Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

turn to my right, into the brush on the canyon side. Behind me, I hear Jar slide to a stop on the path before following.

“Help me! Please!” The voice is directly in front of us but still muffled. Which is strange, because it’s not that far to the edge of the canyon.

I try to peek ahead, but I don’t see anyone through the breaks in the bushes.

I weave left and right, literally taking the path of least resistance, until the tall brush we’re in is replaced by small scrubs all the way to the canyon’s lip.

I stop. There’s no one here. I look left and right but we are the only ones around.

I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “Where are you?”

“Please! I’m down here. Please help me!”

Jar and I rush to the edge of the canyon because—of course—the person needing help is on the other side.

In case you’ve never been here, the Grand Canyon for the most part does not have guardrails, so you can walk right up to the very edge and, if you’re as unlucky as the guy crouching on a ledge about two meters below us can attest, you can go over the side, too.

He’s in a precarious spot. The half-meter-long ledge is just wide enough for his shoes to fit side by side. About the only good thing is that the canyon wall is not a sheer drop like it is in some places. But the slope is still steep, and if he slips off the ledge, he’d be in for quite the long slide before he stops again. He might survive it, but he wouldn’t be in good shape.

He’s clutching something in his right hand that looks like a stuffed animal. He looks too old for something like that, but who am I to judge?

“Please, get me up!” he says.

When I first glimpsed him, I thought he was probably in his twenties, but now as he stares up at us, hope in his eyes, I realize he’s a lot younger, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

He’s pressing his body against the canyon wall, his arms thrown out on both sides, hugging the rock. And he’s not wearing a face mask, which is becoming an unusual sight these days, even when one is out alone.

“Can you raise your hands above you head?” I ask. If he does, they might be high enough for us to grab.

The speed at which panic replaces the hope in his gaze has to be some kind of world record. “Are you kidding?”

“Okay, okay. We’ll figure something else out. Just don’t move.”

“Where would I go?”

I take several steps to the left to get a better look at the ledge he’s on. It appears stable but there’s no way to tell for sure, and it’s possible the whole thing could shear off at any moment.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Evan.”

“Evan, I’m Nate. I’m going to need you to hang in there for a little bit longer.”

“No, no! You have to get me up now.”

“To do that, I’m going to need some rope. We have some in our camper. It’ll take me a few minutes to get it, but I promise I’ll be right back. Jar will stay here with you.”

“Jar?”

“I’m Jar,” Jar says.

“That’s your name?”

“Is that a problem?” Jar asks.

Apparently realizing how insulting he sounded, he says, “No. Um, sorry. I, uh, was just asking. Hey, uh, did you see anyone else up there?”

“Anyone else?” I ask, looking around. “Should there be?”

He hesitates then says, “I thought I heard someone right before you showed up.”

“Just us as far as I know. Now you sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

I race toward the campground. About halfway there, I’m hit with the sensation someone’s watching me. Without breaking stride, I glance over my shoulder, but the trail behind me is empty.

The rope is in one of our gear bags, which is stowed in the storage area under the Travato’s cushioned bench seat. We may be on vacation, but I’ve learned if I’m going to be away from home for more than a day, it’s always best to take the tools of my trade with me.

I grab a hank of rope and am running back down the trail in less than half a minute. At the same spot as before, I once again feel the sensation of being watched. Someone must be hiding in the brush. If Evan wasn’t on the verge of taking a fast trip to the bottom of the canyon, I’d take the time to find out who it is.

When I reach the canyon rim again, I’m happy to see that Jar is calmly lying near the lip, looking over the edge, talking to Evan.

As I stop next to her, I hear Evan say, “Is that him? Is he back?”

“He is,” she says. “Just a few more moments now.”

“Please hurry.”

I unwrap the rope and tie a loop on one end that’s large enough for Evan to fit through, then take the other end and run it around the base of the biggest bush I can find. I give it a tug. The bush jitters, but I think it will hold.

Satisfied, I return to the canyon lip and look over. “You ready?”

“Yes! Hurry, please.”

I hold the looped end of the rope over the edge so he can see it. “I’m going to lower this down to you. I want you to put this over your head and under your arms so that it sits in your armpits and straps across your chest. Make sure to put the knotted end at your back. Got it?”

“I…I’m not sure I can do that.”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll talk you through it.”

“Oooookay.”

I lower the rope until it dangles against his body. “Very slowly, move your left arm to your chest.”

“I don’t want to let go.”

“Keep it slow and steady and you should be fine.”

Evan does not look convinced.

“It’s the only way we’re going to get you out of there,” I say.

His fingers curl toward his palm, then, like an