Flood Rising (A Jenna Flood Thriller)

by Jeremy Robinson

  Jenna saw what was about to happen like a premonition. “Brakes. Now!”

  Mercy reacted without question, but in the fraction of a second it took her to translate Jenna’s cry into action, the sedan made its move. Just as Mercy was tapping the brake pedal, the sedan swerved sharply to the right and its front bumper crunched into the pickup.

  The rear end of the pickup slewed wildly as, first the impact knocked it off course, and then as Mercy frantically compensated by trying to steer away. The Ford was too heavy to be shoved off the road by the smaller sedan, but the suddenness of the attack and the reflexive nature of Mercy’s response sent the vehicle careening toward the edge of the road. She managed to straighten it, but not before the right side struck the guardrail. The truck slid along its length with a shriek of tearing metal and a shower of sparks. The sedan rebounded away, weaving back and forth across both lanes ahead of the pickup, as its driver likewise fought to restore control. Mercy wrestled the truck back onto the road, but seemed uncertain about what to do next.

  “Go!” Jenna shouted.

  Mercy hesitated. “What about them?”

  “They won’t try that again,” Jenna replied, unsure of how to explain what had just happened. “They’re outmatched and they know it.”

  The driver of the sedan had attempted to do what Noah had once called a ‘pin.’ He would always complain about the way car chases were presented in movies, where the driver of the pursuing vehicle would ram their prey from behind. He would then explain that the way to force a car to stop was by pulling alongside and turning into its back tires. If done correctly, the impact would spin the fleeing vehicle around, stalling its engine as the sudden change in direction and the car’s own momentum created reverse compression in the motor. Jenna had recognized, almost too late, that the driver of the sedan was attempting exactly that. If Mercy had not started to brake when she did, they would have been dead on the road.

  The sedan straightened out and then pulled away, but Jenna’s fleeting hopes that they might be leaving the scene were dashed when she saw their brake lights flash. A figure leaned out the passenger side window and looked back, one hand extended. It was Zack.

  “Gun!” Mercy shouted.

  Jenna felt the pickup decelerating again. “No. Charge them!”

  Mercy was incredulous. “What?”

  “Run them off the road.”

  A small flash appeared at the end of Zack’s extended hand and something cracked loudly against the windshield. Jenna ducked, but the glass remained intact. A quarter-sized divot had been gouged in the windshield, almost perfectly in line with Mercy’s head.

  Jenna was thrown forward as Mercy stomped on the brakes.

  “No,” she protested. “You can’t stop.”

  “They’re shooting at us,” Mercy challenged, her normally cool tone replaced by strident hysteria.

  “And you’re going to make it impossible for them to miss.” Jenna fought to keep her own voice calm. “The only way to survive this is to take them out. Keep your head down, but don’t back off.”

  Mercy held her gaze for a moment, eyes squinted. “You sure you don’t have a secret life you want to tell me about, too?”

  There was another crack, another round striking the windshield, closer to center this time. A ragged crack appeared, connecting the two impact sites. Jenna knew she hadn’t convinced Mercy. If she wasn’t going to go on the offensive, the only option was to make a U-turn and flee back to Stock Island. Before she could articulate this alternative however, Mercy punched the accelerator, and they lurched forward.

  “Maybe you should give them something else to think about,” Mercy said, her body bent forward so that she appeared to be peeking over the steering wheel.

  Jenna blinked uncomprehending. Mercy glanced at her with a wry smile, her emotions back under control. “Shoot them.”

  Jenna looked down at the pistol, all but forgotten, in her hand. She had never fired a gun in her life, and she wondered now why she had bothered to ask Mercy for it. With a shake of her head, she steeled her nerve and then rolled down the window.

  The pickup closed the gap, but as they got to within fifty yards, the sedan’s brake lights went out and the car started pulling away. Mercy jiggled the wheel back and forth, causing the pickup to veer from one side of the road to the other.

  “Better use both hands,” Mercy advised. “Don’t drop it, and for God’s sake, don’t fall out.”

  Or get shot, Jenna added silently.

  She leaned against the doorframe, both arms extended, with the pistol braced in her hands the way she’d seen Mercy do back at the trailer. A blast of air hit her full in the face as she looked down the length of her arms, not sure exactly how to sight the weapon. She slid a finger into the trigger guard.

  “Is there a safety?” she yelled. It seemed like the right question.

  “No safety. Just point and shoot.”

  Jenna tried to imagine an invisible line traveling down her arm, past the gun and ending where she wanted the bullet to go—not at Zack who was still hanging out of the sedan’s window, trying to line up a shot of his own, but at a target that she felt sure she could hit: the sedan’s back window.

  She pulled the trigger and felt something move under her fingertip. A piece of plastic protruded from the metal lever like a secondary trigger, but at her touch, it slid back into a recess, flush with the trigger itself. Then the trigger itself started to move, but slowly, as if resisting her. She applied more pressure and suddenly felt the pistol jerk, like a firecracker going off in her hands.

  Jenna gave a yelp of surprise, and despite Mercy’s warning, almost let her grip relax. So that’s what it feels like, she thought. Okay, I can do this.

  The sedan swerved as her bullet smacked into the rear window, the tempered glass instantly turning opaque with countless fractures. She saw Zack pull back inside, and for a moment she dared to hope that her bullet had been enough to send their attackers packing.

  Abruptly, two fist-sized holes appeared in the sedan’s glazed rear window, broadening out as the car’s occupants began clearing away the glass fragments. Jenna saw two men framed in the opening, and just as she was starting to line up for another shot, she saw them thrust their own guns out through the opening.

  She squeezed the trigger, but at the same instant the two gunmen fired. A hailstorm of bullets slammed into the pickup, and Jenna’s world transformed into chaos.

  12

  8:10 p.m.

  The windshield exploded inward. Splinters of glass, driven by the wind, stabbed into Jenna. She barely noticed, because in that same moment, the truck yawed, veering to the right, but also tilting like an out of control carnival ride. She tried to find Mercy, but her body refused to cooperate. She felt herself being pushed and pulled in different directions, shaken like a captured gazelle in the mouth of a lion. She was dimly aware that the truck was no longer traveling in a straight line along the flat road surface, but corkscrewing, twisting through the air, and then she was flying free.

  The sensation was like nothing she’d ever felt before. It was strangely exhilarating and a welcome relief from the punishment of being thrown about the hard metal cage of the pickup’s cab, but it happened so fast that before she could understand what was happening, it was over.

  She slapped against something, a hard surface, only it wasn’t a surface exactly. She felt something like the sting of a belly-flop dive into a pool, which as it turned out was almost correct. Warm water engulfed her, flooding into her open mouth, choking her. A reflexive spasm of gagging brought her out of her daze, but for a few moments, she was nothing more than a thrashing, coughing animal, in the grip of a primal panic.

  A cool breeze on her face calmed her by degrees, but her mind still raced to comprehend everything that had just happened.

  She looked around, grasping at last that she was floating in the warm waters of the Boca Chica Channel. She saw lights off in the distance, and as she turned her head, she
found the elevated hump of the highway, ten feet away. It loomed above her like a great wave about to crash down and sweep her to oblivion. Then she spied a flaw in the dark horizon. A light cut through the night, illuminating a patch of water fifty yards out to sea. It took her a moment to recognize it as a single headlight, shining out from an overturned vehicle that had broken through the guardrail, and was now perched precariously at the edge of the road.

  She clutched at her last clear memory: leaning out the window of the pickup…the shots from the men in the sedan.

  The pickup had rolled, and Jenna had been thrown clear. She owed her life to the fluke of luck that had catapulted her into the water. She might just as easily have been crushed under the somersaulting vehicle or thrown onto the hard pavement, which would have flayed her raw and pulverized her bones.

  Mercy!

  Jenna recalled the horrible sound of the bullets striking the truck. Had Mercy been hit or had she just swerved in a misguided effort to avoid that fate?

  Mercy was probably still in the truck, injured or dying.

  Maybe already dead.

  Anger and grief surged within Jenna. First Noah, now Mercy. The killers had taken everything from her now.

  No, not everything. You’re still alive.

  With a start, Jenna realized that the killers were not done with her. They would almost certainly check the wrecked truck, and when they discovered she was not in it, they would realize where she had gone.

  I have to get away from here, she thought, but then another inner voice countered: And go where?

  She turned back to the lights she had spotted off in the distance. Boca Chica Key lay off to her right, perhaps a mile away. In the other direction, a little closer, was Stock Island.

  Going to Boca would put her that much closer to her ultimate destination on the mainland.

  But what would she do once she got there? Hitching a ride was just too risky. If the killers didn’t spot her walking along the roadside, the cops almost certainly would, and chances were good that they were already looking for her. She might be able to stow away in someone’s car or truck. That was less risky, but there was no guarantee that it would get her where she needed to go.

  Steal a car?

  She felt a twinge of dismay at even considering that possibility, but she couldn’t dismiss it out of hand. As with the theft of the SCUBA gear, extreme circumstances justified extreme actions. She tabled her moral reservations, and considered the practical aspects of such a course. She had a learner’s permit, and she was pretty confident behind the wheel. She didn’t have the first clue about how to break into a car or hotwire it, but she was pretty sure that it wasn’t the kind of thing that could be learned through trial and error. Noah had always scoffed at how easy they made it look in movies. No, if she was going to boost a car, she would need to find one that came with keys. A valet parking lot maybe?

  She shook her head, dismissing that idea as well. The Overseas Highway was more than a hundred miles long. Even if she could steal a car, she’d never reach Miami without being caught. So what did that leave?

  If she went back to Stock Island, she would be moving further away from her goal, but there were a few more options that way. She knew people there: school friends, teachers, some of Noah’s acquaintances.

  She glanced up at the truck, wondering again whether Mercy was trapped inside, dying, or maybe already dead. Was that the fate that awaited anyone who helped her?

  Suddenly, Jenna thought of someone else who might be able to help her. It was a crazy idea, crazier even than stealing a car, but the more she thought about it, the more certain she was that it would work.

  She rolled over in the water, and as quietly as she could, she began swimming back toward Stock Island.

  13

  Key West, Florida, USA

  9:38 p.m.

  When she had heard the words ‘night club,’ Jenna had envisioned a glitzy, neon-bright industrial exterior, pulsing with a deafening bass backbeat, and a crowd of young over-dressed socialites queued up behind a velvet rope. In hindsight, she should have known better. This was kitschy, touristy Key West, not Miami. The place looked like a standard Key West home, a pastel pink Bahamian conch house, single-story, built on wooden piers so air could circulate underneath. The only indications that it was anything but a residence were its location on historic Duval Street, an area zoned for commercial use, and the hand painted sign that read: The Conch Club—Members Only. The only neon around was a sign in the window with the words: ATM inside. There was no line waiting to enter. The entire block seemed sedate, as if people were making an effort to avoid being seen in the vicinity. As Jenna stared at the old house, she wondered if she had made a mistake in coming here.

  It had seemed like a good idea an hour before, floating in the Boca Chica Channel, hunted, sore, exhausted, hungry, and worst of all, completely alone.

  Who am I kidding? she thought. This is a terrible idea.

  She realized now that the actual destination had not been as important as the simple fact of having a goal. Something to work toward.

  The first few minutes of the swim had been a Herculean ordeal. The simple act of stretching her arms out to swim had awakened pains and aches unlike anything she had ever experienced. The sting of dozens of tiny cuts crisscrossed her arms and face. She had wondered if she was bleeding. The blood could have attracted a ravenous tiger shark or bull shark. Or both. The minutes had passed and the pain gradually had subsided into a more tolerable throb, but the ache in her temples had grown, along with a gnawing hunger in her belly.

  She hadn’t attempted to swim all the way back to Stock Island, but instead came up amid the trees that lined the side of the road closer to the island. Hidden by the trees, she had made her way back to the island and then kept going, following the Heritage Trail, which ran parallel to the Overseas Highway, until she had reached the address that she recalled from the registration paperwork the Villegas brothers had signed, when they had come aboard the Kilimanjaro the previous week. The information was just another bit of information in the filing cabinet of her perfect memories.

  Now that the goal was finally in sight, she was filled with dread for what would happen next. Even worse was the sinking feeling that all her efforts had not brought her any closer to the answers she craved. She took a deep calming breath, headed up the steps and opened the door.

  She stepped into a small unfurnished foyer. There was a cash machine in one corner, a window that looked a little like the check-in desk of a rundown hotel and a closed door. On the other side of the counter, an elderly gray-haired woman—Jenna thought she looked old enough to be Noah’s grandmother—played mahjong on a computer.

  The woman started to speak, but when she got a look at Jenna, whatever she had been about to say was forgotten.

  Jenna stood there, unable to speak. She had been mentally preparing for a different sort of gate-keeper, maybe a beefy steroid-infused bouncer or a hostess wearing a leather dominatrix outfit. She shook her head to clear away the hesitation. “I need to speak to Raul.”

  She saw the flicker of recognition in Granny’s eyes. Well, at least I’ve got the right place. Then the woman’s face twisted into a matronly look of concern. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t be here.”

  Jenna kept her expression neutral, but puffed up her chest a little, leaning forward. “Raul.”

  The old woman squinted behind her glasses, as if questioning her original appraisal, then reached down and pressed the button on an intercom box. “Someone here to see you, Raul.”

  There was a brief pause and then a tinny voice issued from the speaker. “Send him back.”

  The woman glanced at Jenna again, the anxious look back on her wrinkled face. She really wants me to leave. Maybe I should go while I still can. Jenna pointed down and mouthed the words: “Out here.”

  Granny nodded to her then pushed the button again. “It’s not a ‘he,’ and I think maybe you should come out front.” As she lifte
d her finger, the woman gave Jenna a sad, resigned look, as if to say ‘I tried to warn you.’

  Yes you did, she thought. But I’m going to play this through to the end.

  The door opened and Raul Villegas stepped out. He was wearing a white linen suit over a lavender silk shirt, opened to just above his sternum, revealing the thick gold chain around his neck. There was an easy-going smile plastered on his face, which vanished in an instant when his eyes found Jenna.

  She took a deep breath and then turned away, heading for the door. She had rehearsed this encounter dozens of times during her long walk. It was imperative to control every aspect of the scene, and the first step was moving Raul away from his home turf. Equally important, she had to make sure that she had an escape route if things went sour. She paused on the front porch, waiting to see if he would follow.

  He did.

  Raul exited the house, glowering. “You,” he said in a low, threatening voice. His body was tense, a coiled spring full of unpredictable energy.

  Take control, she told herself. Keep him off balance. “I need your help,” she said quickly, forestalling the accusations that she knew would come.

  She turned to face him, positioning herself under the porch light so that it would illuminate her scrapes and bruises. She saw his eyes move, and knew that he had seen them. His mouth opened, but before he could say anything, she continued.

  “I ran away, Raul. You saw how violent he is.” She held his gaze, tightening the muscles of her eyelids so that her eyes would not betray the fiction in her words. The ability to detect falsehood was instinctive, even in those untrained in the techniques she was now attempting to use.

  Raul’s indignation seeped away. “He did that to you?”

  She nodded, but did not elaborate. The lie would be all the more convincing if she let Raul’s imagination fill in the details. “I can’t go to any of my friends. You’re the only person that can help me.”

  His eyes began moving, and Jenna recalled Noah’s words. Most people are an open book. She had no difficulty reading his thoughts. Raul was calculating how he would turn her vulnerability to his advantage. He would invite her inside, get her somewhere isolated, comfort her with words, a touch, maybe offer her a drink, and then he would take her. She knew this was a dangerous game, but it was a game she could win.