Abandon

THIRTY-NINE

L

awrence knelt down and unclipped the sheath from Isaiah’s ankle. He cut the rope that linked Abigail’s harness to the overhang, and as he slid the sheathed knife into his pocket, Abigail ran her hands up and down Isaiah’s legs, his arms, and around his waist before suddenly stopping. She unzipped his parka, reached into an inner pocket, and plucked out an olive-colored ball the size of an apple and weighing just under a pound.

A band of yellow nomenclature ran across the equator of the steel sphere:

GRENADE. HAND. FRAG. DELAY. M67.

COMP. B

She looked up at her father, their eyes going wide at the same time. She turned the grenade slowly in her hand, examining the safety pin, the lever.

“What’s going on in there, Isaiah?” Jerrod shouted through the tunnel. “We happy?”

Abigail leaned forward, whispered, “You ever handled one of these?” He shook his head. “You know how it works?”

Lawrence touched the safety pin. “I know you pull this out, and as long as your hand is holding the lever down, I think it won’t explode.”

“You think? What’s your knowledge based on?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Tell me.”

“Rambo.”

“Isaiah!” Jerrod shouted. “You’re killing me, man!”

Abigail said, “Well, he’s gonna be coming through that hole momentarily. You wanna try to fight him with the knife you just took?”

“He’d kill me.”

“Then we have to throw this grenade.”

They walked over to the tunnel opening.

Jerrod’s headlamp illuminated the rock midway through from the other side.

“Isaiah!” he shouted. “I’m coming in, all right?”

“No, Jerrod,” Abigail said. “We’re on our way out.”

Lawrence motioned for her to yank the pin.

“You find the gold?”

“We didn’t find it.”

Abigail slipped her finger through the ring and pulled out the safety pin. “How long do we have?” she whispered. “Once I throw it? Is it five seconds, or three?”

“I don’t know.” Her hand had begun to shake, knuckles white from the death grip she had on the M67’s striker lever, lines of sweat trickling down her forehead and into her eyes. She blinked away the sting.

“If it’s five seconds, Jerrod might have time to throw it back in here at us,” she said.

“Isaiah? The fuck’s going on? Everything cool?”

Isaiah moaned again.

“When I let go of this,” Abigail said, “we dive into that corner and cover our heads.”

“Make a good throw. We don’t want it rolling back in here.”

“Isaiah! You okay?” Abigail realized she’d been holding her breath. “I’m coming in!”

Abigail cocked her arm back and let the M67 fly. They lunged into the corner, Abigail’s face crushed into the rocky floor. Lawrence sprawled on top of her. She shut her eyes, listening to the grenade ricochet off the rock as it bounced through the tunnel.

She heard Jerrod say “Shit.”

Two seconds of silence, then the ground shook and shards of the ceiling fell down.

Abigail said, “Lawrence? You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“My ears are ringing.” She sat up, turned on her headlamp. The chamber had filled with a haze of dust and smoke. They got to their feet, moved over to the tunnel.

“I don’t hear him,” Lawrence whispered. “Think he had time to throw it over the edge?”

They heard something behind them, and both turned, their headlamps spotlighting Isaiah, who was trying to sit up.

“We have to go,” she said. “We’ll shoot him with Jerrod’s gun.” Abigail followed Lawrence back through the tunnel into thickening smoke. As she came out under the overhang, she could see that her throw had been perfect. Her headlamp shone on the rock, blasted black from the detonation, steel fragments everywhere—under her feet, embedded in the stone.

But no Jerrod and no blood.

“Where is he?” Abigail whispered, the words hardly out of her mouth when Jerrod appeared around the corner from the narrow ledge, walking toward them unscathed, a red dot moving back and forth between their chests, Lawrence and Abigail backpedaling toward the far edge of the overhang, snow blowing in, squeezing out the residual smoke.

“Isaiah!” Jerrod hollered at the opening in the rock. “Is he alive?”

Before Abigail could answer, Isaiah’s voice boomed back.

“You got ’em?”

“Yeah.”

“Motherfucker clocked me with a rock.” Isaiah climbed out of the tunnel.

“I almost ate shrapnel,” Jerrod said. “Missing anything? You didn’t hear your M sixty-seven go off?”

“I was out cold.”

“Yeah, I’m standing here hollering through the tunnel, and you aren’t answering, and just when I’m starting to think maybe something’s not right, this grenade comes banging through. Dropped right where you stand.”

“No shit.”

“I didn’t know if it had been cooked off, so I didn’t have time to throw it over the cliff.”

“What’d you do?”

“Hauled ass around the corner and prayed to God that skinny ledge wouldn’t break up underneath me.”

Isaiah turned his attention to Lawrence and Abigail. He smiled, severe pain in his eyes. “Damn, Larry, cute bitch, you bad motherfuckers you. Almost took out a couple of marines. That would have been some shit. Ah, damn.”

“You all right?” Jerrod asked.

Isaiah bent over, shook his head as if to gauge the pain. “I think he fucked me up serious. Put your light here.” Jerrod inspected the side of his partner’s head. “How’s it look?”

“Nasty bruise. How’s it feel?”

“Like a monster migraine.”

“You’ve probably got a concussion.”

“Where’s my Glock?” Jerrod lifted the nylon strap over his head and Isaiah grabbed his machine pistol by its long magazine, staggered toward them, wincing with each step.

“Abby,” Lawrence said, “do exactly what I say, right when I say, no matter how crazy it sounds.”

Lawrence took hold of his daughter’s hand, the backs of their boots only inches from the edge and Isaiah less than five feet away.

“Jump.”