Forbidden River (The Legionnaires #2.5)(32)

Oh God, Cody.

Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe Shane had missed or just holed the kayak and Cody was right now swimming to the bank.

“Shall we pull her out and let you play with her while we figure out where the other bitch went?”

Wait—what?

Shane thought the dogs had found the body, not Tia. The boots passed overhead. He was seconds from discovering the truth. She’d wait until he reached the end of the bridge, anchored back in the trees, where his view would be obscured for a few seconds.

When his footfalls faded, she silently pushed off, skirted the body, drifted, stroked in and got ahold of the lowest boulder. Her numb fingers slipped right off. She flung her arm over it, the shock of the hit reverberating to her shoulder. She forced her fingers to grip, and hoisted up. The dogs hit desperation pitch. She threw herself onto the rock like a seal, climbed the next one, and the next. She hurtled, swaying, to a tree and pressed her back into its far side, panting. Her scalp tightened with cold.

Downriver, through the trees, through the haze, she made out a stony beach—with an orange kayak on it. She stumbled forward. Cody was slumped over the bow, still in the spraydeck, the back of his life jacket torn up. By bullets? As she watched, the river tugged the boat back in, spinning it. Cody sagged sideways and the boat flipped.

Come on, Cody. Roll. Pull out.

The overturned kayak drifted downriver, bouncing off rocks. She stifled a sob. He’d died alone on a river, like his brother. She’d told him to go. She’d let the paddle go. This was it—the stupid split-second decision that would haunt her, like Zack’s death haunted Cody.

Barking. She straightened and wiped her eyes with clammy hands. Time to get this bastard. Her chest tightened. Yes, use the anger. The grief can come later. If she could catch up with the kayak, with Cody’s—oh God, his body—she could...what? Tip him out and take the kayak? Trigger the beacon?

First she had to get there. At a sickening distance below, the waterfall boiled and hissed as it hit the river, its spray hazing towers of boulders. Directly under her, the rock ledge jutted out like a giant’s diving board. She could climb to it, boulder by boulder, and go bush. A head start.

A growl, right behind her. She spun, catching her breath. The greyhound, alone, advancing. It barked harshly, like it was losing its voice. It tipped up its head, sniffed, whined. Getting her scent. Or maybe...? She patted the bulge in her jacket pocket.

Slowly she unzipped it. She pulled out a bloody chunk of meat and waved it. The sandfly spray bottle flew out and landed on rock. The dog followed the path of the meat like a hypnotist’s watch, barking. She shuffled closer, letting it catch the scent. It whined and jumped but she snatched the meat away. Atta boy. It crouched, clawing the earth, whining, begging.

She tossed the slab high into the air behind the dog. The creature skidded around and bounded off. She retrieved the repellant, ran to the cliff, sat on the edge and pushed off to the first boulder. She landed awkwardly, sheering to the side and smacking her thigh on rock. A bolt of pain, but no damage done.

She slid to the next boulder, and the next, and the next. The final drop to the ledge was a leap of faith but she made it, knees bent, the impact jolting her frozen feet. To her left, two meters down the cliff, was a rocky alcove—but there was no way off it. She’d be trapped. The bush was still her best chance.

She limped for the trees. As she neared them, something barreled out. The brown dog. She pulled up, forced her shaking fingers to unzip her pocket, and grabbed the other slab of meat. The dog didn’t even look, just fixed beady eyes on her, barking. She held up the meat, shook it. Nothing. Waved it. Nope. Threw it into the bush. Not a flinch. A whistle, nearby. If she could skirt the dog, get to the trees... She took a step and it lunged, driving its teeth into her ankle. She bit her cheeks to keep from screaming. It released and stood its ground, barking. Blood dribbled from several new holes. The pain felt distant, numbed by the cold. Jesus, if that was just a warning nip...

She backed up, hopping. The dog followed her, barking, to the edge of the precipice. Spray washed over her, pinpricks of ice on her skin. Far downriver, Cody’s kayak was a tiny orange oval floating through a turquoise pool. Another whistle. Shane had to be following the dogs through the bush.

She wasn’t going to stand here waiting. One last trick up her sleeve. She held up her left arm, elbow out. Her hand shook like it knew what was coming.

“Attack,” she hissed, jabbing her arm at the dog.

It whined, tilted its head, pawed the rock.

“Attack. Attack.” What was the dog’s name? Some eighties movie, like Jaws. Sylvester Stallone’s face popped into her mind. “Rocky! Attack!”

The dog lunged. She twisted away, shot her other hand forward and released the trigger on the repellant. Spray blasted the dog’s eyes. It yelped, smacked onto its side and slid off the cliff sideways, scrabbling air like a cockroach. Its thick body thudded onto the alcove. It leaped up and shook itself.

A whistle. Now to get to Cody’s kayak. She hobbled to the trees, her foot slippery with blood, blinking as she passed into the dark shade of the canopy. A breeze prickled her face.

No. This didn’t feel right. Well, God, none of it felt right, but this... She backed out into the sunlight. Her lungs felt like they’d shrunk to the size of grapes. Maybe there was another way off the ledge, to the river. Running through the bush, dripping blood, with the greyhound out there was suicide. And no way was she jumping.