Wild Rain
Page 76

He was as much a part of her as her own head was. When they were together there was magic, laughter
—love. It was a silly, simplistic ideal, but it worked with Rio.
Rachael lifted her head to look at him, to take in his face, feature by feature. Tears swam in her eyes and she had to blink them away. “You’re so beautiful, Rio.” Her throat ached and her eyes burned with love welling up like a fountain.
“You always tell me I’m beautiful. Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful.”
“Maybe you aren’t supposed to be, but you are. I’ve never been around a man like you before.” Her finger tips traced the lines in his face, smoothed over his mouth. She looked into his eyes, and smiled.
“It isn’t just your body that’s so perfect, Rio, you’re such a good man.”
How could a woman tear a man up with a few simple words? Maybe it was the honesty in her expression, the love in her eyes. “Rachael.” Her name came out in a husky whisper. He couldn’t control his own voice.
The radio crackled to life. The sound of gunfire could be heard in short bursts. Someone screamed.
Pandemonium rang out. “Joshua’s hit. Conner’s tr ying to cover Drake and the vics. Damn it. Damn it.”
More static.
Rachael was watching Rio’s face carefully. His expression disappeared and he wore a grim mask.
“How far away are they? How many miles away?”
He looked down at her, blinked, kissed her mouth hard and turned to catch up his rifle. Rachael handed him the two knives lying side by side on the counter.
“Rachael.” He hesitated at the door, radio in hand.
“Just go. Hurry. It’s what you do. I’ll be fine here with Fritz.”
Rio turned and was gone. She didn’t hear him on the verandah. She didn’t hear anything at all. He was as silent in human form as he was in the form of a cat. Rachael limped over to the small counter. Fritz stuck his head out from under the bed to watch her. She smiled at the little leopard. “I may as well see how all this works.”
Rio could hear Rachael mur muring softly to the cat. He shrugged into the harnesses and positioned the weapons for easy access before leaping to the next tree branch. He used creeper vines to swing to some of the closer branches, and hit the forest floor running. He ran through streams and small creek beds, pulled himself up the embankments using the vines and once more took to the trees.
“Coming in from the south,” he reported into the radio.
“Go for Joshua, he’s running hurt, leaving a trail. Conner’s guarding the vics. Team is spreading out to leave tracks.” Drake’s voice came in a stream of static and heavy breathing.
“I’ll intercept. Who’s on Josh?”
“He’s on his own. Hurr y, Rio.”
“Tell him to come to me. I’ll meet him.”
They kept the transmissions brief and spoke in their own dialect, which would be nearly impossible for anyone overhearing to translate. Only members of their species spoke the guttural mixture of tones and words. It was one of their greatest strengths when working.
Rio covered several miles in record time, using Drake’s short bursts of static for direction. He had to get to Joshua before Tomas or one of his men did. Joshua was in trouble, wounded and on his own. The other team members were needed to bring out the many victims and get them to safety.
He heard the sound of a gunshot echoing through the trees. White mist shrouded the canopy as he flung himself through the branches. He was forced to slow down to cross the river, using a precarious route, two low-hanging branches and a creeper vine. He nearly lost his footing, leapt to the next tree, his hands shifting to claws to cling to the bark. The trunk was wide with a multitude of plants growing up it, covering the bark. The branches raised toward the sky, seeking light, but the heavy foliage from the taller trees around it blocked it from the precious source causing the tree’s limbs to curl and the leaves to feather. He flattened himself against the trunk, hooked claws clinging precariously as two bandits consulted in loud whispers beneath him.
The two men were out of breath having run ahead of the melee in the hopes of setting up an ambush.
They consulted in their native tongue, gesturing wildly, all the while staring back toward the sounds of gunfire.
Rio’s breath hissed out slowly as he felt for the closest branch with his foot. He willed them not to look up. As high up as he was, the wind fingered his face, but below, on the forest floor, the air was completely still and sound carried easily. His toes managed to find footing and he eased down, keeping his claws hooked as an anchor as he gained more solid territory. When he was on the branch, he leaned against the trunk and slid his rifle into position, careful not to rustle the leaves. And then he froze, every muscle locked into a ready position as only his kind could do. Waiting. Watching. Marking his prey.
The bandits were oblivious to his presence. They separated, moving off the trail, one bandit crouched low in the leafy foliage of the shrubbery. Impatiently the man flicked a caterpillar from a leaf onto the faint trail. Rio didn’t follow the path of the caterpillar. He never took his gaze from his prey. One hand slipped up to his neck to pull the long knife from its sheath. The rifle remained rock steady, the barrel aimed squarely on target, finger on the trigger. Rio pulled the knife free. Careful to keep the first man in sight, he followed the progress of the second, who had moved ahead and off the trail to climb into the low-hanging branches of a fruit tree. As he climbed, his boot scraped lichen from the trunk and his weight, as he pulled himself up, sent fruit tumbling to the ground.