Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Zack appeared, gun extended, looking down the side of the building, as if expecting to see her at the far corner. He realized his mistake and glanced down, the gun moving toward her with a slowness that was merely a trick of her senses.

Jenna exploded out of her crouch. She threw her left arm out in a rising block that kept the muzzle of the weapon from finding her, and drove her right fist up, into his exposed throat. Zack staggered back, the gun falling from his fingers, hands clutching protectively at his throat. Jenna however, was just getting started. She drew both hands to her hips and then planted a front-kick into Zack’s sternum. Despite the fact that he outweighed her by a good hundred pounds, when her heel connected, he flew back and went sprawling. Jenna kept her balance and moved gracefully forward, as if this were nothing more than one of her karate katas.

Zack recovered more quickly than she expected, scrambling to his feet and matching her ready stance, and for a fleeting instant, her resolve faltered. Her many years of martial arts training had, without her even realizing it, accustomed her to the idea that sparring matches ended with such a decisive attack. Even though her body knew what to do, her head had, if only momentarily, let her forget that this was a life-or-death struggle.

A bestial growl interrupted whatever was about to happen, and both Zack and she turned to see Noah give Ken’s head a violent twist. Ken’s struggles ceased and his body went completely limp in Noah’s grasp.

The sound of vertebrae being wrenched apart sent a chill through Jenna. Ken was dead. It was as if she could see the life evaporating out of him. She had never seen a person die before, never seen a person killed.

Killed.

Noah just killed someone.

Zack gaped in disbelief for a moment. As Noah shoved the lifeless body of his partner away, Zack turned and ran.

Jenna stood rooted in place, her impulse to fight replaced by a numb paralysis. Noah was suddenly standing before her, sweeping her into his arms—the same arms that had just broken Ken’s neck…

She heard Noah’s voice, felt his breath on her neck. “Are you okay?”

Am I? “Yes.”

She meant it, too. The initial shock of what she had just witnessed was ebbing, and in its place, was an unexpected swell of pride.

They tried to kill us. We fought back.

We won.

They were still standing there, Jenna enfolded in Noah’s protective embrace, when the first Monroe County sheriff’s deputies arrived.





5



6:38 p.m.



“Let me handle this,” Noah whispered in Jenna’s ear. He relaxed his embrace, but only enough to allow him to turn and face the two men in black uniforms who were striding toward them.

One of the approaching deputies spotted Ken’s motionless corpse and reacted instantly, drawing his service pistol and thrusting it toward them. His partner did the same.

Jenna started—more guns, pointed at her—but Noah held her fast. He raised his hands slowly, and she did the same. She could see the fear and confusion in the deputies’ faces. They had no idea what was going on, but had been trained to meet any perceived threat with open aggression. The news was full of stories about people killed by law enforcement officers who overreacted.

That would be just perfect, she thought. Survive the killers, and then get killed by cops.

“Move away from her,” shouted one of the deputies.

“He’s my dad.” The words were out before she could even think.

“Jenna, it’s okay.” He took a slow step to the side, and raised his hands even higher. “Just do what they say. We didn’t do anything wrong, but they don’t know that.”

“On your knees,” ordered the same officer, while his younger partner yelled, “Face down. Grab the pavement.”

The conflicting orders, sprinkled with a dose of tough cop cliché, would have been comical if not for the guns. Jenna decided face down was better than knees and complied, even though she was pretty sure the command was meant for Noah. In the corner of her eye, she saw him getting down as well.

She looked past the two deputies, past the flashing red and blue lights on their white patrol car, to see more emergency vehicles pulling into the main parking area—a fire truck, an ambulance and Key West police officers. She had been a spectator to such a response before, but had never been at the focal point. It was surreal, but oddly comforting; this was how things got back to normal. The police came, and when they left, you picked up and went on with your lives.

Except she knew that was not going to happen. The boat—their home—had been destroyed. People were trying to kill them, and there was no reason to think they would stop after one attempt.