Forbidden River (The Legionnaires #2.5)(33)

“Knew I’d find ya.”

She froze. Shane stepped from the trees, rifle raised, the two dogs at heel.

Her throat dried. “Are you going to track me now?” She hated the hope in her voice. The pleading.

“Nah. I’ve had enough fun with you.” He flicked off the safety.

Her breath skittered. But the thing with a rifle like that, it made the person behind it feel bulletproof. And the thing with a guy like Shane? He underestimated women. He thought the weapon and the dick put him at an unassailable advantage.

“You think I’m too much of a challenge,” she said, walking backward. “I know this forest better than the other women so you’re taking the easy way out. What happened to cat and mouse? You giving up?” Her voice shook. Hell, her feet shook. No, that wasn’t her feet—the ledge was vibrating from the force of the falls.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, his need to be respected battling his fear of being played. “Yep, and now the mouse starts to squeal, right at the end of the game.”

“Let’s talk about this.” She reached the end of the ledge and peered over, swallowing. In the alcove, Rocky jumped to attention and barked. Nowhere to go but the waterfall. Breathing through her nostrils, she stood rigid, hands fisted by her sides, making out she was frozen with fear. Which she kind of was. “Maybe we could come to some—” she made a show of gulping “—arrangement.”

“Ah fuck. Yeah, they all do that at the end.” He jabbed the air with the muzzle, in emphasis, strutting ever closer. “Think that’ll put me off my game but nah, that’s not the game. I got plenty of bitches wanting to suck my cock. I don’t need to rape anyone.”

“Let me go. Please. I won’t tell anyone.”

He shook his head slowly, the tattooed snakes twisting on his neck. “You’re just saying any-fucking-thing now. I really thought you’d be more of a challenge.”

And you’ve just got too close. She filled her lungs. “Let me go and I’ll show you what a challenge I can be.”

“Nah, this is just you trying to mess with—”

She sprang to one side of him, gripped the muzzle with one hand and shoved it sideways, away from her. Before he could recover, she slammed her other hand down on the buttstock, flicked the muzzle up and cracked the sights into his nose. The dogs went ballistic. Shane’s grip loosened, just enough. She flipped the rifle, snatched it from his hands, spun it and crunched the butt into his face.

As she twisted the weapon into firing position, he launched at her and grabbed it. His boot smacked her wounded shin, and her leg gave in a blast of pain. She stumbled back, stones falling away under her feet. Her ankle skidded, her stomach dropped. She was going over.





CHAPTER TWELVE

TIA CLUNG TO the rifle. So did Shane. For a microsecond he held them, the veins bulging in his neck. Then he buckled and they were skidding down the cliff.

She bounced out into thin air. Rock, blue sky, clouds, Shane, water, the rifle flying end over end. Fall like a seal, not a giraffe, Tane had said. Toes first, arms by your sides. Aerodynamic. She thrust out her legs. Smack. She gasped. Too late. Pain shuddered through her legs, her back. She’d hit rock. This was it. She was dead. She kept falling, through the earth. The roar muted. Not falling—plunging. She’d hit water, not rock. Cold shocked her heart, her skull, her eyes, her ears. Her descent slowed, like she was in a cushion, but she was still going down. Her elbow hit a rock. She tipped forward and kept tumbling, bubbling water filling her nose, her mouth. Everything was white, like a blizzard. Caught in the washing machine.

Swim down. Find the calm water under the whirlpool. But which way was down? She stroked, her lungs stinging. The water tossed her back into the spin. She tried again but she was helpless. The water was in charge. She was too...

Too buoyant. The life jacket. What if...? She lunged for the quick release, her hair swirling into her mouth. Found it. Tore the thing over her head, her legs pedaling. Her chest threatened to cave. She plunged down, channeling her energy into kicking and pulling. The water pushed her up—the cyclone, sucking her back in. Oh God. Her vision darkened. Fight, Tia. She felt herself slipping, out of the churn, into...smoother water.

She was being pushed forward. She stroked up—and her hand hit air. She kicked fast, popped out like a cork, scraped in a breath. The water pushed and tugged, and slapped her face. The beach—she could see the stony beach Cody had pulled up onto. The water relented and her hand hit stones. She crawled up, coughing. The ground seesawed, left and right, left and right.

She heaved into a sitting position, hunched over, her breath wheezing. Water swirled around her legs, blurry veins of pink entwining with the bubbling white. Her blood. No pain, just cold clawing deep into her bones. She raised her head in a zombie lurch. No sign of Shane in the churning river. But she should hide. Just as soon as she could stand.

Crunching, behind her. Heavy footfalls. Cody? She started to turn. A green-swathed figure grabbed her from behind, pinned her arms, trapped her in a headlock. Shane. Not Cody. Cody was dead. Something cold jammed against her neck.

“It’s over,” he snarled. She tried to twist away but she had no fight. Above her, his face was slick with blood, one cheek a pulpy mess. He had a knife to her throat.

“I win, bitch.”

She bucked but her body felt weighted. She saw it from the air, as the search pilot would—her body sprawled on the stones, Cody’s overturned kayak. They’d fought and lost. Loved and lost. Her eyes burned. Shane pushed the blade. A second of pressure and the skin gave.