LITMIR.BIZ

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too much water. That much water would overrun the river’s banks. It would cause massive flooding downriver. Wes thought of that giant lake above their heads.

      Then he thought of something else, something he didn’t want to think of.

      “Press cancel and we’ll start over,” Vince said.

      “Vince, we got the resort three miles downstream from here. It’s August, Vince. You know what I’m saying? It’s the busy season, and they have no idea what’s coming their way. We need to get these gates shut right this second, or we need to call somebody down there. They have to get their people out.”

      “Press cancel and we’ll start over,” Vince said again.

      “Vince!”

      “Wes, did you hear what I just said? We’ll get the gates shut. If not, I’ll call the resort in two minutes. Now press cancel and let’s start over.”

      Dutifully, Wes did as he was told, fearing deep down that it would never work.

*

      The telephone at the front desk rang incessantly.

      Montgomery Jones sat in the cafeteria at the Black Rock Resort, trying to enjoy his breakfast. It was the same breakfast they served every day – scrambled eggs, sausages, pancakes, waffles – anything you wanted. But today, because the place was so busy, he was sitting in a corner of the cafeteria closest to the lobby. There were a hundred early-risers in here, taking up all the tables, gumming up the works at all the food stations. And that phone was starting to ruin Monty’s morning.

      He turned and glanced into the lobby. It was a rustic place, with wood paneling, a stone fireplace, and a battered front desk that hundreds of people had carved into over the long years. The desk was a mad intaglio of initials with hearts drawn around them, long-forgotten well wishes, and half-hearted attempts at line drawings.

      No one was at the desk to answer the phone, and whoever was on the other end of the line was not getting the memo. Every time the phone stopped ringing, it paused just a few seconds, then started right up again. To Monty, this meant that every time the caller reached voice mail, he or she hung up and tried again. It was annoying. Someone must be desperate to make last-minute reservations.

      “Call back, you idiot.”

      Monty was sixty-nine years old, and he’d been coming to Black Rock for at least twenty years, often two or three times a year. He loved it here. What he loved most of all was to get up early, have a nice hot breakfast, and get out on the scenic mountain roads on his Harley Davidson. He had his girlfriend Lena with him on this visit. She was almost thirty years his junior, but she was still up in the room. She was a late sleeper, that Lena. Which meant they would get a late start today. That was okay. Lena was worth it. Lena was proof that success had its rewards. He imagined her in the bed, her long brunette hair spread out across the pillows.

      The phone stopped ringing. Five seconds passed before it started again.

      All right. That’s enough. Monty would answer the damn phone. He stood and creaked on stiff legs over to the desk. He hesitated just for a second before picking it up. The index finger of his right hand traced the carving of a heart with an arrow through the middle. Yes, he came here a lot. But he wasn’t so familiar with the place that it was like he worked here. It wasn’t like he could take a reservation, or even a message. So he would just tell the caller to try back later.

      He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

      “This is Vincent Moore of the Tennessee Valley Authority. I’m at the control station of the Black Rock Dam, three miles north of you. This is an emergency. We have a problem with the floodgates, and request an immediate evacuation of your resort. Repeat, an immediate evacuation. There’s a flood coming your way.”

      “What?” Monty said. Somebody must be putting him on. “I don’t understand you.”

      Just then, a commotion started in the cafeteria. A strange hubbub of voices began, rising in pitch. Suddenly a woman screamed.

      The man on the phone started again. “This is Vincent Moore of the Tennessee Valley…”

      Someone else screamed, a male voice.

      Monty held the phone to his ear but he was no longer listening. Just through the doorway, people in the cafeteria were getting up from their seats. Some were moving toward the doors. Then, in an instant, panic set in.

      People were running, pushing, falling over each other. Monty watched it happen. A surge of people came toward him, eyes wide, mouths open in round O’s of terror.

      As Monty watched through the window, a wall of water three or four feet high swept over the grounds. A maintenance man in a golf cart driving by up a small hill from the main house was caught in the tide. The cart upended, flipping the man into the water and landing on top of him. The cart got caught for a moment, then slid down the hill on its side, pushed by all the water and gathering speed.

      It slid right toward the windows, moving impossibly fast.

      CRASH!

      The cart slammed sideways into the window, shattering it – and a torrent of water followed.

      It poured into the cafeteria through the smashed window. The golf cart came through the window, then slid across the room. A man tried to stop it, fell down in three feet of water, and didn’t come back up again.

      Everywhere, people were falling down into the rising water, unable to stand up again. Tables and chairs were sliding across the room and piling up against the far wall.

      Monty got behind the desk. He looked down at his feet. The water was already up to his calves. Suddenly, across the way, the entire thirty-foot window of the cafeteria caved in, spraying great shards of glass.

      It sounded like an explosion.

      Monty prepared to run. But before his feet could take hold, before he could even scramble over the desk, all he could do was raise his arms and scream as the wall of water consumed him.

      CHAPTER TWO

      7:35 a.m.

      United States Naval Observatory – Washington, DC

      To Susan Hopkins, first female President of the United States, life couldn’t be better. It was summer, so Michaela and Lauren were out of school. Pierre had brought them here once things had settled down, and finally, the whole family was staying here in the New White House. Michaela had bounced back from her kidnapping as if it had been a madcap adventure she chose to go on. She had even done a round of talk shows about her experience, and co-authored an article for a national magazine with Lauren.

      Indeed, Susan and Pierre found themselves bending over backward so that Lauren didn’t feel left out of the publicity. After the first TV interview, they insisted that the girls do the shows together. It was only right – while Michaela was trapped on top of a fifty-story tower guarded by terrorists, Lauren was home alone, her twin sister and lifelong companion ripped away from her.

      Sometimes, Susan found her breath taken away at the thought of losing her daughter. She woke in the middle of the night from time to time, gasping for air, like a demon was sitting on her chest.

      She had Luke Stone to thank for Michaela’s return. Luke Stone had brought her back. He and his team had killed every single one of the kidnappers. He was a hard man to reconcile. Ruthless killer on the one hand, loving father on the other. Susan was convinced he had gone to that rooftop not because it was his job, but because he loved his own son so much he couldn’t bear the thought of Susan losing her daughter.

      In ten days, the whole family, minus Susan, would be heading back to California to get ready for the school year. She would lose them again, but it was only a temporary loss, and it had been great having them here. So great that she was almost afraid to ponder it.

      “What are you thinking about?” Pierre said.

      They were lying on the king-sized bed in the master bedroom. Morning light streamed in through the southeast-facing windows. Susan lay with her head resting on his bare chest and her arm around his waist. So what if he was

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