Forbidden River (The Legionnaires #2.5)(16)

The dog somersaulted backward and thumped onto its spine. She ran. It scrabbled, coughing, sprang up and lunged, but the leash jerked it back. It yelped, a bra strap trailing from its teeth, and shook its head, flicking the catch into its eye.

Her leg burned. Red splotches expanded across the T-shirt like dye. The dogs were barking like crazy. Shane had to be hearing that. Her only chance was to get to a kayak, and fast.

But what the hell was Cody up to?

*

TIA HADN’T BEEN kidding about the fucking sandflies. Rather than risk a slapping noise in the echo chamber of a valley, Cody slid his hands over his goose pimpled skin like he had a tic. Didn’t help that he was standing on the riverbank dressed only in board shorts. But he was planning on doing some swimming and it’d be insane to get any more clothing wet. This plan had to work, plain and simple.

When Tia hadn’t showed at the rendezvous, he’d returned to the hut, grabbed the third kayak, paddled it across the river and left its stern sticking out of a shrub, to make it look like he’d gone into the forest on foot. With luck, the shooter would assume he’d taken all the kayaks to the same spot. A little more noise to draw the shooter here, and then he’d swim for the kayaks waiting at the confluence downriver.

Since he’d started up with the whistling and yelling, no more screams had come from upriver. Just frenzied barking. If that psycho had done something to Tia, he was doubly dead. Cody blasted the whistle, yelled her name.

If I don’t show, you’re paddling out solo. You need to be far downstream by nightfall. And he would be—but not without her. Meanwhile he’d lure the shooter away, distract him, confuse him, buy her a chance to reach the rendezvous—if she still could. That yell she’d let out... He knew pain when he heard it.

A bark, closer. On the far bank, a breeze curled through the tussock. Come on. A minute later, a scattering of birds rose from beside the hut’s red roof, just visible above the scrub. He stilled his hands—let the little fuckers feast.

One last time. “Tia!”

He crept downriver and slipped into the water. Holy fuck, he’d expected cold, but that. He forced himself down to his neck, his throat closing in protest, his skin shocking like an electrocution. Still the damn sandflies followed, dive-bombing his eyes.

A clanking, a knock. Boots on wood, on...metal? Movement, on the roof. Shit, the guy had climbed it for a vantage point, his beady eyes drawn to the bright green kayak. Cody filled his stinging lungs and submerged, a headache striking like lightning. His eyeballs threatened to snap-freeze. But—distraction accomplished. Now to get around the bend in the river, out of sight, and then swim fast for the kayaks. He pulled underwater in long, strong strokes, kicking hard. It was a relief to move—and to be away from those damn flies. How much cold could your body take before your blood iced up, your heart stopped?

He swam till his lungs caved, and silently surfaced, smothering the urge to gasp. No need for silence—gunshots boomed. A tree screened the shooter as he sprayed the green kayak. The bushes flinched with bullets, the water flicked. Perfect. Cody inhaled and sank again, following the current, his scalp shrink-wrapping his skull.

When he rose again, the shooting had stopped and the river noise ahead had changed—the tributary joining, and not real happy about it. With the crosscurrent and the cold against him, his swim back across to the kayaks would be twice as challenging as he’d thought. He was using too much energy keeping afloat, keeping on track, keeping from freezing solid. But he was committed now.

All muscle and no fat. They’ll sink like rocks. The dogs weren’t the only ones. Wasn’t often you regretted those last twenty push-ups, that last ten miles on the trail, but...shit. If he got swept downriver he was dans la merde.

The tip of the beach came into view, then the orange and yellow kayaks. He upped his stroke and kick rate, pushing until his chest stung. The frothing current shoved back. A bark shot above the churn. Behind the kayaks, branches moved. Cody took a breath, ready to go under, as a figure stumbled through.

Tia! Thank fuck.

He tried to signal but a wave slapped him under. He pulled back up, the current sweeping him level with the kayaks but too far from the bank. Tia looked over her shoulder and pushed the tourists’ yellow kayak until the water nudged it. He flailed like a maniac. Her head snapped up, confusion on her face as he struggled past. She yanked the paddle from where it was wedged, strode into the water and held it out. It was a good seven feet short. Under her other hand, the kayak bucked like rodeo roughstock.

“No chance,” he called. “Kayak out. There’s a towline behind my seat. Tow mine out.”

A gunshot. Crouching low, she found the line and hooked the kayaks up, stern to nose. A dog shot out of the trees, the big one, bowling right for her.

“Tia!”

“I know! I fucking know.” She squeezed into the seat of the yellow kayak. Using the paddle as a gondola pole, she pushed into the water, the boat swaying wildly.

The dog went for the orange kayak, but the stern swung out as Tia pulled, forcing it to spring sideways. More gunshots. No sign of the shooter—he had to be firing into the trees in hope. She met Cody’s gaze as the water drove him past. Her jaw was tight, eyes narrowed. Her kayak caught the current and shot forward. Cody’s biceps burned as he hauled through the water, fighting into a trajectory that would meet hers. In a minute they’d plunge into rapids, studded with rocks. Swimming that vortex would be suicide.