Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Jenna didn’t resist. Instead, she reached out with her free hand and in a single smooth motion, seized hold of the computer and slammed it against the side of Cort’s head. The blow dazed him, and she wriggled free of his grasp. In the instant it took him to recover, she found his gun and brought it up, ready to fire.

Cort froze, staring at the barrel of the pistol as if hypnotized. “Jenna, put it down,” he said slowly.

She saw in his eyes that he knew she would shoot, but she also saw that he was calculating his odds of surviving that first shot and taking the gun away from her. He was on the ground, and any move against her would require him to overcome his own inertia. The odds, she decided, were probably in her favor, but Cort knew, as she did, that the best way to deal with a situation like this was to move toward the gun.

She pulled the trigger.

The report was deafening in the small room, but Jenna did not even flinch. A spray of red erupted from Cort’s right thigh, and a curse tore from between his clenched teeth. Jenna kept the gun trained on him, shifting her aim so that it was now trained on his heart.

“Keys.”

“Jenna.” He was breathing fast, angry and in pain. “I can help, but you need to trust me.”

“Give them to me, or I’ll take them off your dead body.”

His hands came up in a gesture of surrender, then he reached slowly toward the pocket just above the spreading red stain. “You won’t make it on your own,” he said, grimacing as he brought out a key ring. “I can bring you in. Keep you safe.”

Despite his evident treachery, the offer was tempting. Cort had given her the answers she sought. He could just as easily have killed her the moment he walked in. She didn’t trust him, but if there was even a chance that he was willing and able to protect her, this would be her only opportunity to accept. If she refused, if she ran, there would be nowhere left to turn for help.

But if I’m as smart and dangerous as everyone seems to think I am, maybe I don’t need help.

She extended her left hand, palm up. He nodded, as if somehow agreeing with the logic of her refusal, and tossed the ring to her. She thought he might try a short throw as a distraction, but the keys landed on her outstretched fingers so precisely that she didn’t even need to break eye contact for the catch. She took a backward step and then bolted from the room, ignoring his shouted parting words.

“They’ll find you! They will kill you!”





37



6:46 a.m.



As she sprinted through the safe house, Jenna heard more shots in quick succession, too many to just be from Mercy’s gun. In the brief time they had to make a plan before Cort’s arrival, they had discussed this possibility. It was their worst case scenario. While she and Mercy had hoped for a positive outcome, the last twelve hours had taught Jenna the importance of making her own luck.

She reached the front door and threw it open. There was a distinctive mechanical click as the remote-controlled deadbolt lock sprang out of the door. She had anticipated that the same mechanism which had allowed her access in the first place might be used to imprison her once inside, so before Cort’s arrival, she had stuffed the bolt hole with a wad of toilet paper to prevent the lock from seating. She had done the same with the screen door, but before she attempted to open it, she took a moment to scan the front yard.

In the brief time that she had been inside, the sky had lightened. The sun was climbing into the sky. While much of the world was still shrouded in shadow, she had no trouble distinguishing three cars that had not been there before, lined up on the street in front of the house. Four men were crouched behind the cars, peering across the street into the semi-darkness between two houses, where Mercy had hid.

Jenna glanced at the key ring in her left hand. The car key was recognizable by its shape and the plastic sheath that contained the alarm remote control. The logo on the fob—a circle with sprouting wings—told her which car it would operate.

Cort rode in style.

A blue Mini Cooper S sat just ahead of two generic-looking sedans that were probably from a government motor pool or a rental fleet. Jenna was reminded of a song she had learned in her early childhood—one of these things is not like the other.

The men at the cars had their backs to her and appeared to be unaware of what had transpired in the house. To reach the Mini, Jenna would first have to get past the fence. Or over it.

Her left arm was pulsing with pain, the sleeve of her shirt dotted red with blood that had oozed through the bandage beneath. A few hours ago, she had barely been able to lift the limb, but now, despite aggravating the wound in the struggle with Cort, she felt certain that the muscles would do whatever she demanded of them.