Unleashed (Blake Brier Thrillers Book 2)

by L. T. Ryan

  Unleashed

  Blake Brier Book Two

  L.T. Ryan

  with

  Gregory Scott

  Liquid Mind Media, LLC

  Copyright © 2020 by L.T. Ryan, Gregory Scott, and Liquid Mind Media, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  For information contact:

  Contact@ltryan.com

  https://LTRyan.com

  https://www.facebook.com/JackNobleBooks

  Contents

  The Blake Brier Series

  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

  Uncharted

  Uncharted Chapter 1

  Uncharted Chapter 2

  Uncharted Chapter 3

  Also by L.T. Ryan

  About the Author

  The Blake Brier Series

  Blake Brier Series

  Unmasked

  Unleashed

  Uncharted

  1

  Blake Brier slammed the axe down with one hand. The crack reverberated in his ears as it sunk deep into its target. He tugged downward on the handle. The axe did not budge. He inhaled deeply, as if trying to extract every molecule of oxygen from the bitter air. Within a fraction of a second, his body forced the air back out of his lungs. The warm exhaust crystalized before it left his mouth and lingered in front of his face, even as he gasped another stinging breath.

  He cocked his right foot, then kicked it forward. It landed with a crunch. Another deep breath. The routine of exchanging one inadequate breath for another had increased in frequency since he started the five-hour trek toward the summit of Lobuche East.

  Blake pulled his left foot free, bent his knee, and slammed the metal spikes of the crampon into the jagged ice two feet above his right. He transferred weight to his left leg and pressed down, testing its stability. His foot shot downward as the brittle ice cracked and fell away. With his right foot firmly planted, and with aid from the ice axe he clutched in his right hand, he kept his composure, never putting tension on the fixed rope to which tethered him.

  Faulty footing had become expected in these last few hundred feet of the climb. Because of the cycles of melting and refreezing, small cavities, called “ice cups,” riddled the side of the mountain. The frail ridges along the craggy surface proved less than reliable on more than one occasion, particularly in the last half-dozen steps. He set his left crampon again and pushed and pulled his six-foot-three frame a few feet closer toward his goal.

  At over 19,800 feet above sea level, the effective oxygen in the air had dropped from 20.9 percent to a mere 9.9 percent. Every foot of progress up the forty-five-degree slope of the ice wall was labored. Beautifully painful.

  As Blake dislodged his axe to reach up and bury it again, the icy surface appeared ablaze in a blinding orange glow. The sun emerged over the tall peaks in the distance and cast a blanket of light over the entire face of the mountain. Blake turned his head toward the sun, soaking in its warmth. Water droplets formed on the thin layer of ice encrusting Blake’s unkempt beard, revealing hints of its natural red color through the silver frost.

  For a second, a mere fraction of what would ultimately be a two-week journey, Blake lost himself in the moment. The dull aching in his legs melted just as the ice would. He gazed at the gleaming disk cradled deep in the gap between Everest and Nuptse. The sun’s rays burned through the wispy clouds and rippled off the highest peak on the planet.

  Whether there was something to be said about the Buddhists’ and Hindus’ beliefs in the sanctity of this place, or only a product of mild hypoxia, Blake might have found what he had come for. Had he needed to come within the shadow of the top of the world to find a moment of peace? To quiet his mind and forget, if only for an instant, the torment of regret? Of grief? He could have lingered. He was sure he could live out his days in that spot.

  “We’re so close, it’s right there," hollered Greyson Whitby, “Woo, I’m king of the world!”

  Greyson’s shouts snapped Blake’s mind back to reality, as if a bucket of ice water had awakened him from sleeping.

  Fool.

  “Sure, you are, Greyson. Just keep moving.” Blake looked up at the hindquarters of the pudgy man tethered to the fixed line above him.

  He felt guilty about his dismissive tone, but his patience had been wearing thin with Greyson Whitby since they met at Everest Base Camp two nights prior. And he wasn’t the only one. Whitby, a British airline executive based out of Hong Kong, had no business hiking Hyde Park, let alone the snowy peaks of the Himalayas. Blake wasn’t climbing Everest, or even Ama Dablam. Unlike Whitby, Blake knew his limitations and that attempting such a feat without enough knowledge or experience could put the other climbers in extreme danger.

  But Whitby had paid his way, just like everyone else, and because trekking to Lobuche East required no technical climbing skills, there was nothing to say he couldn’t join.

  In Blake’s estimation, the endeavor required physical fortitude and a set of brass balls — neither of which Whitby seemed to possess. Blake had to admit though, Whitby was motivated. Because there he stood, first in line and only feet from cresting the 20,075-foot peak. Then again, the credit for that impossible result rested squarely on the shoulders of their guide, Tashi Dawa, Sherpa.

  Blake twisted and looked down at Tashi effortlessly moving up the steep slope ten or fifteen feet behind him. Beyond Tashi, there were several small groups about a hundred feet apart. Blake could see the last group, miniature figurines of the people he had shared a meal with the night before. He reminded himself of their names so he could congratulate them when they arrived at the top. Nora, Dario, and their guide, Gem, or… Jam.

  “You okay, Mister Blake?” Tashi called up.

  Blake replied, “Just Blake,” for the umpteenth time, but realizing the futility, he smiled and said, “great Tashi. Feelin’ good.”

  Tashi’s confidence and comfort level amazed Blake. Taken out of context, Tashi looked as though he was out for a stroll on a Sunday afternoon. His breathing was slow and calm, as was his demeanor. On at least three occasions in the past hour he had unclipped his ascender and climbed past Blake to assist Whitby, who kept complaining that his crampons weren’t working.

  Blake realized how much he appreciated having Tashi with him. Continually impressed with the Sherpa people he encountered in Namche Bazaar, Tengboche and Dingboche, Tashi was another shining example of generosity, mental strength, and religious devotion.

  Lucky.

  Blake had always respected the forces of luck. For most
of his life, he had been a slave to superstition. Not that he couldn’t laugh at himself over the absurdity of the proposition that any of it made a difference, but he had to concede that some things just happened for a reason. It would take more digits than he possessed to count the times luck had intervened on his behalf.

  Whether it was sitting on a certain side of the Humvee when the IED detonated or deploying to one outpost rather than the other. Or getting turned around one klick before reaching a mountain pass at which the Taliban had amassed a hundred men to ambush the convoy.

  Blake saw Tashi’s presence through the same cosmic lens because the man was a last-minute addition to the group. The American mountaineer who had guided Blake to Everest Base Camp fell ill after learning he would act as porter to Lobuche for both Blake and Whitby. It became clear what the man was sick of after having spent a few minutes with Whitby.

  Tashi had been part of a nine Sherpa team who fixed the ropes and dug the route to Everest a month earlier, so one of the first to summit this season. A feat that contributed to his cohorts treating him with near exaltation. With June around the corner, marking the end of the favorable weather window that defines the climbing season, most of the major expeditions were underway or already completed.

  Having bid his final group farewell a day earlier, Tashi agreed to step in as a replacement. Blake got the sense, from speaking with some more experienced climbers at camp, that it was rare to have someone of Tashi’s caliber on a basic trek. Given that fact, Tashi was as gracious and patient a man as Blake had ever met.

  “My ascender thing is stuck,” Whitby yelled down over Blake. The sound of Whitby’s voice drew Blake’s attention upward. Blake found that he had closed the gap between them to five feet.

  Whitby fiddled with his ascender. The piece of equipment, attached to each climber’s harness by nylon webbing, contained an internal mechanism that allowed it to slide only upward when attached to the rope. By moving the ascender upward with each step, the safety measure ensured that the climber could not fall more than a foot or two before being caught by the tether.

  It was a simple and effective piece of equipment, yet the workings of it had stumped Greyson Whitby. Not once, but twice. Since there was still another hundred feet to go, Blake was optimistic about the chance for a third time.

  “Leave it Mister Grey. I help you,” Tashi instructed as he approached.

  Sure, take your time, Whitby. None of us have anywhere to be.

  Blake pulled his ice axe and pushed his ascender upward until he caught it. Leaning back, he let the rope take some strain off his legs. He was feeling the full effects of the elevation and, although stopping again annoyed him, he welcomed a moment of rest. He occupied his mind by reflecting on how much they had accomplished before sunrise.

  The day had started at the Lobuche High Camp, now some 2000 feet below them. Blake awoke at 1:00 AM and by 2:00 AM, the group had finished their coffee, gathered their equipment, and set off toward the switchback trail that would lead them to their day’s destiny. The moonless night made traversing the rocky terrain more difficult than in even the slightest ambient light, something only the moon and a cloudless sky could provide in the remote Khumbu valley region. But headlamps offered some surety, illuminating each step with an ellipse of amber colored light. Blake realized how much he enjoyed that. He had leaned into the sensation of being alone. Existing only within the confines of a beam of light. Unable to affect anyone else but himself.

  By the time they had reached the slabs and could no longer walk without scrambling up the rocky terrain, the group was already twenty or thirty minutes behind schedule. The frost on the slick, exposed rock had proven a challenge for Whitby, who required literal hand holding by Tashi.

  With Blake, Whitby, and Tashi being ahead, they set the pace for the rest of the group comprised four three-person teams: five men, three women, and four porters. All capable climbers. Tashi had the most experience and assumed the lead and, during the first hour, moved between the groups to check on each.

  The pre-dawn sky brightened as the group reached the crampon zone. Blake was thankful for that, although the glow on the horizon had illuminated how high they had climbed. And how far there was to fall. Never a huge fan of heights, in the initial daylight-exposed minutes a twinge would inevitably materialize in his lower abdomen when he looked back to check on the group’s progress. And then he noticed the sensation had subsided. How quickly humans can acclimate.

  The shrill voice of Greyson Whitby jolted Blake’s mind back to the present moment. The grating sound a perfect antidote to the attention deficit in his brain.

  Blake could feel each ranting word out of Whitby’s mouth through the rope that connected the two. During his “man-trum”—a term Blake had coined for Whitby’s frustrated outbursts—Whitby tugged and bounced and swore, disregarding the measured instructions of the master mountaineer who remained balanced on the slope beside him.

  Then it happened.

  Blake wasn’t sure what registered first, the sensation of the ground dropping out from under him, or the whipping sound of the end of the rope as it flew above him. In a furious effort of primal instinct, Blake smashed his ice axe into the slope. His feet flew out in an arc and he felt the stretch of his shoulder muscle as his body weight bore down, trying to rip his grip from the handle of the axe.

  All at once, Blake felt the pain explode from his left shoulder as the spiked sole of Greyson Whitby’s crampon drove in deep by the weight of the falling man. The spikes twisted and peeled away as Whitby’s body contorted to continue its descent.

  Blake reached up with his left hand, grasping at the man’s clothing. His fingers found their way into a nylon loop on Whitby’s pack a split second before his falling force jerked Blake’s arm to its limit with intent to tear him limb from limb. Blake jammed his crampons into the ice to take the pressure off his right hand which had slipped off the axe’s handle and grasped the lanyard he had wrapped around his wrist.

  Whitby, now upside down, flailed and clawed at the ice with his bare hands, his axe dangling from his wrist in its own attempt to escape down the mountain.

  “Greyson, bury that axe. Do it now. Set the axe and push up on it. I can’t hold you much longer.” Blake winced and closed his eyes as he tried to muster the strength to hold on. A little longer. Just a little longer.

  Blake could feel some pressure dissipate. He opened his eyes to find Tashi pushing up on Whitby’s shoulders.

  “Hold him a little more,” Tashi said without a hint of stress in his voice.

  Blake watched as Tashi yanked Whitby’s axe upward — Whitby’s arm with it — and buried it into the ice.

  “Okay. You let go,” Tashi said. He grabbed either side of Whitby’s waist and bounced with his knees to shore up his feet. Blake let go and Tashi guided Whitby around until he had slid right-side-up and was hanging by the strap of the axe. “Okay. You step now.” Tashi kicked at the ice near Whitby’s feet to demonstrate.

  Whitby—who uncharacteristically had not said a word in the past fifteen seconds—did as he was told. He dug his feet in, grabbed the handle of the axe, and stood motionless.

  Blake pulled his axe from the ice, repositioned it lower and stepped down two feet closer to where Whitby and Tashi had ended up. For the first time since Whitby’s crampon had impaled him, Blake felt the searing pain creep back into his shoulder and radiate down his left arm.

  Tashi yelled down to the next group below and waived his arms in the signal to halt. Blake looked down below and could see each group following suit, passing the message to the group below.

  “Stay with him, Mister Blake,” Tashi said. Blake nodded. Tashi grabbed the rope and drew up the loose end, coiling it as he did. He issued another exaggerated hand signal to the Sherpas below and snapped open Whitby’s ascender, disconnecting it from the rope. “Now you.” He pointed to Blake’s harness.

  Blake removed his own ascender from the rope as Tashi took off up the slope,
moving at three times the speed that the group had been managing.

  Whitby and Blake watched in silence as Tashi disappeared over the crest. Blake felt the urge to admonish the British businessman for almost killing them, but decided that wouldn’t help the situation. Besides, what happened here was not the fault of Greyson Whitby or anyone else in their party. Another team set the fixed ropes weeks before this group had arrived. Dozens of groups making the trek over that time had used these ropes.

  Again, hanging down from the submission, the rope rippled. Tashi was pulling up the slack to reset an anchor by knotting the rope. Blake realized the previous hand signal had instructed the trailing Sherpas to pull up slack in the line to allow Tashi to drag it over the precipice. A task Blake imagined would take massive strength, factoring in the weight of rope and the multiple anchors along the route.

  Blake pulled up on the rope to help. He wondered what might have caused the anchor to fail. He had heard the climbers refer to the top anchor point as being, “bomb proof,” meaning the anchor was set with several redundancies, but Blake thought it was a dumb analogy. In his experience, nothing was bomb proof.

  Tashi reappeared and made his way back to Blake and Whitby.

  “Okay. Ready. We will go now,” Tashi said with a genuine smile.