Forbidden River

By Brynn Kelly

A dangerous game at the end of the earth…

For French Foreign Legionnaire Cody Castillo, chasing deadly thrills is the only reprieve from a bloodstained past he can't forget. But when the adrenaline junkie finds himself caught in a mass murderer's crosshairs in the lonely wilds of New Zealand, he finds an unexpected–and intriguing–ally.

Former air force pilot Tia Kupa has always found safety in nature, until a killer turns the wilderness into a playground. In this life–or–death game, the guarded woman who lives by the rules must rely on a risk taker with a death wish. The sexy devil–may–care legionnaire may be the wrong guy for her, but desire is just as primal as terror. Even if they outrun a predator, they can't escape the sizzling bond neither of them saw coming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Feb 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781489269362

Brynn Kelly

As a journalist Brynn Kelly once spent her days chasing stranger-than-fiction news reports. Now she spends them writing larger-than-life romantic thrillers, in a happy bubble of fiendish plots and delicious words. A New Zealander, Brynn is a RITA® winner and an RT Reviewers' Choice Awards nominee.  

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE CHOPPER APPEARED on the horizon, hovering like a dragonfly over the slate-blue mountain range. Right on time. A second later the bass throb of its blades ricocheted around the valley, on air so crisp Cody Castillo felt he could reach out and snap it.

He hauled his kayak and paddle from a baggage cart parked outside the airport terminal, loaded with the few supplies he needed for a river paddle. Food, pup tent, sleeping bag, thermals, first aid kit, safety gear, wet weather gear. His gut fizzed. One night in an alpine hut—alone, hopefully—and then nobody and nothing for four beautiful days. Fuck right off, world.

CROOKED VALLEY AIRPORT, the sign read. Well, Crooked Alley. The V had fallen off the line of letters spaced along the roof of the squat hangar that passed for a terminal. The Y was on its side, the T just hanging in there. Way out here at the end of the world, if you needed a sign to tell you where you’d wound up, you were crazy lost.

He’d been to plenty middles of nowhere—Marfa in Texas, the Empty Quarter of Saudi Arabia, Camopi in French Guiana... Like this, they weren’t the kinds of places you happened upon, pit stops on a road trip, derelict stations on a train line. Nope, it took full commitment to get nowhere. For him, in this case: a ride in a rattly legion Peugeot 4WD from his base at Calvi to Bastia, a ferry from Corsica to Nice, a flight to Paris and then Auckland, via Hong Kong. That sucked up the first forty-eight hours of his leave. Then to Christchurch and a two-day wait for a flight over the Southern Alps aboard a five-seater Cessna piloted by a farmer who might have learned to fly in World War II, going by his age and the way he dipped and dived like he was still dodging the Luftwaffe. Just one journey left—a chopper ride to the source of the legendary Awatapu River—and then he was on his own steam.

Cody laid the kayak on the deserted tarmac, grit scraping the hull. Yep, Crooked Valley/Alley was his kind of airport, where the arrival of a plane seemed to baffle the skeleton staff. No baggage carousels—just the cart pulled by a quad bike, driven by the ace pilot himself, once he’d shut down the plane. Security was a ninety-year-old unarmed guard in a uniform she might have worn for half a century, shrinking into it every year until it hung off her like a kid’s costume. No gates, no announcements—more a bus stop than an airport.

The helicopter began to descend, surfing the clouds sloshing over the range. Ah, New Zealand. A throwback to the days when the biggest threat to aviation was a Canada goose. One-third the size of home—

One-third the size of Texas. A long time since Texas had been home.

As it neared, the chopper mutated from insect to bird to machine, the blades beating a different note from the engine. An older model Eurocopter. Not the armored, camo-painted Puma or Tigre he usually rode but a tidy little Écureuil. A squirrel. He shaded his eyes as the chopper kissed the tarmac and settled, late-afternoon sun bouncing off the windshield. The rotors slowed until the disc dissolved and the blades became distinguishable—twelve, nine, six, then the regular three as they whined to a stop. What was the pilot’s name again? Cody squinted, trying to picture the address on the confirmation email. Tia, right? Tia Kupa.

The pilot’s door hinged back and he stepped out. No, not he, not with those curves rounding out the tight blue jeans and that thick black hair swaying to her shoulders. She, and one hell of a she.

She swiveled and walked his way, shoving her hands in the pockets of a black leather flight jacket. The kind of woman his mom would call handsome rather than pretty. Statuesque. Square jaw, cut cheekbones, smooth skin a little darker than his own, dark brown freckles splattered across her nose and cheeks. Maybe thirty, so about his age. She had the commanding aura of an officer, someone who quietly assumed she’d be respected, and thus was respected. Māori, he guessed.

You’re my guy? She pushed sunglasses off her face and looked him down and up. Her eyes weren’t the brown he’d expected—not that he’d stopped to think about it—but a blazing green, almost hard to look at with the sun striking them. The kayaker?

"Yes, ma’am. Tex—I mean Cody. It felt weird to be that guy again—no one called him Cody anymore. But introducing himself as Texas" felt off. His commando team had inflicted the nickname on him years ago but he didn’t offer it around.

She assessed his shiny orange kayak, nose to stern. You might want to ditch the price tag. She nodded at the ticket attached to a grab loop.

Yeah. Easier to buy a new kit than transport it. Not that he needed to explain.

If you have the money, sure, why not? There was a bite in her voice. Yep, she had him all figured out. The kind of adventure tourist who bought new gear and chartered a helicopter? He wouldn’t take kindly to that guy, either. But hey, who cared what she thought, as long as she dropped him somewhere remote and deserted. I’m busting for a wee. Keep an eye on her for me. She waved vaguely at the chopper.

He looked left and right. Apart from the security guard, who was sitting slumped at a graying bench dragged up against the hangar wall, there was no life for several dead-flat miles. You expecting a hijacking or a parking ticket?

Funny, she said, her tone indicating it wasn’t. Don’t go any closer till I get back.

She flicked her sunglasses onto her nose and walked away, ruffling her hair, her stride lithe and confident. Owning it.

He knelt over his kayak and pulled a water bottle from one of the dry bags stashed in the hull. He’d been crazy thirsty since Hong Kong, like the flight had sucked the water from his body.

Hey, Cody, Tia called from the hangar a couple of minutes later. Give me a hand with these.

He stowed the bottle and strolled over, the sun warming one side of his face. She waited by a roller door. Two single kayaks were lined up in front of her, faded and scratched, one yellow, one green, paddles balanced on top. As he neared, she nodded at the nose grab loops while she grasped the stern ones.

It’s not meant to be a group tour, he said as they lifted. They better not be taking anyone else.

They’re for a couple of tourists who are climbing the glacier and crossing the peaks before doing the Awatapu. The conventional route.

Right. Because he hadn’t earned the downriver kayak without first hauling ass uphill? Whatever.

Glaciers are too slow, he said, walking. The kayaks were lighter than he’d expected—but then, the climbers would be carrying a lot of their gear. When are these guys due at the river?

Tomorrow afternoon.

Extra incentive not to mess around. Not that people usually caught up to him on any river, let alone a fast one. They dropped the boats near the chopper and in silent accord returned for his kayak.

You’ve kayaked before, right? She knelt before the port skid and began fitting heavy-duty straps to it.

Yep, he said, yanking off his boat’s price tag. The elastic gave with a snap that made her head turn. He caught a hint of a smile. He’d taken it off so it wouldn’t flap during the ride, but he stopped short of explaining.

You know the Awatapu is a grade six? Messy rapids, waterfalls, boulder gardens, sieves that’ll suck you under and keep you forever, snags to lose a battleship in...

Tremendo. Yes, ma’am.

You know no one does it solo?

I do a lot of things solo. I like it that way. Not quite true. Not a lie. In a parallel life where things hadn’t gone to shit, he’d have been standing here with his brother, racing to be first into her good books and maybe even her bed. In this life, yeah, he was a loner, outside the legion. The shine had gone out of chasing women, like it had a lot of things.

You know there’s no mobile reception, and no one passes by? These climbers are the only others up there. Her lips tightened. The only ones presumed alive.

"You didn’t think of talking me out of it before I paid you?"

Hell, no. I need the money. But we’ve already lost four tourists on the river this spring and it’ll be bad for business to lose a fifth. So just...don’t die. Her tone caught somewhere between dry humor and genuine concern.

"Wait, four tourists? I heard about two, a month or so back."

"Another couple went missing a fortnight ago. The tapu had only just been lifted after the last pair."

Tapu?

"If a place is tapu, it’s sacred or forbidden. When someone dies up there, it becomes tapu until it’s blessed."

"When someone dies. This happens often?"

There’s a reason the river’s called Awatapu. But I’m hoping like hell both couples are waiting for us up at the hut, living off eels and huhu grubs.

He noted her pronunciation—Ah-wah-tah-pu. Long vowels, a soft T, even stresses on the syllables. Not far off Spanish. What’s it mean?

The forbidden river, the sacred river. Want to lift your kayak and paddle up here, and I’ll strap them?

And... Wairoimata? he said, hoisting the craft, following her lead on the pronunciation, rolling the R. That’s the name of the town I’m getting out at, right?

"Yeah. Wai means water, roimata is tears."

Water of tears. Uplifting names. Did you fly them in—the missing tourists?

She frowned as she strapped the kayak. The ones from two weeks ago, yes. Danish couple. Experienced kayakers.

But not the others—the first couple?

I didn’t think they could handle the paddle. Both couples are officially still missing, but yeah, it’s a safe bet they won’t be walking out. We’ve had some late-season snowfalls so it’s not a good time to be lost in the bush. Not that there’s ever a good time.

He pictured the terrain he’d flown over—the Alps, subalpine scrublands, rainforest... Guess it can be tough to find people out there.

She tugged at the kayak—it didn’t budge—then straightened and dusted her hands on her jeans. Yep. I was up there long days, searching. I’ll be paying off the fuel for months.

You cover your own fuel on a search and rescue?

She picked up the remaining straps and walked to the other side. I’m funded to a point, she said as they got to work. But what am I supposed to do when the budget maxes out, leave them out there? And I took the second couple in, so... They’re probably snagged in tree roots, caught in a sieve. They’ll be flushed out soon, with the snow melting in the tops. The river always gives up its dead. The bush, not so much.

I’m getting the idea these aren’t the first people to disappear up there.

She gave him a sideways look. How much research did you do on this river?

Enough to know it’s one of the wildest kayaking runs anywhere.

See, I’d have thought that would warn people away, but it just seems to attract them. I’ve never understood that urge to put yourself in danger.

And yet you fly a helicopter.

I fly it very safely. Her voice strained as she pulled a strap. The lucky ones get airlifted out with broken limbs. Of course, by then they’ve usually been waiting awhile—hungry, dehydrated, hypothermic...

"You trying to talk me out