Fifty feet. Forty. The rusted beams of the bridge’s underbelly whipped by in streaks of red and black. The concrete below was rushing up, a hungry mouth waiting to swallow her whole.

Thirty feet. Her hair snapped like a flag in a storm. She twisted her torso, feeling the familiar coil of muscle and air beneath her shoulder blades. Any second now. Just a little more space to pull the flip.

A shadow fell over her.

Not a cloud.

Red and gold metal slammed into her midriff—not a collision, but a catch. An arm locked around her waist, firm as iron, and the ground that had been rushing up suddenly fell away as they curved upward in a sharp, jarring arc.

The stranger landed on the bank of the river with a heavy thud, boots cracking the muddy earth. He didn’t let go.