Forbidden River (The Legionnaires #2.5)(17)

He ducked away as her kayak skimmed past, the hull grazing his forehead. Whoa. The orange one bobbed toward him.

“Unhook the towline,” he yelled.

As she scrambled for it, he caught his boat, got ahold and launched over the cockpit, steadying himself so his weight was balanced, head sticking out over one side of the boat, legs the other, water surging by in a choppy blur. The kayak rocked but settled. Not his best mount but it’d do. He yanked out the paddle and held it flush with the boat. Inhaling, he channeled his weight evenly into his arms, flipped and twisted, and slid his legs inside, his butt bumping into the seat. The cool air blasted his wet skin.

Ahead, Tia was about to hit a grade five boulder garden—no helmet, no life jacket, no spraydeck. Gunshots surged—or maybe they’d been firing all along. Back on auto but still out of sight.

“Left!” he shouted at Tia. “Go left!”

As they shot ’round the corner he caught a glimpse of camo gear tumbling onto the beach. The shooter registered the kayaks, raised his rifle—and drifted out of sight.

Gunfire sprayed, hitting rocks and trees behind them. Wasted, frustrated, desperate shots. Fuck, that was close. One problem down, for now, but Tia was still angling too far right, the river funneling her toward an overhanging rock shelf.

“Tia, go left, quick!”

Too late. The current shunted her kayak under the shelf, giving her just enough time to panic before it flipped, taking her with it, face-first, mouth open. Her upturned kayak scraped the lip of the rock. Cody pulled toward her, his shoulders straining. He needed enough momentum to slip past without getting stuck, but if he misread the angles he’d plow straight into her. Black hair swirled under the water as her jammed kayak lurched downward.

Then she disappeared.





CHAPTER SEVEN

AS HE SHOT PAST, Cody leaned back, swept a hand under Tia’s boat and grabbed the first thing he touched. He compensated with his hips as she bobbed up next to him, spitting and gasping, still holding the paddle. He had her by the shoulder. He jammed his paddle into his webbing and hauled her astride his bow.

“Hold on to me,” he yelled, retrieving the paddle. His nose was too low in the water. “Scoot up, quick!” Her hands flailed. She found the side of the cockpit and hoisted herself forward, jamming the crown of her head into his bare stomach, her face into his lap. Her ass stuck up over the lip of the cockpit. Her legs straddled the bow. Her paddle dug into his side. It was all he could do to hold the kayak straight, his arms and abs and quads sharing the strain, his hips and shoulders navigating them left and right as they flew around boulders, the bottom of the kayak scraping rock, her head bouncing in his lap.

After an age, a shoal island appeared midriver. They were far enough below the confluence that they could afford to stop and regroup. “Get ready to jump out,” he said. He paddled fast and beached the kayak front-on. She pretty much somersaulted over the bow and onto the stones, freeing him to leap out and pull the craft clear. Her kayak was coming up fast, bottom up, low in the water.

He dived, grabbed it and dragged it onto the island. He flopped onto his back, heart pounding out of his chest, headache crushing his skull. As the adrenaline passed, the cold closed in. He raised his head high enough to check their surroundings. Deep, swift channels on either side. Thick bush along the banks.

“Cody?” Tia’s voice creaked.

He crawled to her commando-style and slumped as she rolled onto her back.

“Not as stealthy as we’d planned,” he said.

“Or as elegant.”

A mental picture flashed up. Her denim-clad ass bucking in front of him, her face hammering his lap. Shame he didn’t get to appreciate that at the time.

“You’re grinning,” she said.

His chest convulsed into a laugh, which he covered with a cough as he flipped, resting his back on sun-warmed stones. She propped up on her elbows, dropping a wet-lashed gaze to his chest. Her eyes widened.

“Yeah, the little fuckers got me good.” Any second the itching would set in. Being numb had its advantages.

“The what?” she wheezed, her focus snapping back to his eyes.

“Those bugs you warned me about.”

Her gaze dropped again and narrowed. “Oh. Yeah.” She collapsed again. “Holy fuck, I’m cold.”

He forced himself up to sitting. Her jacket, jeans and sneakers were drenched. “We better get changed, fast.”

Something red was tied around her lower leg, dripping pink water onto the stones. He frowned, looking closer. “You’re bleeding. You hit rocks?”

“I hit dog.” Her voice vibrated. “Can’t feel my legs, so all good.”

“Must have been quite a hit. Damn, you’re shivering.”

“S-so are you. Your lips...blue...”

He crawled to the closest kayak—the yellow one—and pulled out the climbers’ dry bag. “I grabbed the stuff from the green kayak, too. There are thermals, a microfiber towel.” He dug through and found shorts, a pink thermal top and the towel and threw them to her.

Now for his clothing. You knew you were staring down trouble when getting dressed felt like an Everest expedition. He staggered to his feet, wove to his kayak like a drunk and keeled over, a meter short. He couldn’t feel his feet, let alone get them in the right places. He crawled the remaining distance, yanked out a dry bag and grabbed his own thermals and shorts. A T-shirt would do as a towel. He faced away from her—she’d be stripping down, too. Once dry and dressed, he found his neoprene socks and slipped them on. His defrosting feet throbbed like they were being stabbed. He threw himself into his spray jacket and zipped it to the collar. Better.