It'll Be An Adventure (Masters of the Shadowlands #15)(67)
Author: Cherise Sinclair

 

Under his feet, rubble shifted, and he eased across to steadier footing. On the surface, metal and glass glinted in the sunlight. He glanced to the west. The sun was going down—it wouldn’t be light much longer.

 

Ahead of him, Sherlock had his nose down, and then the dog froze. A second later, he alerted and barked, turning toward Saxon. His tail was making impatient circles. I found a person. C’mon already. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

 

Unlike with wilderness searches, with an urban disaster, the search dog didn’t return, but remained at the location.

 

Even as Saxon signaled for the dog to stay put, his anticipation rose.

 

Murphy was calling in a report, and a rescue crew moved out toward them.

 

But then Sherlock forgot all his fucking training and jumped down, disappearing between massive pieces of concrete. A high yelp of pain echoed in the hole.

 

Murphy gasped. “No!”

 

“Dammit, dog.” Frantically jumping from slab to slab, Saxon arrived with Murphy. Crouching, he shined his flashlight into the darkness. His gut clenched with fear.

 

Dammit, be all right, pup.

 

The light illumined a furry body. “Yes. He’s on his feet.”

 

Tail still wagging, Sherlock crossed the small dark space farther from the opening.

 

“He’s hurt, Saxon. He’s limping.” Murphy’s voice shook.

 

“Got someone, eh?” Bert, one of the rescue crew knelt beside Murphy. “Hell, people, that’s one small hole. Widening it’ll take work. Do we know if there’s anyone alive in there?”

 

“Sherlock signaled yes,” Saxon said. “

 

“That’s his I-found-someone bark,” Murphy said as barking came from the darkness. “Can you hear someone crying.”

 

There was so much noise it was difficult to hear. Tilting his head, Saxon listened.

 

High-pitched sobbing came from the hole.

 

“Fuck me, that sounds like a youngster.” Bert sucked in a breath as steel groaned, and the rubble beneath them shook. “All this shit is fixin’ to collapse some more.”

 

Saxon eyed the hole. “I won’t fit, dammit. You either, Bert.”

 

“I will.” Murphy yanked off her pack, jacket, everything right down to her T-shirt. “Give me a rope and harness and first aid kit.”

 

“This isn’t protocol,” Bert protested even as he handed her a body harness attached to a rope.

 

“Neither is leaving a child to be…” Murphy shook her head.

 

The shaking of the heap hadn’t stopped. Fuck, I don’t want her down there. Saxon hauled in a breath then squeezed her shoulders. “We’ll get you back out.”

 

Grabbing the harness, she eased herself into the hole.

 

Bracing their feet, Saxon and Bert played out the rope, lowering her down.

 

Damn, it was a tight fit. She was getting scraped up bad. Looked like the drop was a good ten or so feet down—and it was a wonder Sherlock hadn’t busted something.

 

When Murphy made a pained sound, Saxon gritted his teeth and kept the rope moving.

 

 

 

Darkness surrounded her. Thank god for the helmet light, Murphy thought, and for the helmet itself. Debris she’d dislodged continually thudded against the hardhat.

 

Without her jacket, the jagged concrete scraped her arms and back. She could feel streams of warm blood trickling from the raw places.

 

Finally, her feet touched the ground.

 

“I’m down.” Letting go of the rope, she took a step—and the unstable wreckage rolled out from under her. She staggered.

 

Her ankle turned, twisted horribly, and she barely bit back a yell of pain.

 

Panting, she balanced again. Oh god, that hurts. Sucking air through her teeth, she aimed her helmet light at the ground.

 

“Murphy. Talk to me.” Saxon’s voice came from above her—calm, controlled, like a lifeline of hope.

 

“I’m okay. Let me look around.” She could do this. Taking a step, she had to grit her teeth against the stabbing pain in her ankle.

 

Ow, ow, ow. Carefully, she limped off the pile of shards then turned in a circle. One section was dark red and wet. Blood. Farther away, a hand protruded from under a pile, the person obviously dead. Everything inside her cringed.

 

More blood over there—and red stuff. Was everyone down here dead? She was panting, her mouth ash dry.

 

Sherlock yipped, re-announcing he’d found someone alive.

 

Thank you, puppy. Oh thank you.

 

“Stay there, Sherlock. I’m coming.” She moved her head, directing her light toward him then past to where a rafter beam was wedged under concrete, leaving a small gap.

 

Sherlock stood just outside it, tail waving.

 

Pain shot through her ankle with each step as she picked her way over as fast as she could. Going down on one knee, she looked under the rafter.

 

Big eyes full of tears stared back at her. The little boy was maybe four or five, making tiny sobbing sounds. His face was streaked with blood and dirt.

 

There was no time to do an assessment. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you out of there.” She gently tried to pull him out—but he didn’t move. He was trapped. In a hole.

 

Panic shook her. No, no, no. The rubble was shaking already. There was no time to get a saw, to get more help. They were going to be crushed here.

 

She reached back farther, behind him. His legs were clear. His—wait—his shirt was snared on something. She dug in her cargo pants for her multitool and used it to cut away the back of his shirt.

 

Trying again, she lifted him up and out. Oh, thank god.

 

As she stood, he clung to her neck, crying hard. As far as she could determine, he had no broken bones.

 

Limping back across the debris took forever—and Sherlock wasn’t moving much better. Every few steps, he whimpered.

 

At the bottom of the hole, she yelled up, “It’s a little boy. Give me a minute to hook him into the harness.”

 

“We’re ready,” Saxon called—and just the sound of his voice steadied her.

 

“Look, baby, I’m going to put this on you.” The boy’s big blue eyes were filled with tears, but he watched her with heartbreaking trust. Quickly, carefully, she strapped the harness on him. “My friends are going to lift you up. It’ll be just like flying.”