She heard Noah’s voice, felt his breath on her neck. “Are you okay?”
Am I? “Yes.”
She meant it, too. The initial shock of what she had just witnessed was ebbing, and in its place, was an unexpected swell of pride.
They tried to kill us. We fought back.
We won.
They were still standing there, Jenna enfolded in Noah’s protective embrace, when the first Monroe County sheriff’s deputies arrived.
5
“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!”