Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Reid
I don’t sleep well. The tent is dark, Sulla’s breathing is calm and regular, and I lie here thinking about what I said on the walk back, that I wanted to kiss him again, and wondering whether I should have said it.
I should have said it.
I don’t know what to do with that.
On day twenty-two, the challenge is a rope bridge crossing.
Mac briefs us at the edge of a ravine. Eighty feet deep, rushing water below, white rapids crashing over rocks.
The bridge spans maybe sixty feet across: two rope rails, wooden slats for footing attached to the rope rails by vertical ropes at two foot intervals, the rope rails are secured to stakes in the ground on both sides, and the whole structure swaying in the wind.
“One partner crosses first. When they reach the far side, the second follows. Both must complete the crossing. Time doesn’t matter—this is about facing the crossing.
It’s a personal challenge. Facing fear. For some, like all these challenges, it will be harder than for others. I’ll be waiting on the far side.”
I look at the bridge. Sixty feet of rope and weathered wood over eighty feet of nothing. I've crossed worse in training.
Beside me, Sulla is assessing the same way I am. Tactical. Methodical.
Mac crosses over. Sure footed. Hands moving forward on the rope rails. No hesitation. Knees flexed as he balances with the swaying motion of the bridge.
Other teams go before us. Trevor and Zay make it across without issue. Aiden and Jacks take longer, Aiden's prosthetic makes the uneven slats challenging, but they complete it. Sienna and Juno cross smoothly.
Our turn.
I approach the bridge and test the near rope with my weight. It gives more than I'd like, but holds. The wooden slats are weathered. The anchor fittings are pitted with rust. This bridge is at least fifty years old.
"Ready?" Mac asks.
"Ready."
I step onto the bridge.
The first few steps are fine. The structure sways but I adjust my balance. Keep my center of gravity low. Hands on the rope rails. Eyes forward, not down.
Ten feet. Twenty. The wind picks up, bridge swaying more. I compensate. Muscle memory from training.
Thirty feet. About halfway across.
Forty feet, almost there.
Then I hear it. A sharp crack.
The rope anchor on the far side, holding the left rail, partially gives—not a clean snap but a progressive failure, the rope fraying and slipping through the fitting. The bridge lurches violently to the left.
I lose my footing. The whole structure tilts sharply—maybe thirty degrees, enough that the slats are no longer flat underfoot but canted at a steep diagonal. I'm falling sideways off the bridge.
I slide between the vertical ropes connecting the boards to the left railing. My hand shoots out, catching a rope as I go over the edge.
My full weight jerks onto one arm. Shoulder screams. I'm dangling below the tilted deck, holding the rail with one hand, feet swinging over open air, the sound of the turbulent water rushing below me.
And suddenly I'm not in Scotland.
I'm in Iraq.
We're on a narrow mountain path. Ramirez on point. A shot rings out. I hit the ground. Ramirez is bleeding. Staggers. He is too close to the edge and it crumbles beneath his feet. He goes over, his hands are scratching at the ground trying to stop the fall.
I dive. Catch his wrist. He's hanging off the cliff edge. His weight pulling me toward the drop.
"Don't let go!" He's screaming. "Reid, don't let go!"
My other hand grabs rock. Trying to anchor us both. "I've got you! I've got you!"
But I don't.
His hand is slipping. Sweat and dust and blood making it impossible to hold.
Rock giving way under my knees. I'm sliding toward the edge with him.
"Reid—"
His wrist tears out of my grip.
I'm reaching for him. Fingers grasping air. Screaming his name.
He tumbles into the ravine. I'm still screaming his name. Fingers still grasping air. The crack of gunfire still echoing off the ridge. His body on the rocks below. Not dead. Still moving.
"REID!"
The voice cuts through. Different voice. Not Ramirez. Not Iraq.
Sulla.
But I can't move. Can't breathe. Frozen. Hanging here. One hand on the rope. Body swinging.
Ramirez's face. Falling.
I'm going to fall. Just like him. I'm going to—
"REID! HOLD ON. I'M COMING!"
Movement on the bridge. Footsteps on the wooden slats. Fast. Getting closer.
The bridge is unstable. Tilted and groaning, the remaining anchor points taking the full load of the structure. Anyone crossing now could send the whole thing down.
But someone is running across anyway.
A hand closes around my right wrist. Strong. Certain.
He won't be able to hold me. Just like Ramirez. Sweat and dust and blood and gravity. The hand always slips.
I'm going to fall.
"Reid. Look at me."
I can't. Can't move. Paralyzed.
Sound of the gunshot. Ramirez falling. My hand empty. The heavy thud of his body hitting the ground. His voice crying for help. Then silence.
"Reid." Calm now. Certain. The voice he used with Trevor in the bunker. "Breathe. Look at me."
The bridge deck is above me, canted at a steep diagonal, the tilted slats just out of reach. I'm hanging below the edge, one hand on a rope, Sulla's hand locked around my wrist, feet swinging over open air.
I force my eyes up. Dark brown eyes. Focused. Absolutely certain.
"I will not let you fall. Do you understand? I will not let go."
Something in his voice breaks through the terror.
He means it.
"Reach up. Grab my wrist."
His hand is open, reaching down as far as he can toward the hand that is hanging at my side.
It takes everything I have. My left hand slowly reaches up and latches onto his wrist just as his grip tightens around mine.
He keeps talking, that calm certain voice, an anchor while I find my way back to my body.
"Good. I'm pulling. Don't let go. I’ve got you."
He pulls—steady, controlled—while I find footing on the cross ropes, then on the tilted slats and scramble. We end up flat against the canted deck, both breathing hard, the bridge groaning beneath us.
Mac's voice from the far side. "Can you both make it across? Equipment failure. No disqualification if you need extraction. Your call."
Sulla looks at me. Question in his eyes.
I force myself to breathe. "I can make it."
"You sure?"
"Yes. Not sure this bridge can hold us until extraction."
He nods. "Together. Slowly."
Twenty feet on one sturdy rail, deck still tilted. But it’s the closest side. Too far to turn around and go back. His hand at my waist the whole way. I don't look down.
We reach the far side. Mac is there before we've fully cleared the bridge, one hand steadying my arm, the other on Sulla's shoulder.
Zay and Trevor are reaching out too, grabbing whatever they can—arms, jacket, pack straps—pulling us to solid ground.
The other four are holding onto the ones who are reaching for us. Human anchors.
Our feet have barely left the last plank when a severe gust rocks the bridge.
The left rail releases completely. Then the right. The whole structure swings away from us in a long slow arc, planks clattering against each other, dropping and twisting until it crashes vertically against the far cliff wall. The sound echoes off the ravine walls long after it stops moving.
Nobody speaks.
Mac looks at where the bridge was. Then at us. Something crosses his face that isn't his usual expression.
"Medical. Now." His voice is tight. Then, quieter, "Good. You're both good."
The medic examines us both. My shoulder is strained but functional. Sulla has rope burns on his palm from grabbing the rail. Otherwise intact.
"Cleared," the medic says. "Take it easy tonight."
Mac looks at Sulla for a long moment. "That was either the bravest thing I've ever seen on this course or the most reckless." A beat. "I haven't decided which."
Sulla just nods.
The camera crew pack up the drones that caught the whole thing. After loading onto the waiting bus, we cross a real bridge a mile down the ravine, pick up James and Heather who are waiting on the other side, and drive back to base camp. Everyone talks quietly—replaying it, processing.
Everyone except us.
Sulla sits beside me in the vehicle, his whole side leaning into mine, his hand holding mine. He doesn't say anything. Neither do I.
We walk back from the vehicle in silence. I'm not okay but I don't know how to say that.
Back at our tent, we sit on our respective cots. Afternoon stretching ahead. No more challenges today.
He gets up. Crosses the four feet. Sits beside me on my cot and pulls me against him without a word. Arms tight. One hand cradling the back of my head.
"You're okay," he says into my hair. "You're safe. I've got you."
I'm shaking. Full-body tremors. Can't stop.
"I thought—" My voice breaks.
"I know."
"I couldn't move—"
"I know."
He just holds me. Doesn't rush me. Doesn't ask questions. Just holds me while I shake.