Chapter 15
Hannah was hot, the life jacket around her torso making her hotter.
The sun was beating down onto the black inflatable boat they were sitting in, sun that belonged on a beach on a tropical island instead of a disaster area flooded with foul-smelling water.
A dark line of purple clouds hovered on the horizon promising even more storms, and she didn’t know which was worse.
She focused on the light breeze that kissed her sweating face as Noah navigated the debris-filled lake that now covered Hilton Head Island.
“Take a left after the post office,” she called out to be heard over the motor.
Noah had a map, of course—was there anything that man didn’t have?
—but for now she was telling him how to get to the hospital, her everyday commute looking like a foreign apocalyptic land.
They rounded a corner, another boat coming into view. This one was bright yellow and its sole occupant eyed them through binoculars, making Hannah uneasy.
“Leave the talking to me,” said Noah.
She didn’t like him telling her what to do, as if her words could be a liability, but she didn’t fight him on it, either. As they got closer she recognized the man from television. He was the local sheriff, Mike Bogardus.
“Afternoon, neighbors,” said the sheriff. “What are y’all doing out here this fine day in July?”
“Just surveying the damage,” said Noah. “There’s a lot of destruction.”
“There certainly is. Were you two aware of the emergency evacuation mandate for Hilton Head Island issued by the governor?”
“We are,” said Noah. “We chose to weather the storm from our home.”
She bristled at his implication that they lived together.
“And how did you make out?” asked the sheriff.
“Just fine,” said Noah. “Some broken glass. That sort of thing. Nothing we couldn’t prepare for. How about you?”
“Fine, fine. You wouldn’t happen to have some identification, would you?”
“Of course, officer.” Noah handed it to him. “Is there a problem?”
The officer stared at the license. “One of my men went missing before the storm hit. Deputy Buchanan. The last contact he had with the station was a traffic stop out on 278 just as the storm was about to hit. Some guy named Noah Ryker from Atlanta. Former Navy SEAL. He may be dangerous.”
Noah hadn’t given him his actual ID at all. Her eyes latched onto Brady’s, silently telling him to keep his mouth shut.
The sheriff handed the license back to Noah. “If you see Buchanan, please let him know I’m looking for him. Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Greene.”
So Noah had given him a fake driver’s license. Her heart was skipping in her chest. Who carried something like that with them? For a split second she found herself torn. Should she tell the officer that this was Noah Ryker, and go with the officer instead?
Nothing’s changed. He has a fake ID on him. That’s all.
And he thought to give it to the officer, choosing to hide his real identity.
That wasn’t all he had, however. He had a boat and guns and a map. He said he liked to be prepared for any eventuality, but what if he really had an agenda, plans of his own that were not what he claimed they were?
“We’ll definitely keep an eye out,” said Noah.
The sheriff nodded. “Be safe.”
The boat moved forward. “You said you were going to turn yourself in,” she whispered.
“I need to find out the truth first.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If they find out what happened to Buchanan, they’ll come after you first and apologize later.”
“No. They won’t apologize at all.”
Noah glided smoothly away.