THE CLIMB: A Romance Novel Page 2

  But nonetheless, I found their drunken banter entertaining.

  “Respect the mountain,” Alfred had always told me since I was a boy.

  He repeated the words so often on the long hikes we took through the Pirin

  and Rila ranges of the Balkans in Bulgaria. It was way back then, hiking

  through the dense pine forests and over the blue glacial lakes, that I’d found

  my love for climbing.

  Alfred looked up to men like Edmund Hillary—one of the men credited

  with getting to the top of Mount Everest first. Hillary was a man who made

  his living as a beekeeper and who originally only kept climbing as a hobby. A

  few years before he summited Everest, Hillary had joined two different

  reconnaissance expeditions before he decided a few years later to go straight

  to the top of it.

  Hillary, who is still a legend, back then had made us Brits proud.

  And soon, I only wanted to go higher.

  No one could stop me.

  Nothing could quench my thirst to ascend.

  And after conquering summits like Annapurna, the Matterhorn and

  Nanga Parbat, I only wanted more.

  Climbing became like a drug and no matter what I did I-just-couldn’t-

  stop using.

  After that night in the teahouse, news had spread that two climbers who

  had summited Broad Peak disappeared during their descent. Even though

  they’d made it to the top, the ascent wouldn’t count, since most believe a true summit is to make it to the top and back down with your life. Otherwise, it’s as if it never happened...

  The two men were presumed dead.

  An avalanche had swept their camp off the side of the mountain

  during the night. Their bodies still have not been recovered and probably

  never will be.

  Avalanche risk around here is prevalent. While there are small ones, the

  most dangerous ones are “slab” avalanches. Think of it like a big white

  dinner plate sliding off the table. You can’t outrun it. You can’t hide from it.

  There is no escaping a slab of snow hurdling its way toward you at eighty

  miles per hour. You’d be entombed in ice and snow, buried alive and likely

  never to be seen again.

  After another loud breath leaves me, I regard the bitch ahead.

  Tall.

  Ominous.

  Surrounded by thick white cumulonimbus clouds that float around her peak, concealing the danger and work ahead that’ll probably kill a few of us,

  maim a bunch, and leave the rest of us at the end of this journey to bask in

  our glory when we reach the top.

  I don’t underestimate her though.

  Only a fool would do that.

  K2.

  The second highest peak in the world, which stands at 8,611 meters—

  28,251 feet. Also known as “Mount Godwin-Austen,” “Choguri,” which has

  been derived from two Balti words “big” and “mountain,” or the “Savage

  Mountain.”

  Such a simple name for a deadly beast.

  A peak that was first conquered in one giant controversial ascent

  marred by sabotage and maniacal ambition gone haywire, by the Italians,

  Achille Compagnoni and Lino Lacedelli, in 1954.

  The “K” in the name for this monster comes from “Karakoram” and

  the “2” because it was the second-highest peak out of the two most prominent

  ones in the mountainous range discovered at the time when they were

  surveyed by Thomas Montgomerie, who was employed by the GTS of British

  India, and the name just stuck.

  A mountain that holds the second-highest fatality rate among all the

  eight-thousanders, since one climber dies for every four who reach the

  summit.

  She’s deadly, cruel, and sadistic.

  A perfect pyramid.

  But a true beauty. That I can’t deny. With her pristine, jagged edges

  and her curves covered in white. She’s like a wanton whore. So tempting and

  teasing, enticing you to touch her, to taste what you know you’ll grow

  addicted to if you ever mount her. And that’s only if she gives you the

  fucking chance...

  She’s already shot me down five times.

  She will not be refusing me for a sixth!

  Shaking my head, a shiver runs up my spine and lands in my balls.

  More blue assails my eyes when two Balti porters carry a crate of blueberries past me, seeming completely unaware of what lies ahead of me,

  side by side, unmoving, and completely still. The blue tarpaulin on the

  ground that is bundled up tightly holds the dead bodies of two porters who

  were killed only twelve hours ago by a falling slab of ice while they were

  fixing ropes.

  This means our team is already down a man and a woman.

  We need the Balti porters who are always a mix of low-altitude and

  high-altitude companions. And we need their prayers.

  They carry loads. They cook. And they often guide us too.

  Most of them hail from the highly mountainous area of Gilgit-

  Balistan, and they have trekked to the Karakoram Range for work. They are

  skilled mountaineers who work harder than probably anyone else on these

  expeditions.

  One of the guides for this expedition was injured by the falling ice in

  the accident, but luckily, he’s still alive.

  I’ll have to admit I’m not a huge fan of the guy.

  He’s some Swede who never looks you in the eye and spends more

  time adjusting his clothes like he’s waiting for the paparazzi to take a picture of him than he does checking on the rest of the climbers in his group.

  I didn’t pick him.

  After securing the respective permit from the Pakistani government

  for the group of us and laying down more than one hundred thousand dollars

  for guides, porters, food, gear, oxygen, and flights, the Russian, Igor, and the Swede, Hugo, happened to be all who was left, since all the bodies who

  worked for Excelsior—the guide company—had been assigned to lead other

  expeditions.

  We booked this trip at the last minute, which may already be obvious.

  Only Sebastian could be blamed for that.

  He woke up one Saturday morning after partying Friday night on the

  London circuit and called me. He spoke into the phone in his sleepy,

  hungover, and absolutely grumpy voice and asked if I was ready to do this

  just one more time.

  I told him “Hell yeah,” and now we’re here, ready to go down in

  history.

  Placing my thermos between the rocks near my boots, I snatch up my

  binoculars. I fix them on the sight of the new group of climbers, along with

  the donkeys carrying supplies, which trek alongside them as they make their

  way here to base camp.

  I lower the binoculars and growl when men in the distance arguing

  perks up my ears. Hugo flies out of the mess tent, stumbles over a few rocks,

  and lands on his ass. Dizzily, he scrambles to his feet.

  “Fuck.” I toss the binoculars back in the tent and head over to the

  raucousness.

  Hampered by all the bad weather that has been moving through this

  area, as a result, we’ve been here at base camp for far too long. Tempers are

  heating up from people living in close proximity with each other. And the

  lack of progress of making it up this bitch in the allotted time frame each

  climber here has given themselves is frustrating all who must remain here.

  But this is the one thing I despise...

  Enemy number nine up here: assholes.

  On a mountain, no people at all are better than bad people.

  We cannot afford discord within the group.

  Do you really want to put your life in the hands of some asshole? A

  person who’d rather watch you fall off the face of a mountain instead of

  saving your life?

  Can’t we all just fucking get along!

  The banging of pots and pans makes me flinch.

  Marching over to the mess, I run a hand over my left cheek, hoping to

  wipe away the burning cold as a cool wind licks across my skin. The two

  combatants have already been pulled apart. Hugo heaves for breath. With a

  hoarse yell, Sebastian does the same and walks off somewhere. I know that

  look from him. I’ve seen it a million times before.

  Sebastian is like a little kid. If something doesn’t go his way, he’s

  more than likely to throw and break things, rather than to use his words to express how he’s really feeling deep inside.

  Everyone stands just outside the mess tent, forming two lines like soldiers.

  My boots crunch in the scree underfoot as I get closer and pass all six

  main members of my summit party.

  Gilda—German. World traveler and career climber. Rough around the

  edges. Always mistaken for being a lesbian. Summited Everest twice, without oxygen, and a handful of other peaks in the same fashion. Swears a lot.

  Shaved her head because she said it just makes everything easier. Would

  probably eat you alive if you ever froze to death and she was hungry. And

  she’s always hungry.

  Racine—American. Pre-school teacher. Mother of three pain in the

  ass little girls. Recently divorced from some cunt who calls himself the King

  of Prussia. Not sure why she’s here really since she’s only ascended a

  handful of smaller peaks. Think Sebastian has plans to make her his fourth

  wife.

  Winston—an almost eighty-year-old Brit. Retired, of course. Lifelong

  mountaineer. Used to solo climb a lot when he was much younger. Had one

  fall, never been the same in the brain since, but still climbs. Father’s best

  friend. Hates wearing clothes, even when it’s cold. Talks too much about the

  “good ol’ days.” Calls me “old boy” all the time.

  Musa—adrenaline junkie. Full-time Instagram star, whatever the fuck

  that is. Saudi Arabian rich kid. Once jumped out of a helicopter over Palm

  Island in Dubai with no parachute because he said his six million Instagram

  followers told him to do it. Climbed all Seven Summits, never K2.

  Tyrone—American. Writes the sports column for ESPN The

  Magazine. Talks too much. Brags that he’s the second black man to ever

  summit Everest. Father of a little girl who adores him. I practically had to beg him to join us on this expedition because he didn’t want to miss Bubba

  Waltrip race at Chicagoland Speedway. Usually has his priorities screwed up,

  as you can see.

  And...

  Sebastian—best friend. Financier. Hothead. Brit. Lots to prove. Cares

  a lot about his red Ferrari GT back home and his five-year-old miniature

  Doberman Pinscher named Fannie. Lost a finger on his right hand in a rock

  climbing accident on El Capitan two years ago. He said the missing finger

  makes him “authentic,” but he’s still the same smug bastard if you ask me.

  I focus back on the disastrous sight in front of me...

  Hugo fixes his now perfectly coiffed tresses. He’s always touching his

  hair. With a grimace, his next words are tossed at Sebastian like barbs. “Get

  the fuck off me, you brute.”

  I practically fall out laughing at the awkward interaction.

  Sebastian rushes toward Hugo again only to find he’s held back by

  many, many hands.

  “I’m leaving.” Hugo folds his arms across his chest.

  “The hell you bloody are!” Sebastian yells. “We paid your company

  more than what your house likely costs for you to be here.”

  Hugo points to his shoulder where he’d incurred the injury he’s now

  suffering from, then glares at Sebastian. “Yeah, and I’ve hurt myself. I cannot

  climb like this. What do you not understand, you fucking imbecile?”

  My jaw is set tight and my eyes swing between a red-faced Sebastian

  and Hugo, who in my opinion has a fair point.

  “It’s a SCRATCH!” Sebastian lunges forward once more.

  I press my palm to the center of Sebastian’s chest, hoping to earn his

  attention.

  “I’m leaving.” With the toss of his hair, Hugo grabs the satphone and

  mutters words into the receiver no one here seems to be able to understand.

  “I’ve already phoned down the mountain for a ride away from this place.” He

  points over to the two dead bodies on the ground. “And surely you want to

  get them out of here too.”

  Sebastian promises to calm down before he’s released, so after a few

  beats pass, the other climbers who had prevented him from murdering Hugo,

  let him go and back away hesitantly.

  “Be cool,” I say to Sebastian, earning a terse nod from him.

  “So, do we get a refund for the work you haven’t done?” Sebastian

  questions.

  Hugo points a finger at him. “Don’t you forget, I did get you this far.”

  Sebastian’s eyes almost fall out of his head. “This is not the top of the

  mountain!”

  Hugo walks off in the direction of the dead bodies on the ground. We

  follow. Sebastian is still raving about the money we’ve paid Excelsior.

  “I was responsible for this man and this woman.” Hugo’s eyes well up

  with tears. “Do you know how I feel that they’ve died on my watch?” He

  digs a finger into his chest. “Now, I have to go and explain to their families

  how they perished doing something I instructed them to do.” A tear slips from his right eye.

  “I DON’T CARE ABOUT THAT!” Sebastian roars. “This-is-what-we-

  do! This is what happens sometimes! We take risks and sometimes people

  die!” He inches closer to Hugo.

  Stepping forward to break up another potential fight, I snatch Sebastian by the collar of his thick sweater. “Shut the fuck up.”

  Sebastian’s eyes are wild as he regards me. “The money, Kai.”

  I jerk my head in the direction of Hugo, who’s muttering the Lord’s

  Prayer.

  I wait for him to finish.

  He wipes his tears when he’s done and meets my eyes. “The policy

  with Excelsior is that there are no refunds.”

  I let Sebastian go.

  Hugo holds a shaky, terrified-as-fuck hand up. “But, they are sending

  up another guide.”

  Good, because this clearly isn’t working out.

  Sebastian pauses his stride at Hugo’s declaration.

  “I am leaving,” Hugo says. “I’ll take the bodies down with me when I

  go, and Excelsior won’t charge you for the helicopter ride.”

  “This sonofabitch.” Sebastian regards me with pure horror in his eyes.

  “Is this how we do things?” He lifts a hand. “We were just getting used to

  this idiot. Now, they are going to send someone new?” His brows knot.

  Igor suddenly appears behind us, wiping the sleep from his red eyes.

  He doesn’t say a word to interject, only stands there like a buffoon watching

  the confusion.

  “Who is this person Excelsior is sending?” Sebastian’s eyes narrow.

  “A woman,” Hugo states.

  The distant sound of a helicopter’s rotors have us all searching the sky.

  “A woman?” Sebastian frowns.

  Did I forget to mention that my best friend is a sexist pig?

  “Yes, a woman.” Hugo stands straighter, clutching his injured shoulder.

  Sebastian tosses his hand up. “They’ve traded us one woman for

  another.”

  Igor snickers.

  So do the rest of us.

  In the last hour, the air has grown cooler and the sky has darkened.

  Looking around, I decide we’ve most definitely been here for far too

  long.

  This mountain isn’t friendly to people who overstay their welcome on

  her flanks. She just might have plans to send an avalanche our way and snuff

  us all out for the houseguests who won’t leave that we are.

  I shove my hands in my pockets.

  The four of us ignore the chatter a few feet away coming from the new

  group that’s joined us at base camp. The climbers who are already here

  welcome them with open arms, hugging, laughing, and smiling.

  Sebastian regards the encounter with a pissed-off expression.

  Winston steps out of his tent wearing a pair of boxer briefs and boots.

  The very low sound of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” echoes from his

  tent. Winston strolls past us, gifting us with the sight of his half-naked frame as he heads my way. When he makes it over to me, he taps me on the

  shoulder a few times, hard. “Old boy, how are ya?” He sets off again, making his way over the scree and larger rocks, tossing me a wave before he stops to

  take a piss.

  “I’m fine, Winston.” I keep my head low and bounce a little from the

  chill.

  Sebastian’s rage disappears completely when he beholds Winston and

  his missing attire. “What the fuck?” He chuckles, splaying a palm open,

  gesturing in Winston’s direction.

  I lift a shoulder.

  Igor is still rubbing his eyes.

  “It’s freezing.” Sebastian’s gaze remains on Winston.

  “I don’t think there will be any problems.” Igor lifts a finger. “But there

  might be one.” He points in the direction we’ll hopefully be moving in

  tomorrow, after we cry goodbye to the good food here like fresh goat and

  strawberries and scream hello to dry oats and beef jerky. Igor swallows back