Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Outside, the situation was no less disorienting. Aft, the mostly intact deck was canted upward, like a ramp leading nowhere. Most of the superstructure—the top of the cabin and everything that had extended up above it—was gone, ripped out by the roots. The hulls of the vessels in neighboring slips—the First Attempt and the Martha Ann—rose up on either side, looking none the worse for wear. The sight of the two completely intact boats hit Jenna like a cold slap of reality. The only home she had even known was in ruins all around her, and the rest of the world would just keep going on like nothing had happened.

The forward end of the Kilimanjaro was completely gone past the galley, split apart like a mailbox vandalized by a delinquent with a cherry bomb. What was left of the front end was settling quickly into the harbor. Whatever Noah had done with the bomb in the last few seconds before the timer ran out had focused most of the blast energy out the front end. His quick thinking had saved their lives.

Jenna started to crawl up toward the still dry aft deck, but Noah pulled her back. “Not that way. The sniper is still out there. We have to make him think we’re dead.”

“We’re going to be in about three seconds,” Jenna replied, and in her head, an involuntary countdown started. Three alligators…two…

“We’ll swim out.” He pointed into the dark water below. Jenna didn’t look where he was pointing though. Her gaze was fixed on the enormous gash that stretched across his forehead, streaming blood down into his eyes. “Jenna, focus. You have to follow me. Keep your head down. Don’t let him see you. Do you understand?” He shook her arm. “Jenna, do you understand?”

She nodded.

“If we get separated, for any reason, go to Mercy.”

“Separated?”

“Time to go.” Without further explanation, Noah let go of her arm and half-slid, half-crawled down the tilted deck until he was in the water. She saw how he kept himself pressed flat against the floor, staying low to avoid detection. His movements seemed automatic, like second nature.

Who are you? she thought, but the question felt wrong. She knew who he was, at that moment. Who he’d been for a long time. The real question is, who did you used to be?

Jenna put the mystery out of her thoughts and did her best to imitate him. She splashed into the water beside him, and then, at his signal, she took a deep breath and plunged her head under the surface.

The water stung her eyes. It was full of diesel fuel and battery acid and who knew how many other chemicals leaking from the ruined yacht, but below was the lukewarm salty soup of the Gulf. She saw Noah swimming through the green murk, diving down deep into the shadows beneath the First Attempt’s keel. She twisted her body around, and kicked after him. She looked back just once and saw the remains of the Kilimanjaro, slowly sinking toward the bottom of the harbor.

Noah angled his body upward and surfaced under the wooden pier that ran alongside the First Attempt. Jenna came up right next to him and slowly exhaled. She could hold her breath for two full minutes, so the short swim had hardly been a warm-up.

Rays of sunlight slipped through the gaps between the boards overhead and cast surreal stripes across Noah’s craggy, blood-streaked visage. For a moment Jenna felt as if she was looking at a stranger.

“Stay here,” he said.

He took a deep breath and arched his body in preparation to dive, but Jenna caught hold of his arm before he could slip beneath the water again. “Where are you going?”

“Emergency services are probably on their way. He’ll have to bug out soon.”

He? Noah was talking about the sniper on the roof of the bait shop, but Jenna failed to see how that was any kind of answer. “So let him.”

He offered a smile that was both patient and very, very cold. “Someone just tried to kill us, Jenna girl. I’d like to know who that someone is, wouldn’t you?”

Jenna was surprised to find herself in agreement. For the first time since discovering the bomb, her instincts were telling her that it was time, not to flee, but to fight. When Noah plunged beneath the water once more, she was right behind him.





4



6:35 p.m.



Jenna edged out from under the pier just far enough to peek up at the sloping sheet metal roof of the imposing structure that looked down on the marina. She and Noah had always called it ‘the bait shop,’ but it was several different businesses under one roof: the marina offices, a general store, several tour operators and a few gift shops and restaurants. Movement drew Jenna’s eyes. Someone was on the roof, just beyond the peak. A man wearing a tropical print shirt. She couldn’t make out his features, but she recognized the shirt.

“It’s Ken,” she whispered. Ken Soebel had been one of their clients for the day’s fishing trip.

Noah gave her a dark look. “I told you to stay put.”

She didn’t respond. Her thoughts were occupied with the question of how she’d spent the last eight hours in close-quarters with someone who had been planning to kill them, and had not sensed a threat from the man. Not even a hint. So much for listening to my gut.