“You said it yourself—I’m a risk taker with a death wish.”
“Cody, I’m not leaving anyone else here.”
“You’re leaving me.” His hand went to his hip, then froze. Checking for a nonexistent weapon. He fisted his fingers, and released. “Look, I’m not some hippie backpacker. I’m good at getting shot at. I’ll lead them away, then swim the river so the dogs can’t get me—assuming they can’t swim.”
“If they’re hunting dogs—and they sound like it—they’re all muscle and mouth and no fat. No buoyancy, especially in fresh water. They’ll sink like rocks.”
“Good. Then I’ll hide until help comes. Easy.”
“That river is basically just melted snow and ice. You swim it without a change of clothes, you’ll be hypothermic by midnight.”
“My clothes are pretty much made of plastic. They’ll dry quick.”
She shook her head.
“Tia, none of the options here are good. There’s no easy decision in a situation like this, no risk-free choice. You know that. You’ll be taking a risk in lifting off. I’ll be taking a risk in running and hiding. But if you don’t get away safely, we’re both screwed, and so are those climbers and the other tourists, if they’re still alive, and so are the next people who come wandering up here.”
Dammit. “Help probably won’t come until first light.”
“I can handle a night in the open.”
“A lot of tough guys say that, going in.”
A dog barked nearby. She shrank against the rock. Cody slung his arm across her belly, pinning her with his elbow. Like she was going anywhere. The gunshots had stopped.
She tiptoed to reach his ear. He was a couple of inches taller. In another situation she’d consider that the perfect height. “We’re downwind,” she whispered. “The dogs won’t be able to smell us yet. I’ll go back the way I came. You—”
She froze. A second later he held up a palm, frowning. Through the trees ahead skulked the silhouette of the shooter, rifle held low across his hip, machete slung across his back like a ninja sword, two dogs running alongside. One was a short dirty-brown mutt, wide across the forelegs, thick neck, big jaw. Bred for fighting. The other was a greyhound cross, its nose skimming the river stones. Pig dogs—an attacker and a tracker? With the sun in his eyes, the guy wouldn’t spot her and Cody, but she stilled her breathing anyway.
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