Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Thirty alligators. Twenty-nine. “A sniper? What’s going on? Who is doing this?”


Even as she said it, Jenna knew it was a stupid question. Well, maybe not stupid, but definitely the wrong time to ask. Still, it was going to take longer than twenty-seven alligators to wrap her head around the idea that someone was trying to blow them up. That was something so far outside her experience, the only way her fifteen-year old brain—even as sharp and quick as it was—could begin to grasp it all was to begin with why?

Noah had his hands on his hips in that familiar what am I going to do now pose that usually made her smile. He figured out a lot of problems in that pose, and she knew that somehow, he was going to figure this out, too. Of course, it usually took him a little longer than twenty-five seconds.

“Can we just throw it overboard?” she asked.

He usually hated it when she offered suggestions, especially since she was so often right. This time, instead of shushing her, he just shook his head. “Not with that sniper out there. That’s why he’s here. We don’t get to leave and neither does the bomb.”

Twenty-one alligators. Twenty alligators.

Noah darted back to the cooler and peered inside it, cocking his head sideways. “I don’t see a jiggle switch,” he muttered, then looked over his shoulder at her. “Get in the head.”

“What?”

“Sometimes, these things come with an anti-tamper trigger.” Noah’s voice was eerily calm. “If I try to move it, it could explode. The walls of the toilet might shield you enough to survive.”

When she did not move right away, he stopped being calm. “Jenna! Move!”

She jerked into motion and ran to the aft head, sliding the pocket door open just enough to squeeze inside. Despite his warning, she peeked out to watch what he was doing.

Jiggle switch? Anti-tamper trigger? How does he know that? As she thought about this, she realized she’d lost the count. How much time left? Maybe fifteen seconds?

Noah swung the lid of the cooler closed, then moving with excruciating caution, picked it up by the handle. Careful to avoid jarring or tilting it, he turned and headed forward, into the master stateroom. He disappeared inside, then emerged a moment later, moving much more quickly.

Jenna thought he was going to join her, but instead he turned into the galley. When he stepped out again, he carried four 2.5 gallon water jugs, two in each hand. Still moving at a jog, he returned to the stateroom. When he came out again, he was empty-handed and running toward the small toilet compartment. Without saying a word, he pushed inside and pulled her down, covering her with his body.

“Noah,” she whispered, though there was no reason to. “Who is doing this?”

She no longer thought of it as a stupid question. In fact, it was the only thing that mattered now. In about seven seconds, she was probably going to die. There wasn’t anything she or Noah could do about it. All that was left was to answer that one burning question: why?

Who wanted them dead?

Five alligators… four alligators…

Noah didn’t answer. “Cover your head,” he said, much louder than her whisper. “Keep your mouth open.” He opened his mouth in a wide O, and when she tried to emulate him, her ears popped and her jaw hurt.

Two… one…

Zero.

Nothing?

Did I mess up the count? Maybe it’s not—





2



6:32 p.m.



Jenna had been helping Noah run trips on weekends and during breaks from school nearly all her life. They were partners as much as they were family, and often she thought of him more as a mentor than a father. He was not an absentee breadwinner, like the parents of so many of her friends at school. He was always there, including her in everything, teaching and molding her at every opportunity. The Kilimanjaro, Noah’s forty-eight foot Uniflite Yacht Fisherman, was as much a second school for her as it was his place of business, and of course, it was the place they both called home.