Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Jenna had chosen this spot for the crossing for a very specific reason—a road intersected the canal here. Even without a car, a road was critical to her plan. She searched the darkness until she found the turn off, and then beckoned Mercy to follow.

Her goal lay a mile away, a fifteen minute walk at a brisk pace, but Jenna wasn’t sure they had fifteen minutes. So she ran. At first, the pain of her many superficial injuries, compounded by the gnawing emptiness in her gut and the throbbing pain of a persistent headache, made the run feel like an exercise in self-torture. But the situation’s urgency got her through the first few steps, and after that, she settled into an almost mindless rhythm, dissociated from the pain. Mercy kept up, and after a few minutes, Jenna stopped looking back.

The road led through a wooded area, deepening the darkness, but also providing some concealment from the drone still buzzing above. Not that they needed to hide. Jenna’s plan relied more on what they would do once they reached their destination and less on concealment.

She slowed to a trot and checked their progress with the GPS dot on the map. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and the phone display was painfully bright. She cupped a hand over it to shield the light, both from her own eyes and from the drone, and she squinted at the map.

“We’re almost there,” she announced. “There’s a turn-off just ahead.”

“A turn-off to what?” Mercy asked. There was a hint of irritation in her voice. She had followed Jenna this far without question or complaint, but seemed to be reaching her limit for acts of blind faith.

Jenna stalled a few moments longer until the promised turn-off appeared. There was a gate across the drive, a metal beam designed to block vehicle access. No one in their right mind would be traipsing around out here on foot after business hours. As if to emphasize this fact, a low throaty roar—like the sound of someone trying to start a chainsaw—issued from the darkness. Jenna could make out the silhouette of a large sign, just off to the side of the road, and although she couldn’t make out the words or pictures painted on it, she knew that it held the answer to Mercy’s question.

“Gator Station,” she said, clambering over the gate.

“As in ‘alligator?’” Mercy had heard the unseen creature’s bellow and her annoyance deepened.

“It’s one of those tourist places,” Jenna said. “Don’t worry. Gators are usually timid. They’ll run away from us.”

“So now you’re an expert on alligators?” Mercy stood, unmoving, on the other side of the gate.

Jenna did not consider herself an expert, but you couldn’t get through the Florida public school system without doing at least one or two reports on the apex reptilian predator. “They’ll leave us alone if we stay on the road.”

She hoped that was true. The place was a tourist park after all, and while that didn’t necessarily mean that the creatures were domesticated, she was pretty sure that there would be safety measures in place to prevent the animals from having free run of the park.

Mercy gave a sigh and was just starting to climb over the gate when a different noise disrupted the quiet. The sharp zipping sound came from behind Mercy and passed by Jenna’s head, making her flinch. It was followed by a soft, muffled cough.

She spun away from the gate. There was not a doubt in her mind that someone had just shot at them, someone close by, using a suppressed weapon. The noise repeated as Mercy dropped down next to her. The round pinged off the gate.

“Run!”

Mercy needed no further urging. They both sprinted into the alligator park. Over the sound of their footsteps, it was impossible to tell whether more shots followed.

As she ran, Noah’s old advice replayed in Jenna’s head—run toward a gun—and she felt anger supersede her impulse for self-preservation. Part of it was the memory of the man that she now knew was not her father, not in the sense that mattered. But mostly it was anger at having to flee. Again. She was tired of running. She wanted to turn and fight.

To do so would be suicidal, she knew. One or more of the men hunting her had followed on foot.

They probably have night vision goggles, Jenna thought, just like Noah and his team had used.

Don’t think about that, she told herself. Focus on surviving. You can’t fight if you’re dead.

Her hand found the pistol still tucked in her waistband. It had been immersed during the swim in the canal and she wondered if it would still fire. Probably, but until she could see a target, there was no point in wasting bullets.