Forbidden River (The Legionnaires #2.5)(12)

She ducked farther into the bush, skirting to the upriver side of the clearing. How well could a pig dog adapt to tracking humans? If it was anything like a search and rescue dog, it’d go off both the scent of her in the air and the dead skin and debris that fell from her body. If he got the dog started at the hut, it should first lead him in a circle, via the bank where she and Cody had sheltered. Best she could do was stay ahead of them and hope.

When she was a safe distance from the clearing, she yelped like she’d been hurt. The sound echoed through the valley, followed by a man’s shout—Shane. The dogs barked and whined. She blew out a breath, imagining them straining at their leashes.

“Shut up,” he shouted. The dogs silenced.

She trod quietly but deliberately left a trail—stepping in mud, snapping branches, striding through tussock. Once she’d laid a path far enough upriver, she would find a stream to wade along to interrupt the scent trail before heading back down through the bush. The birds had started up again. The river seemed to be rushing louder, like it’d frozen at the gunshots and was relaxing again.

She made steady progress, keeping the river noise within range on her right for orientation, keeping the breeze on her face to leave a scent trail, keeping her breathing and steps quiet so she could tap into her surroundings. The forest stretched up and darkened—thinner scrub and more towering rata. Less cover.

The going got steeper, the river noise deepening into the rolling roar of a white-water gully. Overtop, a trickle—a stream, ahead. She checked behind, her stomach flipping like a landed trout. Nothing moved among the twisted tree trunks. Shane had better be on her tail and not Cody’s. She hadn’t heard a gunshot since the hut. That must mean he hadn’t found Cody. No scrawny guy with a gun would risk hand-to-hand combat with a man of that build.

The stream was narrow but it’d do. Clear water, a stony bed. Churn-proof, though she’d have to avoid the rocks that were furry with green moss. She slipped off her socks and shoes and stepped into the water, swallowing a gasp as the cold jolted her nerves. As the shock abated she waded upstream, the scalding sting giving way to numbness. She left the waterway at an impassable tumble of rocks, dried her feet as best she could and gratefully pulled on her socks and sneakers, her toes burning all over again when sensation returned.

As she tightened her laces, a shiver rolled up her spine. She turned, sucking in her lips. She heard panting, leaves crunching. Oh God, a dog. She couldn’t turn back just yet—they were too close. She’d find another stream to follow, higher up. She leaped to the far bank and set off, faster. Behind her, footsteps thudded. Or was that her pulse? After a few minutes, light filtered through the trees ahead—a clearing. A trickle—another stream. She stumbled toward it, surged out of the scrub and stopped dead, gasping.

Not a clearing, not a stream. A cliff. She grabbed a thin black tree trunk. Way down below, the river churned and frothed around jagged rocks. How had she ended up back at the river? The trickle she’d heard was a waterfall sprinkling from a fissure in the cliff. A clod of earth gave way under her right foot. She tap-danced to reclaim firm ground. Below, the clod smacked into the white water.

She was farther upriver than she’d thought, at a sharp bend. A sheer drop blocked her exit on two sides, the shooter and his dogs on another. She’d backed herself into a corner.

She looked down, swaying. Tane would tell her to jump for it, taking a positive leap to clear the rocks, torpedoing with her toes pointed, lifting her chin so the water didn’t flood her nose, bracing for the shock of the water. You’ll be sweet. She tried to force herself to leap but her hands clutched the tree. She still had one escape route that didn’t require plummeting to likely death—back the way she’d come.

A bark. A shout. Close—in the trees behind her. Another bark. She had to get out of the light. She talked her hands into releasing the trunk, crept along the cliff, clutching at branches, and gratefully ducked back into the forest. She could hear it, like a ghost dog—panting, scrabbling through dirt and sticks. Hopefully they’d lost the scent at the stream and were operating on guesswork.

She crept inland, following a ridge above a dry, rocky streambed. The roar of the river eased.

Behind her, something rustled. She swiveled. A dog leaped on top of a rotting tree trunk, its focus latching on to her. The brown one with the big jaws. Shit.





CHAPTER FIVE

THE DOG CROUCHED, growling like an idling motorbike. It threw up its head and barked, once, twice, three times, idled again. How the hell had it circled her so quickly? Tia dropped her gaze to the ground in a show of submission, and scanned for a stick. Nothing but twigs and leaves. She was in the middle of a fucking forest and she couldn’t find a stick?

“Jaws! Attack!”

She jumped. The voice was right behind her. The dog launched off the trunk, teeth bared. She reared, and her right foot punched into air, throwing her off balance, dropping her feetfirst off the ridge. She grabbed a tree root but it tore away, spitting dirt into her eyes. She slid down a bank of sheer rock, scrambling for a handhold, her stomach in full panic.

She thumped onto the dry riverbed, arse-first. The dog stood on the ridge several meters above, barking, turning itself nearly inside out in indecision. From out of sight, Shane yelled the attack order again. She pushed to her feet. Uninjured and, for now, out of reach.

A noise, behind her. Something grabbed her calf and tugged. Pressure flamed into bright pain. She twisted. Another terrier, a white one, was clamped on the back of her leg. Its teeth pushed through the denim of her jeans, popped her skin, sunk in. The pain exploded. She punched blindly, yelling, her fists bouncing off solid muscle, her vision spotting. Oh God, Shane had three dogs, not two—and this one was about to rip her leg off. It yanked, and she slipped sideways, her shoulder clonking on dirt. No sound. Why was there no sound? She couldn’t feel the rest of herself—nothing but the tearing burn in her leg. She flailed her fists but the angle was too awkward. The dog dragged her, stopping when its back hit the rock wall.