Page 120 of One Last Chance

The cache cabin where he’d found Flynn was just a ways farther.

And if he remembered correctly—it had a kayak. He’d seen it under the porch when he found Flynn.

“Levi!”

The guy stood upstream, staring at the long swatch of rapids that led to the falls. He turned and lifted his radio. “‘Sup?”

The river thundered, deafening, so Axel stepped away from shore. “Parker is on the move. She got away, and they’re searching for her. They don’t know how far she got, but my guess is that she’ll stay by the river. She’s smart, and she knows that the river crosses roads and trails. I’m going to get farther downstream—I’ll get the kayak at the cache cabin. You keep searching the river.” He didn’t add a “just in case,” but it lingered in the crackle of the radio.

“Roger.”

He lifted a hand, then turned and picked up his pace. Deeper into the woods, a thin deer path cut along the river, and he found it, started to run, his breaths sawing through him.

Hunted.

Oh, God, please don’t let Flynn get between Parker and a bullet.

But he knew her—and, shoot, maybe he was exactly the guy for her, because apparently, she was right . . .

She got into trouble. Purposely.

But he was made for this.

He picked up his pace, found the ranger trail, and took off in a full-out sprint.

The cache cabin sat quiet and lonely in the sunshine. He found the kayak, pulled it out, and checked it over.

Battered and scraped, but seaworthy. And it came with a life jacket.

He grabbed the paddle, then carried it to the river. Strapped on the jacket.

Then he got in. No skirt, but he didn’t care about getting wet.

He pushed out into the river, found the current, read the Vs and eddies, the color of the river, the edge drops, rode the outside edges of bends. Spray soaked his shirt, his face, and he kept his body loose, sitting back, letting the waves take him, a bobber in the water, flying downstream.

The first falls roared ahead, a drop that gathered spray, and steam roiling off the boil at the bottom. The waves turned into mini cauldrons, so he moved his body over the bow, digging across the waves with his paddle, pulling harder.

He shot over the turbulence into a breaking wave, the foamy edge trying to upset his upstream edge. He lifted his upstream knee, arced his paddle over the froth on the downstream side, and kept his seat.

He spotted a diagonal wave and turned to hit it perpendicular, his speed high to carry him through.

And then he hit the lip of the falls. He rode the green water over, into the curtain.

He loved falls diving in a kayak, the sense of time slowing as he fell with the droplets?—

Today he dropped hard into the plunge pool, punched back up to the boil, and kept moving.

Water had flooded into his kayak, but he let the river take him, and he moved over the bow, paddling hard over the edges, through the Vs. He spotted the channel to the next falls ahead, where the river narrowed, and forced himself to relax.

He rode the current down, the splash soaking him, sliding into two short drops before hitting the ten-foot falls.

The landing took him down, filled his boat, and he surfaced, sodden. But he worked his way to the shore and climbed out.

He rolled the kayak over, let the water dump out, and pulled his radio from the waterproof pouch in his life jacket. “Air One, this is Axel. Do you copy?”

“Copy, Axel.”

“Any update?”

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