Forbidden River. Brynn Kelly

“It’s nice that you care.”

      “You have someone waiting for word of when you reach Wairoimata? Who can raise the alarm when you don’t show?”

      “No, ma’am.”

      Was she asking if he was single?

      In your dreams, numbskull. Not that he was looking to hook up, but she’d be a fun vacation distraction.

      “Got a mobile?” she said.

      “Yep.”

      “It won’t work until Wairoimata. You have my number—call me when you get out. If I don’t hear by Wednesday, I’ll start asking around.”

      “Will do.”

      “Got a distress beacon?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded to the kayak.

      “A GPS one? Bought locally, not overseas?”

      “Yep.”

      “Keep it on you. It’s no use in your kayak if you get swept out. But don’t use it unless you’re dying. I don’t want to fight my way up here at midnight in a cyclone to find you twisted your ankle.”

      “This happens?”

      “Some people treat those things like Uber. If you can kayak out safely, do it. It’ll make a better war story to boast about later.”

      “Noted.”

      She gave a sharp nod and walked away. Security briefing over.

      “Well, thanks,” he said.

      Right. He checked his watch. A few hours before dark. He’d scout out the river, get sorted for the morning, then settle in with a freeze-dried dinner and his e-reader. He rubbed his belly. Food would fix that empty feeling. Damn, twenty minutes in her company and now he had to get reacquainted with solitude. Maybe when he called her from Wairoimata he’d ask her for a drink. Even a place that small had to have a watering hole.

      “Hey, Cowboy,” she called.

      He killed his smile and swiveled. She was leaning into the helicopter, writing something on a clipboard.

      “You got insect repellent?”

      “Don’t usually get bit. No malaria here, right?”

      She looked up. “It’s not the mosquitoes you need to watch for. It’s the sandflies.”

      “I need to watch out for a fly?”

      “You’ll see.” She pulled a spray bottle from a bag on the rear seat and lobbed it. He caught it one-handed. “I’ll add it to the tab. Oh wait, you prepaid, didn’t you?”

      “You didn’t give me a choice.”

      “On the house, then. And watch out for wild pigs.”

      “Pigs? For real? I fucking love this country. You’re saying the most dangerous wildlife out there is flies and pigs?” He was crossing into flirt territory, drawing this out as long as he could. He wasn’t even sure why.

      She crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “Less Porky Pig and more a rhino crossed with a bull. I’ve seen boars up here twice your weight. There’s also stags but they won’t take you on unless you corner them. And chamois and tahr—wild goats—but the smell is the biggest danger there. At least they’re herbivores.”

      “Unlike the sandflies?”

      “Spoken like a guy who’s never stood beside a New Zealand river at dusk.” She pushed off the chopper. “And watch out for kea—big green parrots. Cheeky buggers. Don’t turn your back on your dinner.”

      “Noted.” He stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his shorts. “Okay. Guess I’ll go look at this river of death, then.”

      “Good luck.”

      “I don’t intend luck to be a factor.”

      She nodded, again with that almost-smile. He forced himself to turn and walk away. Seeing her again would be his reward for surviving this paddle.

      Of the ten wildest kayaking runs in the world, he’d kayaked numbers ten, nine, eight, seven, six and five. How dangerous could one little forbidden river be?

      * * *

      TIA TURNED BACK to her flight log, resisting the temptation to watch Cody right up to the moment he pushed through the trees and disappeared. Yep, it’d be a damn shame for the world to lose a specimen like that—and it’d break her heart to locate that body. He was muscular but easy with it, like he spent as much time doing yoga as lifting weights, like his power wasn’t for show but function. A kayaker’s shoulders, a soldier’s athleticism, with the lived-in look of a guy who spent a lot of time outdoors.

      She rapped her stubby fingernails on the clipboard. She’d give him until Wednesday night to call before hitting the phone. She didn’t need another death on her conscience.

      A gust swept through the tussock. The nor’wester, picking up ahead of the front. She’d take the downriver route home in case any bodies had been spat out. Or, hope above hope, she found four live ones waving up from the swing bridge above Auripo Falls. She rubbed the back of her neck, staring blankly into the scrub. The disappearances had been gnawing at her since the day it became obvious the Danes weren’t going to arrive at Wairoimata. One missing person wasn’t unusual, even two. But four? She’d flown the river from glacier to sea, back and forth a dozen times, in case she’d missed some hazard that might explain things—a fallen tree, a crumbling cliff, a fresh rockfall.

      She straightened, the tiny leaves on the trees coming into sharp focus. Something was out of place. She scanned the clearing. There, on a cluster of stones at the tree line, a twisted gray-brown clump. Damn. She crossed to it.

      Yep, a kiwi. Mauled, bloody, decomposing. A big adult with a transmitter on its leg. Breeding stock. Would’ve been raised in captivity until it was big enough to defend itself. She crossed the clearing to the hut’s stoat trap—one of hundreds she’d dropped into the forest this spring, for Koro’s trapper mates. Another reason she wouldn’t turn a profit this year.

      The wooden box was on its side, bait untouched. Whatever knocked it over hadn’t got in through the small wire tunnel, so not a rat or stoat. Possums didn’t tear kiwi apart like that. It must have struck since the trappers had swept through on their fortnightly checks. She searched the ground.

      There—animal shit. Dog? She swore. How the hell had a dog got up here? One feral dog could wipe out a hundred kiwi—the forest’s entire population. She walked back to the bird, pulled out her phone and snapped photos for the rangers. They’d want to get here quick. If she left soon, she could bring them up before sunset.

      Something rustled in the trees behind the chopper. Not a bird, something solid. She straightened. Nothing but tui warbling and trilling, and the rush of the river. Cody, probably. Sheesh, she was jumpy. The only person he was a danger to was himself. There was no stopping adrenaline junkies with an obsession. She’d played dumb earlier, but of course she’d Googled him when he’d emailed her to book, seeing as it was so reckless to kayak the Awatapu solo. He’d competed in the extreme kayaking world champs with his brother—and if he was also a soldier, that was good enough for her. The profile of him she’d found was a decade old and hadn’t mentioned the legion, but there were other hits she hadn’t clicked on. They’d mostly been about some San Antonio software empire his family owned, and she couldn’t care less about that.

      The branches of a tall rata swayed. A kereru pigeon had swooped in, the sun catching the emerald of its breast, its weight bowing the branch as it twisted to eat berries.

      A legionnaire, eh? What better way to stick it to your wealthy parents than run away to the legion? And she knew all about sticking it to your parents.

      She was no sucker for a guy in uniform, but he’d look hot in khakis, with those broad shoulders tapering