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If he could just extend his right foot around the corner, he should catch the edge of the front porch roof….
It was right at the limit of his ability to stretch his body, and adrenaline probably gave him the last few centimeters he needed, but the toes of his right foot touched solid horizontal wood.
Okay. He was spread out against the wall, his body forming an awkward X. He might or might not have the foot strength to hold his body weight in this position long enough to move his hands farther to the right along the roofline.
A tremendous crash on the other side of the wall decided for him. The bad guys had just kicked in the door to his bedroom. Any second they would come over to the window and look out. He had to be off this wall by then!
Straining with every muscle fiber in in his body, he pushed his feet against the edge of the porch and the edge of the windowsill. Then, moving carefully, frantically, he edged his fingers to the right, one hand at a time. Right, left. Right, left.
His toes could no longer maintain contact with the windowsill, and his left leg swung down alarmingly, nearly pulling his left hand off the roof.
His left hand cramped with the effort of hanging on. His fingers slipped a few millimeters, and it felt as if all the skin was being scraped off his fingertips by the rough asphalt roofing. Grimly ignoring the burning pain, he pulled with all his strength on his left hand and inched his right hand to the right.
Reversing the process urgently, he pulled with all his strength on his right hand and lurched his left hand to the right. Oh God. It felt like his left hand was on fire. He thought he felt blood begin to drip down his left wrist.
He repeated the procedure one more time, and the entire ball of his right foot was abruptly able to plant on the sloping porch roof. He pushed hard on the foot, taking weight off his arms and giving them a much-needed rest.
He only allowed himself a few seconds, though. He had to get around the corner before the bad guys got done searching the bedroom.
He heard a shout from inside the house and a grunted reply in a language he didn’t understand. Spurred on by the bad guys feeling bold enough to yell back and forth, he inched his hands the last few feet along the roof until he was able to crouch on the front porch roof, breathing so hard his chest hurt. He lay down flat on the surface and commenced low-crawling across it.
A big old crepe myrtle’s branches overhung the other corner of the porch, providing decent cover from anyone who might glance up here.
The wood beneath him gave a loud creak and he winced, speeding up his frantic crawl toward a hiding spot.
At last. He huddled in the fine branches of the crepe myrtle, praying they hid him. Enough leaves blessedly clung to the branches to provide reasonably thick shadows beneath the overhanging boughs.
He looked down over the edge of the roof. He could jump down from here, but there was precious little cover in the yard. He would have to run for the trees and make it to the woods unseen, and then he would have to play commando with whoever was inside the house. He was barefoot and had no coat. Not to mention, he had no weapon and no fancy heat-seeking night vision gear.
Nope. He had no interest in playing hide-and-kill with the bad guys. He was safer up here.
“I’m coming,” Gunner grunted into his ear. “Where are you?”
“Outside,” he dared to whisper, praying the microphone was sensitive enough to pick up the bare thread of sound.
“Outside?” Gunner echoed. “Where?”
“Porch roof, near the tree.”
“Brilliant. Stay put. I’m going to go in and clear the house.”
He clicked the microphone twice. Emphatically. In fact, he repeated the double negative click for good measure.
“Don’t worry,” Gunner muttered. “They’re dead men walking.”
Chas flinched. The cold violence in Gunner’s voice was unlike anything he’d ever heard from him.
It was cold out here, and Chas began to shiver. He hugged his knees to his chest and lay on his side on the rough roof shingles. The angle of the roof was uncomfortable as hell, and when the wind blew, he shivered harder and crepe myrtle twigs poked him painfully. But he was alive. So far.
He tried to distract himself by attempting to spot Gunner coming. But he never saw even a hint of movement. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed at how good Gunner was or depressed at how bad he was at doing the whole Special Forces thing.
He listened intently, expecting to hear gunfire inside the house at any second. But as the minutes ticked by, silence reigned. Did he dare ask Gunner what was up? Or would transmitting give away Gunner’s position?
He opted to remain silent and just wait, but it was hell. Was Gunner lying only a few feet away from him, hurt or maybe even dying? Should he be brave enough to check on Gunner? The thought of just cowering here while something happened to him—
It was unbearable. He reached for the button on the headset to transmit. Maybe just one click to see if Gunner reacted.
Click.