Chapter 5 - The Confession on the Cliff
The wind howled against the canyon wall as I held the billionaire's son by one wrist.
His confession hit me harder than the floodwaters ever could.
For thirteen years, I had blamed Everett Whitmore and the phantom Marcus Vance.
Now, the pampered heir dangling over the abyss was admitting he caused the tragedy.
Blake cried out that he had wanted to impress his father by cutting construction costs.
He authorized the substandard materials that caused the bridge to collapse and kill three innocent men.
Everett had framed me just to keep his precious son out of federal prison.
My grip on Blake's wrist instinctively loosened for a fraction of a second.
I could let him fall.
The river below would swallow him, erasing the man who had destroyed my life.
Nobody would ever know I did not try my hardest.
Everett screamed from the ledge above me, begging for his boy's life.
I closed my eyes and pictured Sophie's smile.
With a primal roar, I planted my boots into the mud and hauled Blake upward.
He scrambled over the ledge, collapsing into the wet dirt, gasping for air.
I stood over him, my chest heaving, my fists clenched at my sides.
I told him he was going to confess everything to a judge, or I would throw him off the cliff myself.
Camille pulled me away, her dark eyes flashing with intense urgency.
She pointed toward the crest of the mountain above us.
The floodwaters below had undermined the foundation of the canyon wall.
A massive section of the cliff face was beginning to detach.
A mudslide of biblical proportions was about to wipe us off the map.
We had less than two minutes to find solid cover.
I remembered studying the geological surveys of this area thirteen years ago.
There was an old mining and maintenance tunnel cut into the bedrock near the summit.
I shouted for everyone to run toward a cluster of dead pine trees near the top.
We scrambled up the remaining loose rocks, our lungs burning.
The roar of the impending mudslide sounded like a jet engine directly overhead.
I found the rusted iron door partially buried in the mountainside.
We ripped away the brush and heaved the heavy metal open.
The four of us threw ourselves into the pitch-black tunnel just as the mountain collapsed outside.
Thousands of tons of mud and rock slammed against the entrance, sealing us in total darkness.
I turned on my heavy-duty flashlight, sweeping the beam across the damp walls.
Blake coughed and asked if this tunnel led to the other side of the ridge.
I did not answer him.
I was staring at a faded plaque bolted to the stone wall.
The plaque read, "Designed and Engineered by Ethan Mercer."
This was not an abandoned mine.
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This was the very same structural tunnel that had supposedly failed thirteen years ago.
And according to my old blueprints, the far end was a dead end.
