Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

“Just past six. How are you feeling?”


Jenna sat up, pleased to discover that her various injuries didn’t hurt anywhere near as bad as she had expected, especially considering the cramped conditions. The road-weary Ford Fiesta was not the luxury ride Jenna would have preferred, but it was the only vehicle available. Mercy had driven and Jenna, after devouring a smorgasbord of snack crackers, chips and candy bars, had slept.

“Good as new,” Jenna replied, stretching in place and probing the cuff of gauze around her left arm. It was tender, but the bandage remained dry and supple, which told her the wound was closed and healing. When she had cleaned and dressed the wound, Mercy had remarked that it didn’t look too serious, which was welcome news, but a bit of a surprise to Jenna. It had felt pretty serious when the blade had gone in. But she was a fast healer, or so she had always been told.

Such swift healing didn’t come without a price. She was still famished, and she said so.

Mercy considered the statement. “Normally, I’d say let’s go grab a breakfast burrito.”

“But?”

“I don’t have any cash, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to use plastic. I’m sure that’s the kind of thing they’ll be watching for.”

Jenna was a little surprised that Mercy had thought of that, and even more so that she had not. The realization blindsided her with a rush of emotion, crushing her good mood. She thought this must be how people felt when they got a terminal diagnosis from their doctor. “Wow.”

Mercy looked at her sidelong. “What?”

“I just realized how completely screwed I am…we are. They’re going to keep coming after us. We can’t go back to our lives. We don’t have anything. We can’t even buy a breakfast burrito.”

Mercy laid a hand on her arm. “You’re still alive, Jenna. They sent four guys after you, but you’re still breathing. We’ll get through this. Now, let’s go talk to Cort, and then see what happens. Okay?”

Jenna managed a bleak nod. She hadn’t told Mercy about Zack’s comments, but Mercy already understood that the men hunting them had an official sanction.

They got out and Jenna followed Mercy from the parking lot to the sidewalk running along a busy seven-lane thoroughfare. Businesses and office buildings, many of which appeared to be vacant, lined both sides of the road. Her first ever look at Miami did not match her expectations. Maybe things were different closer to the urban center or in the distinctive neighborhoods that she had always heard people talk about—Little Havana, South Beach and so forth—but this area did not appear that much different from Key West. She paid attention to the unfamiliar environment, noting the street signs. If she got separated from Mercy or had to make a quick escape, some sense of where things were would help.

She wondered how Mercy had been able to find her way here. Noah’s notebook was gone, probably lost forever in the marsh, and Jenna knew that Mercy had gotten only a quick glance at the page with Bill Cort’s address. Maybe Mercy had an eidetic memory, too. Anything was possible.

Two blocks down from the supermarket, they turned west and headed into a residential neighborhood. The street was narrow and dark, mostly lit by the porch lights of the modest houses they passed. The humid air hummed with the buzz of insects and the electrical current passing through overhead power lines, but this only accentuated the otherworldly stillness and added to Jenna’s growing apprehension. A few windows were lit from within, early risers getting ready for a day at the office.

Something about that seemed wrong. It took her a few moments to remember that it was Sunday. It felt like days had passed since the bomb blew her entire life into chaos, but it hadn’t even been twelve hours. I’ve got school tomorrow, she thought, and she wondered when or if she would ever see her friends and teachers again.

“That’s the place,” Mercy said, pointing to an innocuous looking single-story cottage. The house had bars on the screen door and windows, just like every other house on the block. A wrought iron perimeter fence boxed in a neatly trimmed lawn. There was no car in the carport, and unlike the other homes, which had a lived-in look, this house gave a distinct impression of emptiness. Jenna recalled that the first address for Cort had been crossed out, suggesting that he had moved at some point during the years following Noah’s decision to compose a record of his mission. What if Cort had moved again, after the notebook had been secreted away in the Aerojet silo?

What if this is a dead end?

Mercy rested a hand on the fence and looked at Jenna. “Shall we go ring the bell?”