Page 3 of Nothing But Air

“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.