Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Ignoring the gun barrel pressed up under her ribs, Jenna closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift. Life slowly seeped back into her chilled muscles, but she knew that her continued survival would now depend more on her mental abilities than a swift physical recovery. She would have to convince Cort that she was worth more to him alive than dead.

During their first encounter, the advantage had been his, but now she was in possession of a secret that could change the world. The trick would be convincing Cort that she was telling the truth.

Does he need to know the truth?

The question hit her like an epiphany. Cort was not some potential ally she needed to win over. He was her enemy. He wanted to kill her.

“They will fear you,” the teacher had said, “not because of what you are, but because your very existence will force them to admit what they really are. Humanity has been judged and found wanting, and you are the proof. They will fear you. They will try to kill you.”

Cort had said almost exactly the same thing. They’ll find you! They will kill you!

Almost as an afterthought, the teacher had added. “They cannot be trusted.”

Jenna remembered the teacher’s words vividly, even though she knew now that this was an implanted memory. Not a false memory. It was as real as anything she had experienced. Stranger still, she could feel the rightness of the words. They were a part of her, the only possible explanation for who she was, and why she had always been different than everyone else. She could no more question the validity of these feelings than she could doubt her love of chocolate or her dislike for country music. It was simply who she was. More importantly, it defined what she had to do.

Soter had been more right than he knew when he had spoken of her destiny.

You have work to do.

You have to live.

The car’s abrupt halt roused her from the state of half-sleep, and she opened her eyes to see the familiar road leading up to the observatory. A police car partially blocked the lane, but the officer waved them on and Jenna saw no more evidence of law enforcement. There was no trace of the tourists or civilian personnel. In the brief time since her failed escape, Cort had taken over the observatory and shut it down.

The car continued up the now desolate road and parked in front of the transmitter building. Jenna remained still, staring out the window, until Trace told her to get out. Jenna complied, moving robotically, careful not to do anything to provoke him. The short car ride had restored some of her vital energy, but she was in no shape to fight or run.

As Trace ushered her into the transmitter building, Jenna saw the physical evidence of the battle that had been waged to take the building—gouges in the walls, broken windows, bloodstains—but the bodies had been removed. A miasma of smoke hung in the air but the fire in the electrical room had been put out. The building seemed to be deserted. Jenna saw no one—alive or dead—until she reached the control room.

She took in the scene in gulps of recognition. Mercy was there, alive and apparently unhurt, sitting on the floor with her back to the wall. Soter was there too, looking a little rattled, but otherwise intact. A single gunman stood guard over them.

Next, Jenna saw Cort, still wearing the same tropical shirt, but his trousers had been replaced by baggy sweatpants. He stood with the aid of crutches. His scowl deepened when he saw her. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Until that moment, Jenna had not considered what she must look like. Bruised and battered, still soaking wet, and barely able to stand—if she looked half as wrecked as she felt, then Cort’s remark was probably justified. Still, his words raised a spark of defiance. “Sorry about your leg, Cort. I should have aimed a little higher.”

Her taunt did not evoke the rage she expected. Cort, like all the other killers that had been sent after her, seemed to have mastered the trick of depersonalizing the grim business of sanctioned murder. Instead of retorting with a threat, Cort simply regarded her for a moment then turned to the other person in the room.

Noah Flood came forward, almost at a run, and swept Jenna into his arms.

Jenna felt her sense of reality crumble. She stood there, unable to move, feeling his familiar strength, breathing in his scent, and she felt as if she were once more in the underground river, being carried along by a current too powerful to resist, toward an unknowable fate. She wanted nothing more than to believe that this was real, that Noah was here to rescue her and take her away to safety, but she couldn’t endure the roller coaster of emotions anymore.

“Normally, I’d get all teary-eyed at this little Hallmark moment,” Cort remarked, “But then I remember how many good men you’ve killed today, and I just want to put a bullet through your brain.”

Noah jumped to her defense. “You know that wasn’t her fault.”