Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Flood Rising (Jenna Flood #1)

Jeremy Robinson & Sean Ellis




To Cheryl Dalton, for bringing the

readers and authors together





The best way to predict the future is to create it.

—Peter Drucker





1



Stock Island, Florida, USA

Saturday, 6:32 p.m.



Jenna Flood realized two things in the time it took the black numbers on the silver, liquid crystal display to tick between 55 and 54: she was looking at a bomb and she had less than a minute to live.

49…

48…

Jenna took a step back. Her flip-flops slapped against the soles of her feet, the only noise she could hear over the sound of blood roaring in her ears. She wasted the precious seconds wavering in indecision.

Listen to your gut, her father was fond of saying, but make up your own damn mind.

He seemed to always have sage one-liners ready, like some ancient wise man. His first name was actually Nathan, but everyone called him ‘Noah.’ Noah Flood. Despite the funny looks he got when people first heard the name, Jenna thought it actually pleased him to be nicknamed for the world’s most famous mariner. He had been Noah to her since she could talk—not Dad or Daddy.

Jenna’s ability to separate gut instinct from thoughtful rationale was not as finely tuned as Noah’s, which was almost certainly the very point he was trying to make. A visceral gut reaction could alert a person to very real dangers, which was a possibility for an adolescent girl in South Florida. The human body had only two responses to those instinctive warning signals: fight or flight.

Her gut told her to flee. There wasn’t time for any kind of rational approach to this problem. Not for her. But her father...

“Noah!” Her voice sounded shrill in her ears. “Noah! There’s a bomb in here!”

45…

44…

She opened her mouth to shout again, but glimpsed movement on the deck outside. Noah, slid down from the bridge, hands on the rails of the ladder, feet never touching the rungs. He landed on the deck and burst through the cabin door. She waited for him to laugh and admit to a prank, or to chide her for mistaking some harmless piece of equipment for a bomb, but he did neither. Instead, he pushed her aside with a brusqueness she had seen him use only once before, just a week earlier. She had seen a different side of him that day, and it had been so anomalous that she never expected to see it again. Yet, here it was again.

Caught off-balance she started to stumble, but his hand clasped her forearm, steadying her. Then he pulled her behind him, dragging her toward the upper deck’s door.

She craned her head around and caught one last glimpse of the timer counting down—

39…

38…

—before Noah jerked her away. As she followed, she continued the countdown in her head, muttering under her breath. “Thirty-seven alligators, thirty-six alligators…”

What will happen when it gets to zero?

With her mind’s eye, she looked past the numbers on the simple kitchen timer, and saw the rest of it. Several plastic-wrapped blocks of something that looked almost like cheddar cheese, lined the bottom of a sixteen-quart Igloo cooler that someone had left under the table in the small but well-appointed salon. Her gaze had been drawn to it immediately. The lunch-box sized cooler looked completely out of place in the cabin. The galley had not one but two fully functional refrigerators, one of them stocked with a variety of beer and soft-drinks. Clients never brought along coolers, and they certainly never left anything behind.

If she hadn’t been curious about what was inside it, or had just been delayed a minute longer out on the deck… What would have happened?

What was going to happen?

The yellow packets had to be some kind of plastic explosives—C4 or Semtex—that was what they called it in the movies. There were three bricks, each at least as big as a pound of butter. Three pounds of plastique, Jenna wondered, is that a lot?

She thought it must be. Evidently Noah did, too.

“Thirty-four alligators. Thirty-three alligators…”

Her father would know. He had a habit of correcting action movies, commenting on magazine capacities, overpressure waves and how to treat stab wounds. But how did Noah Flood, a fifty-something year old, charter boat operator, know about things like overpressure waves and how many rounds a semi-automatic pistol ought to have?

As Noah opened the door and started through, Jenna heard a sound like a hammer striking the bulkhead above the doorframe. Noah ducked back, uttering a rare profanity, and he peered through the tinted glass windows.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sniper,” Noah said. “Probably up on the roof of the bait shop. He can’t see us in here, but if we try to leave...” He shook his head. “He’ll keep us pinned down here until the bomb takes care of us.”