Flood Rising (A Jenna Flood Thriller) (3 page)

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.

Zack was still out there, probably only a few blocks away. He was the bad guy, the one that should be face down and grabbing pavement. Jenna wondered if she ought to tell the deputies about him. She rolled her head to the side and was about to whisper that question to Noah when she caught a glimpse of another vehicle rolling up, a black SUV with no lights or identifying marks.

Two men got out. They wore blue windbreakers, and looked enough alike that they might have been brothers. The most obvious differences were cosmetic. One had a military buzz cut while the other had a neatly trimmed if somewhat pedestrian mall-salon hairstyle. They looked exactly like action-movie detectives, and Jenna wasn’t at all surprised when one of them waved a badge case at the deputies. “Federal agents. Stand down.”

What happened next wasn’t exactly what Jenna expected. The deputies did not lower their guns or start grumbling about jurisdiction. Instead, they turned their guns on the new arrivals.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” shouted the senior of the two. He glanced quickly at his partner and added. “Jimmy, secure the suspects. I got this.”

The agents seemed momentarily taken aback by the reception, but did as instructed, raising their hands and doing nothing that might provoke a violent response. Jimmy, the younger deputy, circled around Noah and Jenna, his aim never wavering.

The agent who had flashed his badge seemed to grasp that the deputies weren’t going to simply stand aside. “Deputy, please. We’re all on the same side here, but you need to stand down.”

When the uniformed officer didn’t respond, the agent continued, “Check my credentials if you must, but we have to get these people out of here. They’re in immediate danger.”

These people
, thought Jenna.
He’s talking about us. But how could he know that we’re in danger, when we only just figured it out ourselves five minutes ago?

The deputy lowered his pistol and waved the agent forward. The man with the buzz cut stepped up and held his badge up again for closer inspection. From where she lay, Jenna could make out the gold shield topped with an eagle.

“FBI,” mused the deputy. He glanced from the identification card to the agent and back again, then took a step back, his posture wary but no longer quite as assertive. “Special Agent Cray, you need to take this up the chain. Our job right now is to secure this scene until the detectives get here, so I suggest you get back in your car and sit tight.”

Agent Cray did not look pleased by the deputy’s reticence, but as he pocketed his badge, he gestured again in Jenna’s direction. “Can we at least get them someplace where they’ll be less exposed?”

The older deputy glanced back, uncertainty giving way to resignation. “Jimmy, pat ‘em down. Make sure they’re not carrying. Then we’ll put them in the patrol car.” He looked back to the agents. “That work for you?”

“I’d prefer my vehicle,” said Cray. “They aren’t suspects, deputy. They’re material witnesses, and I’d like to keep anyone from seeing them.”

Jenna looked back and saw the younger deputy holster his weapon and approach Noah as cautiously as he might a sleeping alligator. “You packing? Got any blades or anything sharp on you?”

It seemed like a ridiculous question to Jenna. Noah was wearing board shorts and a white T-shirt with the
Kilimanjaro Expeditions
logo, both garments soaked and clinging to his skin. Even if he had owned a weapon—which he did not—there was nowhere for him to hide it on his person.

But instead of answering in the negative, Noah spoke in a low voice, barely loud enough for Jenna to hear. “Deputy, listen to me. Those men are not federal agents. You absolutely must not let them put my daughter in their vehicle.”

“Right,” replied Jimmy, making no effort to conceal the exchange. “They’re not feds. I’ll just take your word for that.”

Not federal agents?
Jenna was still trying to make sense of Noah’s claim when she saw the older deputy glance back at them, his face creased with concern and indecision. There was nothing indecisive, however, about Cray’s reaction. With startling swiftness, he brushed back his windbreaker, drew a pistol from a holster clipped to his belt, and fired at point blank range into the deputy’s chest.

A gun appeared in the hands of the second agent, even as the report from Cray’s weapon reached Jenna’s ears. Jimmy, in the act of kneeling to frisk Noah, was caught off balance and stumbled as the second agent fired in his direction. Noah rolled sideways, getting closer to Jenna, and shouted something. Jimmy recovered from his fall, and from a kneeling position, tried to unholster his pistol. More shots sounded—Cray and the other agent firing together. Jimmy fell again.

A hand clapped down on Jenna’s shoulder. It was Noah, his face just inches from hers. “Run!”

Jenna felt stuck in place, caught in the flypaper of too many things happening all at once, but Noah broke her from the inertia with a shove that rolled her onto her side. She saw him lift up on hands and knees, his back to the agents, his body in between her and their weapons.

“Run!” he shouted again.

Something warm and wet sprayed across Jenna’s face. She blinked and twitched her head involuntarily, and when she opened her eyes she saw…

“No!”

The scream came unbidden. Noah’s T-shirt, just below the silk-screened silhouette of the
Kilimanjaro
, was stained bright red.

Noah was grimacing, but his eyes never left her. “Run,” he repeated, but this time it was only a whisper.

Behind him, the agents had stopped shooting and were moving forward, guns still out. The one named Cray locked stares with her. “We’re not going to hurt you,” he promised. “But you have to come with us.”

Jenna ran.

6

6:41 p.m.

Flight.

It wasn’t what her gut was telling her to do, not with Noah’s blood drying on her face.

As she sprinted along the side of the bait shop, Jenna heard Cray shouting after her, repeating his assertion that he intended no harm to her. She had no reason to believe him, but if he was telling the truth, she might be able to get close enough to fight.

But Noah had told her to run.

Not federal agents…must not let them put my daughter in their vehicle
.

The realization almost stopped her in her tracks. She could almost get her head wrapped around the idea that Carlos Villegas was trying to kill them, but how did the rest of it fit?

She was missing something, something that Noah had figured out before he…

Jenna refused to let herself finish that thought. Noah had told her to run, and that’s what she was going to do. She rounded the corner and kept running.

The boardwalk that connected the marina to the bait shop was crowded with firefighters, deputies and curious spectators. She considered running to one of the deputies, or trying to lose herself in the crowd, but she rejected the idea. The bogus agents had not hesitated to use violence against law enforcement officials, and she didn’t think they’d let the danger to innocent bystanders stop them either. Noah had told her to run, but he hadn’t told her where.

Yes he did.

If we get separated, for any reason, go to Mercy
.

Jenna veered away from the ramp leading down to the dock and vaulted onto the handrail that ran the length of the boardwalk. It was about twenty feet to the water below, which did not seem very far, until she was looking down at it. Her momentum overcame any uncertainty, and as the oily surface rushed up, she straightened her body and brought her hands together ahead of her. She felt a warm slap, and then the murky green enfolded her.

She turned her palms out and arched her back, leveling out, swimming parallel to the surface without rising. As the water absorbed the initial energy of the dive, she continued propelling herself forward in a graceful underwater breaststroke until she reached the shadows beneath the nearest pier.

There was no sign of pursuit, but she stayed where she was, peering up at the blurry outline of the bait shop and the barely visible figures moving in front of it. The water felt soothing against her skin, and the simple act of holding her breath forced her to remain calm, when she felt like screaming.

Go to Mercy
.

She turned and swam deeper into the darkness below the moorage. A splash warbled through the water, and her gaze was drawn to the shattered remains of the
Kilimanjaro
resting on the harbor floor more than thirty feet below her. Figures were moving through the water above the wreck: a pair of rescue divers checking for survivors inside.

With their masks, the divers would have no trouble spotting her if she got too close. She thought about the two deputies and the two men who had claimed to be agents, and decided it was better to avoid being seen.

She had to get out of the marina unnoticed, and the only way to do that was to stay in the water, swim out of the marina and make for one of the island’s beaches. It would be a long swim, but the real challenge would be avoiding detection. She would have to swim near the surface to breathe, and that would put her in view of anyone watching from the bait shop, including the killers who knew that she was in the water.

I could swim underwater
, she thought. The SCUBA equipment in the
Kilimanjaro
’s aft locker had probably survived the explosion, but with rescue divers crawling all over the wreck, there was no way to reach it.

Then it occurred to her that there were other places to get diving gear.

The idea of stealing from one of her neighbors was so foreign to Jenna that, for a few seconds, she could almost believe that a little cartoon devil on her shoulder had whispered it into her head.

I could never do that. Noah would kill me for even considering
…

The thought slipped away, not because of the grief that it might unleash, but because she knew she had it completely wrong. Stealing someone’s dive gear to get out of this mess was exactly the kind of thing Noah
would
want her to do—not the Noah she thought she knew, but the man who seemed to know all about how to survive a bomb blast and how to kill a man with his bare hands. The Noah who could sense danger, told her to run and gave his life to make sure she got away.

A spasm in her chest reminded her why she needed a self-contained underwater breathing apparatus, and she slowly rose to the surface to fill her lungs, staying close to the hull of one of the parked boats and well out of anyone’s line of sight. Just as quickly, she dove back down, staying beneath the dock where no one would see her.

At least half of the boats in the marina had dive gear, but even with the distraction, Jenna didn’t think she could make it aboard any of them unnoticed. She had a different destination in mind.

She swam the length of the pier, coming up for air twice. When she reached the end of the long dock, she swam down until she felt the urge to pop her ears, deep enough she reckoned, for the water to hide her from surface view. She leap-frogged to the next row of boats. From the end of the second pier, she could make out a converted houseboat at the far edge of the harbor, and the weathered, hand-painted sign with the familiar red and white ‘diver down’ flag. It had yellow letters that read:
Dive ‘n’ Moore SCUBA Shop
.

John Moore’s dive shop was a regular stop for Noah and many of the other charter operators on their way out into the Gulf. It was a last chance to rent equipment and a place to pick up tourists eager to put their freshly minted PADI certifications to real world use. There would be plenty of gear in John’s storeroom, and with the attention of nearly everyone else in the marina fixed on the emergency response, the odds were good that she could slip in and out without attracting any notice.

She made the crossing to the pier where the dive shop was permanently moored. She lingered just below the houseboat’s deck for a moment, checking to ensure that no one could see her, then pulled herself up and out of the water, before crawling close to the exterior wall.

So far, so good.

The main entrance to the dive shop was situated on the side that faced out toward the marina, but there was a second, private door that opened closer to the pier. From the corner of the structure, Jenna could see the door and the long dock that led back toward the bait shop. There were a dozen people scattered along the dock, all staring across the harbor at the unfolding drama. To reach the door, she would have to risk being spotted, but given the distance, it was doubtful that any of them would recognize her, much less realize what she was doing.

She took a calming breath and stepped out into the open, taking confident but measured steps to avoid looking conspicuous. She stopped at the door, cast a sidelong glance in the direction of the spectators, and then grasped the doorknob.

Unlocked.

She let her breath out in a sigh of relief, then eased the door open a few inches and looked inside. It occurred to her, too late to do anything about it, that the door might be equipped with an electronic signal or even something as low-tech as a bell, but the only sound she heard was the faint rasp of the door’s weatherstrip brushing the threshold.

The back door let open to a small sales floor adorned with racks of sundry dive accessories, wet-suits, T-shirts and other souvenirs. She had an unrestricted view of the interior, all the way through to the open front entrance. Off to one side was a counter, and behind it, an open door that led, she assumed, to the storeroom where the more valuable equipment was kept. The shop appeared deserted. John was probably just outside, watching, along with everyone else.

She pulled the door shut and darted to the end of the counter, crouching behind it. She crouch-walked until she was at the door to the back room. She edged around the doorpost, saw that the coast was clear, and then slipped through.

During her swim, she had compiled a mental shopping list, the bare minimum of equipment she would need to swim out of the marina and reach her next destination: mask, snorkel, fins, buoyancy compensator, twenty-pound belt, regulator and a filled gas cylinder. She wouldn’t be swimming very deep, no need to worry about decompression sickness. A twelve-liter bottle would more than suffice.

The back room was well organized, and she was quickly able to locate the first few items on her list. She stuffed her selections into a nylon mesh carrying bag, and then moved to a row of bright yellow tanks, lined up with near-military precision. Each one had a paper tag wired to the K-valve fitting, which noted the date it had been filled and the internal pressure measured in bars. She took the closest one and cradled it in her arms.

The squeak of a loose floorboard caused her to look up, but the warning came too late. Her eyes met the weathered visage of John Moore, the dive shop proprietor. He stood warily in the doorway, and then, overcoming his initial surprise, he started toward her.