Time on the Wire Read online

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, names, places and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual locale, person or event is entirely coincidental.

  Time on the Wire

  Copyright © 2008 by Jay Giles

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. Printed in the United States of America.

  Reagent Press LLC

  ISBN 1-57545-181-6

  REAGENT PRESS

  Other Reagent Press Books

  Blindsided by Jay Giles

  Time on the Wire by Jay Giles

  Wrongly Accused by Tom Schwartz

  Fourth Reich Rising by Tom Schwartz

  The Pieces of the Puzzle by Robert Stanek

  Content

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  APRIL. MT. XTAPPU, PERU

  Water fell from the dark gray sky, exploding with the force of small bombs, stalling three climbers twelve hundred feet below the ancient ruins of Xtappu. Even the tents they’d erected afforded little protection. A constant mist found its way through the canvas, reducing supplies and equipment to a sodden mess.

  Inside the larger of the two tents, Miles Marin knelt in several inches of muddy water, tried to get their radio to work to tune in a weather report. “It’s shot,” he said, giving up.

  Behind him, Cal Esposita brushed wet hair out of his eyes.

  “Waterlogged, probably. Five days of this shit will ruin anything.”

  The tent flap opened, allowing a new river of mud and water to flow into the bottom of the tent. Steve Porter stepped in quickly, zipped the flap behind him. Covered in mud, he made his way to the cot, sat, panting from exertion. “It’s like trying to walk up a waterfall,” he said about the trail ahead of them to the ruins. Water ran from his hair, nose, chin. “I quit when I sank up to my knees.”

  The three men looked at each other. They’d tried waiting out the rain. That hadn’t worked. The trail up was impassable. Only one alternative was left. “What about the trail down?” Cal asked.

  Steve shook his head, sending water droplets flying in all directions. “Not a hell of a lot better.”

  “What do you think?” Miles asked. “Wait some more? See if it gets better?”

  He never got an answer.

  Over the drone of the rain came an angry rumble—a ferocious churning, slithering sound—growing ominously louder.

  Steve’s eyes were suddenly big. “It’s a m—”Everything exploded into a blur of motion, mayhem, and mud.

  Trapped within the confines of the tent, the men were swept down the mountain at dizzying speed.

  Tossed around like a rag doll, Miles curled into a ball, tried to protect his head with his arms. Tumbling, he landed on this back, had the breath knocked out of him. He fought for air, got a mouthful of water. Choking, he took a jarring blow to the side of his head. His whole body went numb. Unable to protect himself, he slammed to the ground, the sudden impact wrenching consciousness away from him.

  • • •

  He was alive. Gratefully, he gasped in air, took stock of his situation. His head throbbed. His entire body ached. But he didn’t feel that acute pain of broken bones. Miles knew it wasn’t his survival skills that had kept him in one piece, it was fate. Forces far beyond his control.

  He blinked. Yes, his eyes were open. He was in total darkness, the only sound his own breathing. He reached out with his hands.

  His left hit canvas first. No more than a foot from his body. On his right, he felt wood. He ran his fingers along it. Square. Long.

  Possibly, the side pole of a cot. He felt above him. Canvas. Foot-and- a-half over his head. He pushed with his hand. No give. The realization made him shudder. He was buried.

  Fighting panic, he got up on his hands and knees, used his back to push against the ceiling. Nothing. He stopped when he heard a faint groan.

  “Cal. Stev
e.” Miles crawled slowly forward. In less than two feet, he bumped into somebody. Felt for a face to find out who, came away with something wet and sticky on his hands. Blood.

  Frightened, he backed up quickly, bumped into a pole. This one, when he felt it with this fingers, was metal. One of the tent poles, lodged vertically. Probably saved them from being crushed. Slowly, he straightened up, surprised to find he could stand in a stooped position. He got back down on his knees, tried to find his other friend.

  Miles located him curled in a ball on the other side of the cot pole. Now that he’d found them both, he rested for a moment.

  Breathing had become difficult. The air quality wasn’t good, and it wasn’t going to get any better. He reached out for the cotpole, found it, pulled off the canvas that remained. Wedging it against the wall with his feet, he pulled on the end with his hands. It snapped, giving him what he wanted—a sharp point.

  With his newly created tool, he crawled back to the tent pole.

  Stood, as best he could, felt with his finger tips for rips in the canvas.

  He found several small tears, before locating a cut at least four inches long. He pushed the cot pole, sharp-end first, through the slit in the canvas and into the mud, driving it as far as he could. The mud was still wet, soft. When he pulled the pole out, he thought he saw a glimmer of light before the hole oozed closed. If it had been light, based on the length of the pole, they were buried under three-to-four feet of mud.

  Miles used his hands to rip the canvas, tearing it from top to bottom. He was going to try and create a controlled cave-in. The more he ripped, the more the bulge of mud wanted in. When the slit in the canvas reached bottom, he grabbed hold of one side and pulled hard. That was all it took. Mud hiccupped in the way air bubbles release from a half-empty bottle of soda. Miles listened, woozy from exertion and lack of oxygen. Silence told him the mud had stopped flowing. Darkness told him his plan hadn’t worked.

  It was all he could do to push the pole in the mud again. This time, however, it went through easily. The remaining mud couldn’t be more than a foot deep. Summoning his strength, Miles dug, pushed, clawed until he had a hole of daylight. He put his face to the hole, sucked in fresh air. Twenty minutes later, he had a hole big enough to crawl through. Miles eased himself out, took a quick look around, went back for Steve and Cal. He pulled Steve out first. At 140-lbs., he wasn’t too difficult. Cal, at over 200, was a load. Twice, the weight was too much. Cal slipped back down the hole. Miles almost lost him on the third try but somehow managed to keep his grip, working him up and out, inch by inch, a tug at a time.

  With Cal out of the hole, Miles lugged him five more feet to an area protected by a rock over cropping where he’d taken Steve. Cal was bleeding from a gash that ran down his hairline from the top of his forehead to his ear. Miles studied the wound but didn’t touch it.

  Anything he might use for a bandage was muddy. Better to let it air.

  He dropped down next to the two unconscious men, leaned back against the rock wall, closed his eyes. He was exhausted, yet he knew he couldn’t rest long, their situation still precarious. They were at the base of a large cleft in the rock. Debris—broken tree trunks, rocks, brush, their tent—clogged the base of the cleft. Had the tent not lodged there, they would have been swept the rest of the way down the mountain.

  Miles blinked his eyes open, stood, studied his surroundings. If he tried to go down, there was a good chance he’d start another mudslide. He sighed, studied the rock walls on either side of the cleft. The only way out was up. Neither face was vertical. One side appeared to be about eighty-five degrees, the other eighty. Both looked about a hundred and fifty to two hundred feet in height. A long way to climb without ropes and pins.

  Miles wasn’t daunted by the magnitude of the climb. He’d done a good bit of free climbing. Never, however, in these conditions with everything slick from rain and mud. His boots were worn Timberland’s. Comfortable for hiking, not as responsive as he would have liked for climbing.

  “Miles,” Steve’s strained voice said from behind him. “I think my ankle’s broken.”

  Miles knelt next to him, saw Steve’s hiking boot was bent at a funny angle. “Look,” he said softly. “You guys are in no shape to travel. I’m going to go get help. When Cal wakes up, you let him know. Okay?”

  He got a nod before Steve’s eyes closed.

  With a renewed sense of urgency, Miles made his decision. The cliff face to his right seemed slightly more vertical, but not as wet.

  He began working his way up.

  Hand and toeholds were reasonably plentiful, but slippery as all get out. He hadn’t climbed five feet when his right foot slipped off a hold, causing him to slide all the way back down. He started over, gripping harder, conscious he had to force every hold. He gripped as tightly as he could with his fingers, rubbing off skin, breaking back nails. At sixty-feet, with two good footholds, he rested for a minute.

  His hands were raw, painful, his knees and chest bloody from scraping them against the rock. He took a deep cleansing breath, blew out, dug his fingers into the next handhold. Slowly, painfully, a hold at a time, he continued to work his way up. At about a hundred and thirty five feet, he was rewarded with a small ledge. At a hundred and sixty feet, he lost a handhold, slid eight feet before his raw fingers clawed into a rock. He held himself there, pressed tightly against the wall, waiting for his heart to slow, his composure to return.

  The last twenty feet proved to be the hardest. Handholds disappeared. Miles dug his fingers into little cracks in the rock, hauled himself up by force of will. Each hold was an agony and a triumph. When his hand reached the top, felt flat rock, he almost couldn’t believe it. He put his other hand over, swung a leg around, hauled himself over. He rolled away from the ledge, stood, looked over the edge at what he’d ascended. He felt drained, hurt, yet oddly exhilarated. A favorite quote from Carl Wallenda, of the flying Wallendas, ran through his mind: Time on the wire is living, everything else is waiting.

  God, had he been living.

  CHAPTER 1

  AUGUST. SARASOTA,

  FLORIDA

  Waiting was how Miles thought of his work at Mercedes Benz of Sarasota. Sales was what he had to do to earn money to pay for his next adventure. Mercedes happened to be the place he did it. He wasn’t there because he’d bought into the Mercedes mystique or had the typical male fascination with cars. He worked there because of all the jobs he’d had over the years this one paid the best and Larry Jarsman, who owned the dealership, allowed Miles to take as much time off as he wanted.

  Of course, it helped that Miles was good at what he did—people liked him, trusted him, asked for him. Most importantly, they bought from him. Jarsman accepted Miles’ eccentricities and accommodated his absences as the cost of keeping him.

  That morning, Miles was waiting for his first customer of the day. Standing at the showroom’s front window, he watched a beige Ford turn into the lot, slowly glide into one of the visitor’s spaces. A plain-jane Ford like that could be only one thing—an airport rental. The driver turned off the engine, opened the door, stepped out of the car.

  A tall, slender woman with shoulder-length blond hair, dressed in an expensive black suit--likely Vera Wang or Armani--she carried a black leather briefcase. She glanced briefly at the showroom, closed the car door, walked quickly to the dealership’s main entrance.

  Miles moved quickly, too. He was there to hold the door open for her when she arrived. “Welcome to Mercedes,” he said easily. “May I help you?”

  She strode past him without answering, finally executed a smart pivot, favored him with an amused look. “Which is your office?”

  “I’m over this way,” Miles said, catching up with her and extending his hand. “Miles Marin. Would you like to look at some of the models on the floor?”

  She shook her head, not his hand. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Already, have a model in mind?” Miles asked as they reached
his office. He indicated a leather visitors chair, “Please, have a seat.” He took his seat, studied her as he handed her his card.

  Her suit could have easily cost two thousand dollars. Her diamond stud earrings looked like two carats each. On her wrist was a gold Rolex. Her naturally blond hair had been expertly cut and styled. She reeked of money and she had the looks to go with it, too. Flawless alabaster complexion. Large azure green eyes under carefully arched brows. High cheekbones. Slender, sculpted nose. Pouty lips painted a vivid pink. She was stunning.

  Yet, there was something unsettling about her—a hardness to her face. A calculated coolness in those green eyes. A set to the jaw. An etching of that alabaster skin with lines and creases that told of experience far beyond her calendar age. Rich, beautiful and experienced. Definitely not a woman to be trifled with.

  She reached into her briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper, and set it on the desk directly in front of him. It was a cashier’s check in the amount of $150,000.

  “I want to buy the most expensive car on the lot. There’s just one thing you have to do for me first.”

  Miles forced a smile. “And what might that be?”

  She reached back into her briefcase, pulled out a magazine, opened it to a yellow post-it note marker, placed it on the desk facing him. The cover said ADWEEK. The article was headed: “Mercedes Test Drives Three Agencies.”

  “Read that,” she told him.

  “That’s it? All I have to do is read this?”

  Her look said simpleton.

  Miles picked up the magazine, read: “Daimler AG confirms that Jens Beck, Senior Vice President and Global Head of Marketing, has interviewed three New York agencies for a spot on the Mercedes roster.

  “We’re very pleased with our current agencies, Beck told ADWEEK, but we also wish to stay current on the agency community. It would be premature to say that we will add another agency to the roster, but we are interested in talks to see if there are additional capabilities that would benefit the brand.

  “Sources estimate the billings, if another agency is added, could be as much as $100-million. Not to mention the prestige the Mercedes name would add to an agency roster.

  “TH&W principal and creative director Tom Westerkamp confirmed his shop was one of the three interviewed. Westerkamp and two of his associates played golf with Beck at the exclusive Druwood Country Club championship course. ‘Mercedes is a great brand. They’d be a wonderful client. We’ve had good meetings with Jens and look forward to continuing—’”