Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Jenna was sitting on the couch in the front room when Cort arrived, as promised, slightly less than five minutes after ending the telephone call. He looked to be about the same age as Noah, a little taller and a little leaner, but no less grizzled. His bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothing—khakis and a tropical-patterned short-sleeved shirt—conveyed the impression of someone who had crashed after an all-night party.

He gave her an appraising look, then glanced around, as if searching for someone else. “Where’s your friend?”

Jenna did not answer directly. “You’ve got cameras here, right? That’s how you knew it was me?”

Mercy had not liked the idea of waiting around for Cort to come to them, but Jenna saw no alternative. “If it is a trap,” she had told Mercy, “we’re already in it. What we have to do now is give ourselves a way out.”

Mercy was hiding somewhere nearby, keeping an eye and the barrel of her pistol trained on the house. If Cort showed up with a posse in tow, or gave any hint of treachery, she would do what she could to provide cover for Jenna’s escape. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now Jenna felt as alone as she had during the ordeal with the Villegas brothers.

Cort laughed—a short barking sound—and sank into a chair on the opposite side of the room. “That’s your first question? After everything you’ve been through?”

“This place is some kind of safe house, right? Cameras, remote locks, who knows what else. That tells me you’re working for the government…well, a government. I’m not sure which one. I think the men that tried to kill me work for the government, too. So…yeah, that’s my first question.”

She held his gaze, as curious about how he would react, as she was about what he would say. His eyes did not move.

Of course not. He knows all the same tricks that Noah taught me. I’ll never know if he’s lying.

“Let’s just cut to the chase, then. Yes, I work for the government. Our government. Just like your father did—”

“He wasn’t my father.” It was out of her mouth before she could even think about whether it was the right thing to say.

Cort’s expression did not change. “Now see, I thought your first question would have something to do with that.”

Jenna did not allow herself to be derailed. “So you do work for the government.”

“Yes, but not for the people that are after you. Not exactly. It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it,” she said. “Or I’m out of here.”

Cort drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. It was the closest thing to a ‘tell’ that Jenna had seen from him. She thought he might be stalling. Finally he cleared his throat. “Why don’t you invite your friend in? She might be interested in what I have to say.”

Jenna shook her head. “I feel safer with her right where she is.”

“Suit yourself.” Cort stood up. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? There are some Cokes in the fridge.”

Definitely stalling. Jenna stood up and headed for the door.

“Wait.”

She stopped but did not turn.

“I need you to see something. In the signal room.”

“What’s a signal room?”

“It’s like an office. Come on. I’ll show you.”

“If you’re wasting my time…” She let the threat hang. She was not exactly in a position to make demands. The only leverage she had was the ability to walk out the door, and the price for that would be abandoning the search for answers.

Cort led her into a short hall with three doors. The first was slightly ajar, revealing a bathroom. The other two were closed. He opened one of the latter and led Jenna into a space that looked more like the control room of a space ship than a mere office. One entire wall was dominated by enormous flat screen television monitors. There was a long utilitarian desk with two open laptop computers, along with printers, scanners, telephones and other devices that Jenna did not recognize. Large computer servers dominated one entire wall, while the wall opposite the screens was lined with gun-metal gray freestanding cabinets.

Cort moved to the desk and started pushing buttons, waking up the computers and turning on the televisions. He tuned the TVs to different twenty-four-hour cable news networks, and in a matter of just a few seconds, the room was filled with a crowd of voices, all talking over each other. Yet, even though the voices were not synchronized, the various stations were reporting the same story—the story that had been playing when she had walked into Mercy’s bar the previous night. Each news service called it something different, but the gist was the same: Bio-terrorism in China.

“Are you following the story?” Cort asked, gesturing at the screens.

“Been a little busy with something else.”