Chapter 1
Teague Hamilton’s brain was already doing the math his body would hate him for later.
Thirty feet up. Smooth slab with zero protection. And the kid’s left leg was shaking hard enough to see from here—that telltale sewing-machine tremor that meant his muscles were about five minutes from total failure.
“Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.” Liam Kingsley lowered his binoculars and shot Teague a look.
“Depends. What do you think I’m thinking?”
“Something monumentally stupid.”
Teague grabbed his harness from the gear bag. “Then yeah. Probably.”
The Grand Canyon sprawled beyond them in layers of rust and amber, ancient and indifferent.
A mile below, the Colorado River threaded through shadows—a thin turquoise ribbon catching the late-morning light.
The scent of dust and sunbaked juniper hung in the air, and the wind sliced through the canyon hard enough to make Teague’s eyes water.
Beautiful place to die, if that’s what this kid was determined to do.
Teague pressed his radio button. “Dispatch, this is Ranger Hamilton. Visual confirmation on the stranded climber. Male subject, probably in his late teens, approximately thirty feet up, small ledge. He’s frozen solid.”
Static crackled. Then Eden Garrison’s voice came through—crisp, professional, and controlled enough to set his teeth on edge. “Copy that, Teague. Gear status?”
She still hadn’t forgiven him for nearly dying in the cave-collapse incident two weeks ago. He’d put his own life at risk, not anyone else’s. So why did she care so much?
Liam took the radio. “Negative on protection, Dispatch. No harness, no rope, no quickdraws. The guy is free soloing.”
A pause stretched across the channel. “Confirm—no safety equipment at all?”
“Just a chalk bag and a death wish.”
Eden’s sigh barely made it through the static. “Another treasure hunter?”
Teague grabbed the radio back. “That’s my guess.”
“It is only the first day of August.” Eden’s voice tightened. “I’m not sure how much more of this we can take. How long has he been up there?”
“Hikers spotted him twenty-five minutes ago. Based on the leg shake, I’d say he’s been locked up at least thirty minutes. Classic epinephrine freeze.”
“Is he responsive?”
Liam cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey! Can you hear us?”
Nothing. The kid was a statue against the light-colored shale.
Teague keyed the mic. “That’s a negative. Unresponsive to verbal.”
“Copy, Dispatch.” A new voice rolled across the channel—smooth baritone that made Teague’s gut clench. Xander Sullivan. “I approached from the east ridge. Too much loose rock—couldn’t reach him. I’m about fifty yards south of Hamilton’s position now.”
South Rim ranger. Sounded like a movie-trailer narrator. Was it too much to hope that he was bald and missing teeth?
“What’s your assessment, Sullivan?” Eden’s voice softened a bit.
A pause, then golden boy was back. “That slab is 5.8, maybe 5.9. Technical climbing, marginal friction. If his legs shake much more, he’s coming off.”
“Thanks, Xander. Maintain visual.”
“Absolutely. I’m not going anywhere, Eden.”
Teague’s jaw tightened.
Of course. All honey and sunshine for Xander.
Liam caught his expression and smirked. “You know your eye twitches when he talks, right?”
“Shut up.”
“Just saying. It’s very subtle. Barely noticeable.”
“I’m ignoring you.” Teague yanked his harness on, fingers moving through the double-back on the waist belt and leg loops.
One buckle. Two. Snug against his hips. He didn’t have his helmet, but they hadn’t set out for a climb this morning.
It was supposed to be a routine trail check.
Good thing he always kept the basics in his pack.
He pressed the radio hard enough to whiten his thumb. “Dispatch, recommend helicopter standby, but I don’t think we have time.”
“Negative on helicopter. Closest bird is forty-three minutes out. Had to make a run to Flagstaff with a cardiac event at North Rim.”
“Then we’re primary.” Teague tested the harness, yanking on the belay loop. Solid. “A crack system runs horizontal about fifteen feet to my right. I can traverse across, climb to his position.”
Liam raised his binoculars again, then lowered them with a sharp exhale. “That crack dead-ends at twenty feet. After that, blank face. And have you noticed that ridge drops away in that section? That has to be over a hundred-foot drop below.”
“I’ll jump to that hold.” He pointed to a shaded area he hoped was solid. “I’ll be anchored. So thirty or a hundred makes no difference.”
“Jump? If you miss the grab, that anchor won’t do much but swing you into that wall.”
“Then I won’t miss.”
“That’s eight feet and one chance to grab it. Eight.”
“I can count.”
“Can you fly?”
“Guess we’ll find out.” He keyed the mic. “Dispatch, I’ll need to make a dynamic move to reach the subject.”
Eden’s response was immediate. “Define ‘dynamic.’”
“Eight-foot gap between last hold and his position.”
“That’s not dynamic; that’s a leap. Completely uncontrolled—”
“Controlled enough.”
“He is also failing to mention that those eight feet stretch over a break in the terrain that drops a hundred feet to the next ridge. And with the way the rock angles, his last anchor point will swing him directly into the rock face.” Liam met his gaze and held it. “And he doesn’t have his helmet.”
“Teague.” Her voice dropped the professional polish. “An eight-foot gap means you need at least ten feet of rope. If you miss, you will hit the wall at over fifteen miles an hour. Without a helmet, we’re talking about more than a few broken bones. We’re talking about a possible brain injury.”
“I’m talking about the only option that gets to him in time.”
“She’s going to kill you,” Liam muttered beside him.
Teague pressed the radio again. “Eden. I can make this.”
Silence stretched across the channel. Three seconds. Four. Five.
When she spoke again, something raw edged her words. “South Rim, your read?”
Xander’s response came quickly. “Subject’s deteriorating fast. Jackhammer leg on both sides now. Maybe five—ten minutes max before gravity wins.”
“Less,” Teague said. “I’m making the approach. Placing anchors as I go.”
“Wait.” Eden’s voice sharpened. “If the hold breaks…if you miss—”
“I won’t miss.”
“You don’t know that. And if you’re wrong, I’ll have two rescues instead of one.”
“Then you’ll have job security.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be funny. I’m trying to keep this kid from becoming a chalk outline.” He softened his voice just slightly. “Trust me, Garrison.”
Another pause. He could almost hear her wrestling with it.
“Let me clear it with Virgil.”
“No time.” Teague grabbed cams—spring-loaded devices that wedged into cracks for protection—from the gear bag and clipped them to his harness. Metal clinked against metal.
“But if you die, Hamilton”—her words came out clipped—“I’m putting ‘Refused to listen’ on your tombstone.”
Liam snorted. “I think someone likes you.”
“She tolerates me. Barely.” Teague grabbed their rope—dynamic kernmantle, 10.5 millimeter—and tied a figure-eight on a bight, clipping it to his harness with two locking carabiners. “There’s a difference.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why she sounds like she’s about to throw up every time you do something dangerous.”
“She sounds like that because I do dangerous things. It’s called professional concern.”
“It’s called something.” Liam handed him quickdraws, his jaw tight despite the banter. “This is still insane, you know.”
“Noted.”
“And if you fall, I’m telling everyone you cried.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” He approached the wall and touched the Tapeats Sandstone—rough under his fingertips, ancient, heat radiating from its surface. “Feed me rope. I’ll place gear as I climb.”
Liam wrapped the rope around a massive boulder for friction. His face had gone serious now, the humor draining out. “Don’t die.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“I mean it. Nimue will make me talk about my feelings if you die, and I hate that.”
Teague managed a tight smile. “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”
He found his first holds. A jug for his right hand, a small edge for his left.
One more breath.
Then he pulled onto the face.
The crack system waited to his right—an inch wide, perfect for hand jams. Teague slotted his right hand in, made a fist, and his knuckles compressed as the grip locked tight.
Solid.
He moved methodically. Left hand, right hand, feet following with precision. Every ten feet, he placed a cam—the satisfying click of spring-loaded lobes biting stone—and clipped his rope through. If he fell, he’d drop twice the distance to his last piece.
Then the cam would catch him.
In theory.
Wind roared past, trying to peel him off the face. Below, the canyon dropped away in bands of tan and rust—layers of geological time stacked like pages in a book.
Twenty feet. The crack ran true.
Twenty-five feet. Narrowing.
Thirty feet.
Thirty-five feet.
The crack ended.
Teague jammed his hand into the last good section and looked right. Eight feet of smooth shale. Pale in the harsh light. No holds. No cracks.
Nothing but air and a bad idea.
He pressed his radio. “Dispatch. Preparing to make the jump.”
Eden’s voice faltered. “Teague…”
He pitched his voice to carry toward the kid. “Hey—I need you to hold on ten more seconds. Can you do that?”
The kid managed a weak nod.
Teague studied the ledge. Six inches deep. Above it, a protrusion jutted from the rock—a knob the size of a baseball, darker than the surrounding stone.
If he could catch that…
He placed his last cam, clipped in, and visualized the movement. Crouch. Coil. Explode upward and out.
Don’t look at the gap. Look where you’re landing.
His heart hammered. Sweat traced his spine. His vision narrowed to that single point—the knob, the ledge, the exact spot his hand needed to catch.
He launched.
For one eternal heartbeat, nothing was beneath him.
Nothing but gravity and empty space.
His right hand shot out—
Contact.