limits to the endurance of their grip. After clawing across the stone face for five painful minutes, and with his right hand beginning to tremble, he fell the last two feet to the ledge.
He came to rest in a heap, rolling carelessly on his injured shoulder. The lightning struck again. The ledge was less than a yard in width, and with his back against the cliff his folded right knee was out over the edge. He didn’t move for a time, laying motionless as he took stock of things. His shoulder was the biggest problem. His vest was ripped from bottom to top, a longitudinal tear that ended in a graze of the soft flesh near his collarbone. Aside from that, he noticed nothing beyond a few scrapes and contusions.
It could have been far worse.
When he’d seen the muzzle flash, there had been an overwhelming urge to hit the dirt. That’s what soldiers did for incoming fire. Yet something had held Slaton in place. Something based more on instinct than reason. And it had saved his life.
Only now did he have time to weigh all the variables. He remembered his first thought being that the flash had come from a fifty cal—a pessimist’s view, he supposed, since any round from a smaller-caliber weapon would never have reached him. But it had turned out to be accurate. Notwithstanding the tremendous muzzle velocity, he knew it would take a ballistic eternity for the round to cover two and a half miles. Now, having time to calculate, he reckoned something near seven seconds. More or less. Yet in that critical moment, Slaton hadn’t tried to crunch numbers or count Mississippis. He’d only understood that if he dropped immediately, any steerable bullet—assuming that’s what was being used at such extreme range—would have time to alter its course. It would have struck him dead center as he lay on the ground.
So Slaton had stood waiting for a bullet with his name, knowing his only chance was to remain statue-like until the last instant. If played perfectly, the round might not have time to react if he moved in the final milliseconds. Slaton had done some nervy things in his day. Standing perfectly still, waiting for a bullet to arrive, was perhaps a new personal best. Yet that was what he’d done.
He’d stood motionless.
And waited.
Waited until he couldn’t take it anymore.
Now, looking at his vest, he realized he couldn’t have called it any closer. If he’d waited even a few more hundredths of a second, the bullet would have ripped him from belly to shoulder. Game over. He’d tried to throw himself down and to the right, but before he hit the ground, when he was practically horizontal, the bullet had ripped into his vest. The vest did its job in a sideways fashion—it absorbed much of the big round’s kinetic energy, only from bottom to top. That energy translated directly to his body, propelling him back toward the cliff. Somewhere in that tumultuous fall he’d landed awkwardly on his shoulder, throwing it out of joint. Problematic as that was, Slaton saw only success.
He had, quite literally, dodged a bullet.
He tried again to look at his shoulder. This time he managed it and saw the unnatural set. It had happened once before in training, so the pain was not unfamiliar. Yet on that day he’d had the benefit of medical attention, a doctor who’d set the joint right within minutes. Today—on a windswept precipice in a foreign country, with a killer lurking nearby—that level of care was an unattainable luxury. He looked seaward along the cliff. His best chance at safety lay twenty yards distant—a gulley carved into the vertical wall. From there, he thought, he might be able to climb to the top. But how could he reach it with his shoulder in agony?
Slaton could think of only one answer.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his burner phone. The coast road was a mile away, and the signal there, which he’d made a point of checking, had been strong. But here? On this desolate ledge with his back against a rock wall?
It all depended on where the towers were situated.
He powered up the phone and prayed.
By God’s grace, he saw a tenuous signal.
* * *
The burner phone in Rome was on the veranda table next to a fresh baguette. Christine answered before the second ring.
“David?”
“Hey … it’s good to hear your voice.”
She didn’t like the sound of his. It seemed strained and breathless. “Are you all right?”
“Honestly, I could use a little medical advice.”
Christine felt something inside her turn cold. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing dire,” he said. “But my left shoulder … I’m pretty sure I dislocated it.”
“Then you need a hospital.”
“At the moment, that’s not really an option.”
She heard a dull roar in the background. “Where are you?”
A hesitation. “I’m in a place where I can’t get help—not anytime soon. I’m on my own, and I was hoping you could help me work through this.”
“We are talking about your shoulder here?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Mommy?” Davy said. “Is that Daddy?” He was sitting across the table fingering cereal into his mouth.
“Yes, honey, it is. But he can’t talk to you right now—Daddy’s very busy.”
David had surely heard that little exchange, she thought. The fact that he didn’t ask for a minute with Davy spoke volumes. He really needed her—not as a wife, but as a doctor. “Has this ever happened before?” she asked.
“Yeah, once in training, maybe ten years ago. A doctor fixed it on the scene.”
“If you’ve dislocated it once, you’re prone to recurrences.”
“He might have mentioned that.”
Through the line she heard his breathing, sharp and irregular. A seagull cried in the background. Christine put it all aside. She made him describe the injury, and when he did she decided it was the most common type—an anterior dislocation in which the upper arm was pushed forward out of the socket. “And it hurts like hell?” she asked.
“It really does. For what it’s worth, I’m also wearing body armor.”
Christine held steady, no inquisition about how he’d injured himself while wearing body armor. “Will that restrict your movement?” she asked.
“Not much. It’s a lightweight vest, just canvas over the shoulder.”
“Okay. You have to understand, it’s not always possible to do this yourself. And you’ve really got to be careful. We don’t want to damage any tendons or blood vessels.”
“I know. But from where I’m sitting, trust me … it’s very important that we try.”