Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Harry
The distant sound of a dog yapping pierces through my brain.
My instant reaction is happiness. Dogs mean people.
It also means a distraction from trying to control my reaction to Toby’s touch. Having Toby Webley kneeling at my feet, caring for me with such tenderness, evoked emotions I am unprepared to acknowledge.
But fear instantly sweeps across Toby’s face at the sound of the dogs, which causes another memory to engulf me.
When I was a teenager, my grandfather invited me along on a hunt.
I’d detested every second, the deafening blast of the shotguns as the pheasants took flight, the sight of the dead birds and rabbits being strung up like trophies.
And one particular memory from the hunt reverberates in my head now. The hounds with their noses pressed to the ground, using their superior sense of smell to tell us which direction the game had run.
Dogs mean tracking.
If our pursuers have dogs, we’re in trouble.
Judging by the unrestrained panic in his eyes, Toby seems to have come to that realization before me.
“We can’t outrun a dog, Harry. They’ll be able to find us wherever we go.”
Bloody hell.
I need to devise a strategy for how we’re going to escape the dog. But first, I need to deal with Toby. He’ll be absolutely no use if he’s in panic mode.
“Are you implying a dog will be able to track us because I have a particular stench, Webley?”
Toby blinks a few times at me before he replies, “Your cologne would have left a trail a mile wide for them to follow. That, and the whiffs of brimstone emanating from your pores.”
It’s worked. Insulting me has calmed him like it did yesterday. I’m not sure if it is my favorite technique, but it’s undeniably effective.
“And you smell of fermented liberal values, so there’s no doubt they will be able to track you too. Perhaps you could finish up your ministrations to my feet quickly, as I feel I’m going to need functioning feet soon.”
Toby takes a shaky breath but follows my suggestion, efficiently taping a gauze pad to each of my heels.
I stuff my feet back into my shoes, my brain whirling.
Dogs. The bark had been some distance away, but I can’t help worrying they’re coming closer by the second.
Toby is right. We can’t outrun them.
“We’re making the assumption, of course, that they are our pursuers rather than rescuers…” I trail off because the idea of trying to escape rescue isn’t very palatable.
Toby’s eyes widen at that thought.
“Wouldn’t rescuers call out? Or make themselves known?” he asks.
A dog barks again, the sound sending a chill down my spine.
“Let’s be prudent and assume it’s not Lassie and some friendly rescuers,” Toby says, his voice urgent.
“Then we have two options,” I say. “We can try to climb out of the dog’s reach and hope we are not spotted. Or we can take to the river, float downstream, and hope they lose our trail. What do you think?”
I’m well aware there are risks associated with either option.
“Take to the water,” Toby says instantly.
“We’ll get wet,” I say.
“That is generally what happens with water,” Toby replies.
“I meant, it’s a risk of hypothermia if we get wet in an environment where we can’t easily get dry.”
“We’ll be sitting ducks if we climb and they spot us. Or sitting pigeons, or whatever types of birds nest in trees,” Toby says.
I deeply believe now is not the time to begin an in-depth ornithological discussion on roosting birds. Instead, I scan the riverbank, searching for the safest place to enter the swirling water. I spot a sandy slope, pointing it out to Toby. “This way. We can wade in here.”
Toby follows me without hesitation, clutching the survival kit in his arms.
There’s another round of barking, closer this time, grating against my nerves.
We don’t have much time.
At the water’s edge, I yank off the shoes I’ve just put on.
“It’ll be easier to swim without shoes.”
“But how are we going to carry them with us?”
I tug off my tie. “We can use this to attach our shoes to the survival kit. And perhaps our coats too.”
“All right. We need to hurry.”
There appears to be some law that states that the more urgently you attempt to do something, the more your fingers fumble. Eventually, Toby and I attach our shoes and coats to the survival kit, and we begin to wade into the water.
The shockingly cold water engulfs my legs. It’s deeper than expected, up to my thighs instantly, the powerful current pushing against me. My trousers are immediately sodden, a dead weight around my legs.
Bollocks.
Should we take off our clothes too? They are going to drag us down. But I’m reluctant to part with any articles of clothing.
Toby is beside me, his face grim, his shoulders hunching against the chill. “Well, it’s not exactly balmy, is it?” His voice is shaky.
“Swim for the middle,” I urge, teeth chattering. “Away from the banks.”
Toby nods. His face is already pale, the few freckles standing out on his skin.
We strike out into the faster currents in the center of the river. God. This is bloody frigid. My muscles are already seizing, my lungs constricting with each labored breath.
I glance back to where Toby is doggie-paddling, one arm still clutching the survival kit, which at least seems to be providing some buoyancy.
I’m not sure how long we can maintain this. The icy water saps my strength with every stroke, my soaked clothing pulling me down towards the bottom of the river.
The a dog’s bark carries across the water. My heart pounds, adrenaline surging through my veins.
Through the splashing of water around me, I can make out dark figures moving along the bank, their outlines sharp and menacing against the forest background.
Something pings in the water next to me.
What the hell was that?
But when there’s a whistling sound right next to my ear, I know exactly what it was.
Bullets. They’re shooting at us. I suppose that answers the question of whether they want us dead or alive.
Bullets continue to pepper the water around us.
“Swim,” I yell at Toby.
Luckily, the river appears to be on our side because the current sweeps us around a bend, taking us out of range of our pursuers’ guns.
But my relief is short-lived.
The current speeds up as the river narrows between the steep banks. The river's surface becomes a mosaic of ripples and waves, making it harder to keep our heads above water. The banks on either side seem to blur as we're swept along faster.
Over the noise of my splashing, I can hear the distant roar of falling water.
And my stomach drops. A waterfall.
Definitely not what we need at this particular moment.
“Swim for the far bank,” I yell at Toby, but I can’t tell if he’s heard me over the noise of the waterfall.
Fear clamps my stomach as the current drags us relentlessly towards the waterfall’s edge. I thrash furiously, but my waterlogged clothes are like anchors, pulling me down. When I look behind me, I see Toby barely keeping his head above water.
I kick furiously, my lungs burning as I fight against the current.
And suddenly, I’m swept in a different direction, and the rock face is right there in front of me. My fingertips desperately clutch at the rock face until I find a hold to cling to. The current buffets me, trying to sweep me further downstream, but I manage to hold on.
This is not good.
I look around and see Toby upstream of me, frantically trying to swim towards me, away from where the current is relentlessly pulling him towards the waterfall’s edge. He’s still clutching the survival kit, which is providing buoyancy but also making it harder for him to swim.
Toby’s gaze meets mine, his eyes wide with fear and desperation.
Holding on to the rock face with one hand, I stretch out my hand, straining to reach him.
Our fingertips brush, but my reach isn’t long enough, and I can’t get a solid grip.
And then he’s gone, the river sweeping him towards the waterfall.
Panic closes like a vice around my chest.
I lunge forward, letting go of my grip on the rock edge, plunging back into the current.
Adrenaline surges through my veins, fueling my exhausted muscles. I plow through the churning water, my arms slicing through the water, my mind focused on one thing only—reaching Toby.
The current drags me, trying to pull me under, but I fight back with every ounce of strength I have left.
I refuse to lose Toby to this river.
I glimpse the terror in Toby’s eyes as he struggles to swim towards me. The hand not clutching the survival kit reaches out towards me.
With a final, desperate surge, I stretch out, my hand closing around his wrist in an iron grip.
I’ve got him. And I’m not letting go.
I kick frantically, dragging us both towards the relative safety of the rock face.
Toby tries to swim, too, bobbing beside me as we continue to be dragged towards where the water tumbles over a cliff.
The roar of the waterfall grows deafening, the mist spraying my face as we’re dragged closer to the edge. My muscles burn with the effort of fighting the current, my lungs screaming for air.
I kick furiously, trying to angle us towards the rock face, but the current drags us back, pulling us towards the drop. Fear claws at my throat, but I swallow it down, focusing on the one thing that matters: keeping Toby alive.
My fingertips finally collide with the rock surface, and I scramble for a fingerhold. Ignoring the pain shooting through my hand, I reel him in towards me, tugging with all my strength, until he’s pressed up against the rock wall just upstream of me, clinging to it like a limpet.
“You all right?” I have to yell to be heard over the sound of the water.
Toby gives a rough nod.
The rocks are slippery under my hands. I lean back to look at the rock face. Can we pull ourselves out of the water?
But the rock above us is sheer, with few handholds. Further down, towards the waterfall, it looks slightly more forgiving.
Toby’s clinging to the side, his curls plastered to his skull, his hazel eyes ridiculously large as he stares at me.