Read Flood Rising (A Jenna Flood Thriller) for Free Online

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?
    “I’ll be right here,” she said, with as much innocence as she could muster. “Just grab another bottle and a manifold.”
    With an audible sigh, John ducked back through the door. As soon as he was gone, Jenna pitched the cylinder over the side, and then, with the mesh bag in hand, she jumped in after it.

 
     
    8
     
    7:29 p.m.
     
    NO PERSONS UNDER 21 ALLOWED
    Jenna stared at the notice, mounted just to the right of the weather-beaten wooden door. Just below it was another sign that declared: NO SHOES, NO SHIRT, NO SERVICE.
    At least I’ve got a shirt , she thought, as she gave the door a push and went inside. The space beyond was dark, or seemed that way after fifteen minutes of walking into the setting sun. She waited until her eyes adjusted.
    She had exited the harbor, underwater and undetected, and headed north, staying in the channel that ran along the eastern side of the island until her tank was about half-empty. Then she ditched everything but the mask, snorkel and fins, and paddled up onto shore. With dry land underfoot, she had discarded the rest of the gear and headed west across the island.
    A teen-aged girl walking barefoot down the street was not that unusual a sight—not in a place like Key Weird anyway. Once she got her bearings, she had stayed off the main thoroughfares, weaving down cross streets and through neighborhoods of trailer homes. Although she had lived on the island all her life, she had found herself experiencing it from a completely new perspective. Everything seemed different at a walking pace, familiar but at the same time foreign. The strangeness of her surroundings compounded the mental and physical exhaustion she now felt.
    She didn’t want to run anymore. She was tired of running. Noah was dead. She hadn’t completely processed what that meant. She knew that eventually she would feel pain and loss, but right now she felt only anger: anger at the men who had blown up their boat and shot Noah, and anger at herself for running when what she really wanted was to fight. And since she couldn’t do that, she just felt tired.
    The stuffy air inside the bar smelled of bleach and fry oil, undercut with a hint of stale beer. Country music drifted through the air, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the audio from two different television sets mounted to a wall behind the bar, one displaying a baseball game, the other tuned to an all-news network. Jenna studied the latter for a moment, curious to see if the events at the marina had made the news, but the commentators were discussing an international crisis—something