CHAPTER SIX
TIA SHUFFLED BACKWARD but hit rock. Another whistle. Cody shouted her name, clear on the breeze. How was this going to go?
“It fucking is your boyfriend.” Shane lowered the rifle. “Nah, I don’t wanna give away my position, eh? I’ll surprise him, take him out first. Heaps of time. You’re right. It’ll be more fun if I give you a chance. Dogs’ll catch up with you in a minute anyway, with all that blood.” He threw his backpack on and tightened the straps, then bounced on the spot three times as if warming up. “See ya soon, Tia. This is fucking on.”
He strode off with an exaggerated swagger, pulling his machete from its sheath and swinging it, the greyhound bounding and leaping beside him like it was high on his adrenaline. The attack dogs whined after him, straining their leashes—leaving her path clear. She felt for the wall behind her, used it to climb to her feet. Inhaling, she put weight on her leg. Pain shot up to her thigh but it held. She took a step. Shane spun. She froze.
“Attack, Jaws!” he shouted, gesturing at her. “Attack, Rocky!”
She flattened against the rock as the attack dogs turned, their leashes slackening, then snapping taught—their jaws inches from her legs. They barked, teeth bared, whining, clawing. Shit. Shane hadn’t tied them randomly. He’d tied them in overlapping arcs, trapping her. He laughed, and disappeared into the trees.
The bank behind her back was steep and smooth, a canyon carved by some ancient waterway. No chance of climbing. But if she slunk out along one side of the wall, she’d have to deal with only one dog. With what defenses? No sticks, no rocks, no handy slab of poisoned meat, just small stones and twigs—shrapnel.
Another shout arced over the valley. “Tiaaaaa! Help!”
Cody had to be bluffing, luring Shane away. Disrespecting the plan. Didn’t trust her to save her own arse—not that she was doing a particularly good job of that. And, okay, she might have a bullet in her knee right now if he hadn’t shouted, but that wasn’t the point.
Blood dribbled into her shoe, pooling under her arch. She stripped off her jacket and T-shirt, ripped the shirt along the seams and bent over her leg. Between pulses of blood, a flash of white was visible. Her shin bone. Ugh. She tied the T-shirt around her leg. Blood everywhere, but just having the wound contained made her feel stronger. She zipped her jacket over her bra—then stopped.
Shrapnel. Shrapnel had its uses. She chewed the inside of her cheek. What the hell. She was short on options—and she didn’t want to be here when Shane returned.
Checking that he was still out of sight, she took off her jacket and bra, and zipped the jacket back on. She filled one of the cups with stones and experimented with spinning it, holding it by a back strap, G-force keeping the stones contained. Big ups to industrial-strength bras. The dogs whined, eyes following the bra, jumping at it. She’d take on Jaws. If it was less well trained, it might be easier to scare and distract.
She settled her nerves, picking her route, weighing up angles. If this didn’t work, she’d have a bitch of a time detaching the mutt. And what if it clamped onto her good leg?
After a few practices that had the dogs nearly tying themselves in knots, she paused and took a cool breath. Here goes. She did a wind-up, the cups humming as they sliced the air. She swung the bra and released a load of stones into Jaws’s face. The dog jumped back, stunned. Now. She sprinted, her blood-slicked soles sliding on dead leaves. In wobbly vision, she registered the dog shaking its head, standing to attention, launching. Reacting quicker than she’d counted on. Shit, it had too much space. She’d misjudged the distances, misjudged the leash length. She spun to face it as it leaped for her arm. At the last second, she jerked away, grabbed an end of the bra in each hand, snapped it taut and shoved it into the dog’s jaw.
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.
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.