Forbidden River (The Legionnaires #2.5)(19)
“Meaning?”
“You never abandon your wounded. The legionnaire code of honor.”
“I’m only marginally wounded, and I’m not yours.” She studied him like she was trying to work him out. “So, how did you end up swimming?” she said, returning to her leg. Sensibly concluding that arguing was futile? While she worked on the jeans, he ran through his version of events.
“I’m surprised the kayaks didn’t get shot when he was spraying the clearing,” she said after he’d finished.
“A couple did. Mine caught a ricochet, I guess. I duct-taped it. The one I left upriver was worse hit. Wouldn’t have lasted.”
She rocked up to a crouch, then stood cautiously and unzipped her fly. A good time to study his topo map. He retrieved it from his kayak and crunched across to the tail of the island. He’d scrawled notes on it from kayaking blogs and websites. The next few hours would be much the same as the chaos they’d emerged through—wide pools funneling into narrow canyons where the water dropped fast and quick, twisting and thrashing around car-sized boulders. He rubbed his belly. The nerves were flipping.
She swore quietly.
“What’s up?” He killed the urge to turn around.
“Nothing. Just...tight wet jeans aren’t the easiest thing to take off.”
Don’t give me that mental image. “Tell me if you need help.” He tried so hard not to sound sleazy that it came out stilted, like it was the last thing he wanted to do. Which was so far from the truth...
“I’m good.”
After a minute she gave the all-clear. She smoothed her hands down her fluoro yellow life jacket. “We’re glow-in-the-dark and he’s top-to-toe camo.”
Cody threw her a helmet. “We better go fast, then.”
Once they pushed off, his gut settled. With the reprieve from danger he could appreciate the scenery, like a fog had burned off to reveal a pristine day. As they descended—through canyons so steep his stomach dropped, through pools so clear it looked like their kayaks were hovering over the stony riverbed—the terrain changed from subalpine scrub to primeval rainforest, with ferns crowding the riverbanks and marching up hillsides, studded by tufty Seuss-like trees and giant cedars. He’d be only slightly surprised if a velociraptor popped up, squawking. Or an orc.
Yep, with the vivid color of the water it did feel like a movie set, some fantasy epic in a parallel universe. How could he feel so goddamn calm with a murderer hunting them and his commando team half a world away?
But he had Tia. And like she said, she was no princess. She didn’t talk much but she was easy company, and they settled into a partnership more through instinct than negotiation. At the rapids he’d check the lay of the obstacles, brief her and hope like hell to see her still with him when they got spat out. And every time, there she was, pulling alongside with a satisfied grin. They carried their kayaks over a few saddles and rocks to avoid treacherous stretches, though he shot longing glances at the surging white water. They powered through pools side by side, and at some point their sprints became an unspoken competition—one he didn’t always win easily. The only gloating from either was a sly smile. The only concession was a slight shake of the head. Her stroke was uneconomical, but she compensated with strength and athleticism and a determination written in her jaw.
After one sprint, she glided slightly ahead and he shamelessly drank in the view. The sunset glow warmed her long, strong arms, glossed up the black hair curling out under the helmet, and picked out the freckled contours of her face and the glint of her eyes. Guilt churned in his chest. This was supposed to be a memorial to his brother, not a dating show. He powered up and overtook her.
True to her word, they smelled the tahr before they saw them, like wet, rotting wool. The tatty creatures would freeze and stare, or clatter away. Ducks bobbed in quieter patches, other birds weaved and dived, and dragonflies hovered and shot just above the water.
Even so, the forest was eerily quiet. On operations in South America it felt like everything was taking a number to kill you—malaria, caimans, garimpeiro gangs. But what did he know? He’d grown up in San Antonio and spent most of his legion career shaking African dirt or Middle Eastern sand from his boots, or hunting terrorists in locked-down French suburbs.
After the tenth, twentieth—who knew?—rapid ejected them, he balanced his paddle across the cockpit and retrieved a granola bar. As he bit in, the boat lurched, jump-starting his heart. Shit, he was tipping. Caught on a snag. He grabbed the paddle. The granola bar skidded down the fiberglass and plopped into the water. He backpaddled hard, the hull scraping as the snag released him. A submerged branch. The kayak bumped into the water and he veered away.
“I didn’t see that.” His vision had adjusted so gradually he hadn’t noticed the river was in shadow. But yeah, his eyes were working hard. “We gotta get off the water. Where’s this waterfall?”
“Got your map handy?”
He eased up alongside her and retrieved the map and his headlamp. He held her kayak steady while she fitted the lamp and origami-flipped the map so the rectangle she needed was facing up, the rest neatly tucked. Map-folding skills. Could she get any more perfect?
Her downlit face screwed up. “The falls are an hour paddle away, at least. Crap, I thought we were making better time.”
“It’d be suicide to do it in the dark.”