Carefully, he pulled himself up and back over the railing to finally collapse on the concrete deck of the bridge.

He lay there for several minutes, breathing deeply and feeling the warmth of the sun’s rays soaking into his chilled body. He simply wanted to relax and rest after the constant strain of keeping motionless and stable on the cold steel beam for what had seemed a lifetime.

But rest was not an option.

At the beginning of the long night, he had made a promise to God. During the prolonged police search, each time the swath of a powerful flashlight came close, or the echo of footsteps on the bridge stopped immediately above his hiding place, he had reiterated that promise in full.

If he made it through- if he remained free and survived his wounds -he had promised he would not fail again.

Rowan Gant would die.

Ten Months Later

December 1

Saint Louis, Missouri

Heather Burke only half awoke, a substantial part of her remaining submerged in a state of semi-conscious anguish. As consciousness relentlessly crept in, among the heightened sensations to immediately register were a dry throat and a headache like no other she could remember in her thirty-three years. Rapidly following, and skirting the edges of the pain in complete disharmony, blind terror paralyzed her body. Her muscles were tensed, aching, and she felt clammy with cold sweat. Her heart was racing, and out of reflex she sucked in a sharp breath with a startled gasp.

Holding tight to that frantic gulp of air, she listened, waiting for the source of her terror to make itself known. But no matter how intently she focused, she heard nothing other than the beating of her own heart. Even so, she refused to expel the breath until she could simply hold it no longer. When that moment finally came, the only new sound to be added to the silence was that of her timid whimper.