Page 96 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

His record in the SEALs was one hundred and fifty feet. But, okay, that was a few years ago.

Gasping. How much more could his arm muscles—and his back—take?

Fifteen.

He looked up.

Now, ten feet.

Lift … grip … straighten.

Now six, five, three.

Finally he was at the ledge.

“Hey,” he shouted.

Jesus, was the officer passed out? That would be a high-magnitude complication.

“Hey!”

Ron Pulaski’s face appeared in the window. Eyes streaming, he was coughing. His face was a mask of resignation, fear and bewilderment.

Gasping, breathing hard. “Listen. I’m going to throw this rope to you. I need you to catch it. So dust off those outfield skills. All right?”

“Sure.”

Spencer took the tail of the rope tied around his chest. His feet were twisted around the climbing rope into a good S-shaped pinch and his left hand gripped it hard.

“I’m going to need you to pull me over the sill. Pull like a son of a bitch. Get on your back under the window, bend your legs and then straighten them. I’ll help with the main rope.”

“Maybe I should tie it around me.”

Spencer nearly laughed. “You don’t want to do that, son. Here it comes.”

“I’m ready.”

Spencer stared at his hand, inches in front of him and thought, Come on, Mr. Right, do your stuff! Which was a softball field joke between Trudie and himself.

Releasing his grip with his right, he took the chest rope and tossed as hard as he could into the window.

“Got it!”

“How’s that, Trudes?”

“Knew you could do it, Dad.”

“Pull!”

“Watch out for the broken glass on the window frame,” Ron called.

Least of my worries.

The kid might have been skinny but he was strong. Soon Spencer could grip the windowsill with his gloved hands.

“Again.”

Summiting was the tensest moment of a climb.