12. Leo
12
Leo
T he air crackles up here.
Like I mean, almost literally crackles.
Thin.
Cold.
Electric .
Thousands of feet above the Chamonix valley, perched on the edge of oblivion with nothing but a glorified squirrel suit between me and gravity’s final argument.
The roar of the crowd below is a distant buzz, irrelevant. Up here, it’s just the wind, the jagged teeth of the Alps, and the familiar pre-jump adrenaline cocktail singing in my veins.
Red Bull banners flap violently in the wind. Cameras are everywhere, capturing every twitch for the livestream.
Smile for the sponsors, asshole.
I flash my signature grin, the one that sells energy drinks and impossible dreams to teenagers who should know better. Beside me, Luca does the same, looking impossibly cool and collected. The bastard .
Two months of relentless practice since that quarry jump, pushing harder, flying faster, dialing it all in for this one moment.
The other teams flew clean, conservative lines. Safe. Boring.
Not us.
Not Maxwell & Briggs.
We’re going to set the record.
We’re going to win this piece of shit, or die trying.
“Ready to dance with the devil again, partner?” Luca shouts over the wind, his voice echoing loudly over the comms at the same time. His eyes are hidden behind mirrored goggles, but I know the competitive fire is burning in there just as hot as mine.
“Born ready,” I shout back. “Just try to keep up this time.”
The countdown blares over the comms.
“Three… Two… One…”
We launch ourselves into the void.
The initial shock of acceleration hits, the familiar G-force pressing me back as the suit inflates, catching the air. The ground drops away, the valley unfolding like a map.
Pure... fucking... freedom .
We slice through the air, side-by-side, two apex predators carving lines through the sky.
Luca edges slightly ahead as we approach the first checkpoint, the entrance to the ‘Serpent’s Coil.’ It’s a notoriously tight, technical canyon section known for its treacherous crosswinds.
The safe line bypasses the tightest turns.
The fastest line, the one that wins competitions and gets your face plastered on magazine covers, threads right through its guts.
Fuck the wind warnings. Fuck the conservative approach. Winning means taking the risks others won’t.
Luca doesn’t hesitate. He banks, dropping into the Coil’s mouth, disappearing between the sheer granite walls.
I bank hard to follow his line into the Serpent’s Coil.
The world narrows. The canyon walls rush past, a gray blur just beyond my wingtips.
Speed increases exponentially in the compressed space.
Precision is everything. Millimeter adjustments, reading the air, trusting the suit, trusting the hours of practice.
The exhilaration is absolute, a pure, undiluted hit of adrenaline that makes even the best coke feel like cheap aspirin.
This is control.
This is mastery.
This is me .
I navigate the first tight turn, then the second, feeling the suit respond perfectly. I’m gaining on Luca, reeling him in. Just the final S-bend before the exit chute…
Then the world tilts.
A vicious, unexpected gust of wind slams into me from the right, a physical blow against the side of my suit. It throws me off line, pushing me towards the canyon wall faster than expected.
No!
I fight it, trying to correct, but it’s too late.
Impact.
Not head-on, thank fuck, but a brutal, glancing blow against an angled slab of granite.
The sound is sickening... a crunch of carbon fiber, Kevlar, and bone.
Pain explodes through my right side... shoulder, ribs, arm... a white-hot agony that steals my breath.
The force of the ricochet sends me spinning away from the cliff face, and I’m tumbling, out of control.
The world becomes a chaotic blur of rock and sky. I try to stabilize, try to regain flight, but something’s wrong. Terribly wrong.
My right wing. It’s… gone. Not literally gone, but collapsed, shredded, useless. The impact must have torn the fabric or snapped a strut. It flaps limply, offering zero lift, zero control.
And then the spin really begins...
I was only tumbling before, but now I’ve fallen into a flat, high-G horizontal spin. It’s fucking pulling me apart.
The ground whirls below, the sky above, faster and faster. Disorientation slams into me. Along with nausea.
There’s a voice coming over the comms, but I barely hear it, courtesy of the wind, which has become a deafening shriek.
I can’t breathe... the G-force is crushing my chest, stealing the oxygen from my lungs.
Chute! The chute!
My hand claws instinctively for the deployment handle on my chest rig. But the spin is too violent. My arms feel like lead weights.
Pain radiates from my shattered right side. Black spots dance at the edge of my vision, becoming an ever-shrinking tunnel.
Pull the fucking handle, Maxwell!
I fight through the pain, through the Gs, through the encroaching darkness. My fingers brush the fabric of the rig… searching… fumbling …
And then, inexplicably, ridiculously, a face flashes behind my eyes.
Green eyes.
Dark hair.
A ghost of a memory from Vegas.
Sabrina.
Why the fuck am I thinking of her now? Of all the women, all the deals, all the wins… why her face in the split second before oblivion?
My fingers close around the handle. Cold metal. Solid. Real.
But before I can pull, the black tunnel filling my vision shrinks to a pinpoint, and the world dissolves into absolute darkness.
Silence rushes in, swallowing the roar, the pain.
Swallowing everything.