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Lance spun, dragging Whitley half around with him, using her body as cover.

“Not another step!” Lance’s voice split with rage and panic.

Wyatt darted a glance at Whitley’s face—short and quick. He couldn’t bear to look longer and see her fear. He had to be in control, to make the best decision for her.

He slowed, raising his hands slightly, weapon still holstered. He couldn’t risk drawing it when Whitley was in Dillard’s grip.

“You’ve got nowhere to go,” he called out. “This ends one of two ways. You let her go and we talk, or you keep running, and I promise you the mountain doesn’t care how this ends for you.”

The weather was already shifting patterns, the way he’d felt a hundred times. That storm raging on the mountain he just rescued a man from was closing in on this end of the range.

“You think I care about the mountain?” Dillard’s laugh came out ragged. “I care about not going to prison for the rest of my life.”

“Then you should have thought about that before you dragged a federal witness up a mountain to silence her.”

Whitley made a choked sound, and Dillard gripped her harder against his front, using her as a human shield.

He chanced a look at her face, thinking to reassure her. When he did, he found her staring over his shoulder. Without turning he knew it was Carson.

Angling his body so he could see from his peripheral, he caught sight of his teammate breaking through the trees.

Dillard spotted him at the same time and made his move. He shoved Whitley hard toward the rock face, hoping to use the distraction to escape.

She stumbled backward, boot catching on the scree at the very edge of the lip. Her eyes were wide with terror as she went down.

Wyatt lunged for her at the same moment he pulled his weapon. Before he could get a shot off, Whitley was going over the ridge with a blood-curdling shriek.

“Whitley!” He had no memory of how he got to her, only knew he was suddenly staring down at her bloodless fingers gripping the stone she clung to off the steep side.

Her face was as white as snow too. He dropped to his knees, heart in his throat.

“Carson! The pack!”

Carson fired his weapon, but Wyatt barely registered that his boss stopped Dillard with a bullet. A second later, Carson pitched up on the ledge next to him, tearing open the backpack.

He tossed him a coil of rope without another word needed between them.

“I’ve got you,” Wyatt called down to her, muscle memory taking over. He stuffed his weapon in his waistband as he prepared a rappelling rope. Anchor, carabiner, rope.

Get a grip.

“Don’t move. Don’t look down.” His voice came from a calmer part of himself that had done this many times.

He quickly fed the line down, aware of every single thing going on around him. The wind direction. The scream of it through the trees. Carson rushing back to Dillard and another sharp cry from the man as Carson immobilized him further.

Wyatt didn’t spare them a thought. He fixed all his attention on Whitley.

“Easy now. Take it slow. I’ve got you.”

“Okay.”

“Do exactly as I say. Got it?”

“Yes.” Her voice was snatched by the wind, but he felt the vibration clear to the pit of his stomach.

“Grab the rope with both hands. Wrap it once around your wrist if you can—don’t just hold it, anchor it. Like this.”

She fumbled, fingers stiff with cold and fear, but managed to loop it the way he demonstrated.