“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 sh
e 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.
7
6:53 p.m.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Jenna froze. It was an instinctive response, and in the back of her mind, she heard Noah chastising her for not being more aware of her surroundings, not being in control of her reactions.
Freezing, she knew, was just another way of fleeing a situation, mentally at least, and hoping that things would get better. Usually, they didn’t. Freezing up was a way of surrendering control, letting luck and circumstances guide the outcome rather than a conscious decision.
Your gut reaction to a threat will be to either run away, Noah had told her, or to blow through it head on, which is what you would do because you’re a teenager and you think you’re invincible.
Run away?
John was between her and the exit. Nowhere to go.
Blow through?
Yes, she could do that. She could swing the SCUBA bottle at him, knock him down and then run… No, that would defeat the purpose of coming here.
Throw the tank at him, and then when he’s distracted, go on the attack, just as she had with Zack. A couple of punches to the jaw… Maybe hit the sweet spot and knock him out on the first try…or a kick to the solar plexus.
I can take him.
The very idea of attacking this man, not a killer with a gun but one of her neighbors, kept her rooted in place.
But a lot of times, Noah had continued, those are the worst choices you could make. You might make a bad situation even worse, or you might miss out on a real opportunity.
Most people are an open book. Watch a stranger for a few minutes and you’ll know everything there is to know about them—their body language, the way they move their eyes when they talk.
Jenna had exchanged pleasantries with the shop’s grizzled namesake, but not much more. He was the epitome of a crusty old beach bum: mid-sixties, a full head of white hair, skin bronzed and eyes faintly yellowed from too many years of staring at the sun-dazzled water. She didn’t know if he recognized her. The only thing she saw in his eyes was the fear of what might happen next.
Opportunity.
She shifted her posture, trying to mimic his alert stance, then slowly, visibly relaxed. Her spine straightened, her neck stretched, making her appear taller, more confident. She smiled.
“John!” She said his name like he was an old friend she hadn’t seen in years.
Uncertainty flashed across his face. She saw his eyes flicker upward, ever so slightly, as he searched his memory, trying to find the right connection to her.
“Hi, John,” she said again, repeating his name, reinforcing the familiarity. “Where do you want me to put this stuff?”
“What?” His eyes were moving wildly now, the biological equivalent of a computer hard-drive spinning to access data scattered across dozens of file locations.
Shape his perceptions, she told herself, control the finished product. When Noah had first taught her these techniques, she had been doubtful regarding their effectiveness. It seemed like something right out of the Jedi Knights’ handbook. Surely, real people couldn’t be that malleable. But thereafter, she had become acutely aware of how often people were easily tricked.
“For the trip out to the reef, John. Remember?”
“Ummm…”
I’m losing him, she thought. These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.
She mimicked his pose again, narrowed her eyelids, and used the small muscl
es of her eyes to change her focus and dilate her pupils without releasing his stare. It was a hypnotist’s trick, but she had no idea if she was doing it right, much less if it even worked at all.
“John, did he forget to tell you?” Her voice was lower now, almost seductively soft, but full of sympathy and commiseration. She made a conscious effort to avoid using any other name but his own. If she mentioned Noah, it might trigger a memory cascade that would connect her to the destroyed boat, and the spell would be broken.
“Do you want me to call him, John? I’ll bet he can get this cleared up in a jiffy.” Jiffy was a good friendly word. “Or we can take care of it when we get back? That’s probably what we should do.”
A smile, confused but nonetheless friendly, finally split his craggy face. “Ah, sure. That’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, so much.”
He nodded, but then the uncertainty started to creep back into his expression. Don’t let him think about it. “I could use a hand getting this stuff outside.”
“What?” John seemed to snap back into the moment. “Oh, sure thing, Miss…?”
She took a quick step forward and let the cylinder roll toward him. His reflexes took over and his arms came up to catch it. She scooped up the mesh bag containing the rest of the equipment she had gathered, then stepped around him, moving slowly to hold his gaze as he turned. She stayed close, backing toward the rear door. She made small talk about his wares, asked vague technical questions about diving to keep his mind occupied, and step-by-glacial step, got him to the back door.
She set the bag down and reached out for the filled tank. “I’ve got that one. Can you get the other one?”
“The other?”
“Yep. Thanks. Oh, I guess I’ll need a manifold, too.”
“Oh, sure thing.” He seemed almost reluctant to turn away, to let go of her stare. Truth be told, she was a little worried about that, too. How long would the spell last?
Flood Rising (A Jenna Flood Thriller) Page 3