Storm Season by Erica Spindler Page A

still be a jog to the front door. By the time he got under the small awning he’d be drenched. Senator Delanor-Ramos must have been thinking the same thing. She was pulling out an umbrella from her tote bag. When she reached for the door handle he realized she expected to go with him.
    “Wait. Why don’t you stay here? I’ll see if he’s even home.”
    She looked back at the house and seemed to consider this. Electrical lines danced above and tree branches creaked. Tully could see a faint light behind the tightly drawn blinds. But that was it.
    He didn’t wait for a response. He wanted to get this over with. He opened the SUV’s door and leapt out, slamming the door as he took off in a sprint. The water ran ankle deep in places, covering the front lawn. If there was a sidewalk, Tully couldn’t see it.
    Thunder rumbled overhead and in the flashes of lightning he thought he saw someone standing in the trees alongside the house. It was enough for him to grab inside his windbreaker for his Glock. But when he finally made it under the front door’s awning he couldn’t see anyone.
    Were the wind and rain playing tricks on his eyesight? He wiped a hand over his face and his head swiveled around, trying to take in the yard and street and the narrow passage between the house and garage.
    But there was no one. No pedestrians, no cars. Not even further up the street.
    Tully knocked on the door just as the thunder clashed. He waited and knocked again, harder. He tried the doorknob and to his surprise it turned. He eased the door open with one hand and gripped his weapon in the other.
    “Hello? Mr. Ricardo?”
    He noticed the flies first. Swarms of them in the faint light of a table lamp. Then he noticed the smell.
    Tully slowly entered. His eyes darted everywhere as he took small steps, his weapon drawn and leading. He hadn’t gone far when he saw the living room’s back wall. Warm sunshine yellow sprayed and splattered with blood.
    “Oh my God.”
    He heard the Senator behind him in the doorway. Tully threw out his left hand.
    “Stay back,” he warned as he continued farther inside. Right around the wide archway door he found the body slumped against the refrigerator. The man was in his underwear. His right kneecap was blown away, as were several of his fingers. But the deathblow was a single shot to the forehead.
    It looked like Ricardo hadn’t been able to talk his way out of this one.

Chapter 8
    THE MAN WITH THE RPG was named Diego. The one on the other side of the window with the AK-47 was Felipe. Not that they formally introduced themselves to Maggie and Liz. They spoke Spanish to each other but surprisingly good English to their hostages. The fact that they were comfortable using each other’s names in front of them kicked Maggie’s heartbeat up a notch. They didn’t mind Maggie and Liz knowing because they didn’t expect their two intruders to tell anyone . . . ever.
    Now that the helicopter was gone, the two men had forced Maggie and Liz inside the boat. Liz’s dive suit left little room for concealing weapons. Immediately the smaller of the two, Felipe, unzipped Maggie’s flight suit and raced his hands over her body. She fought her basic instinct to punch away. Thankfully he was in a hurry so his fingers poked and prodded with little attempt at being salacious.
    It was a relief of sorts just to get out of the storm. Her hair was dripping, her adrenaline still racing. Her nerves left raw from spinning on the cable ride down. She made herself take deep breaths to steady herself, but the air inside smelled stale. Stale with a metallic tang and the hint of cordite. They had obviously interrupted something.
    The dark paneled walls muffled the thunder and rain to a battering but there was nothing to shut off the sway. The boat was large enough that when the waves pushed and shoved, the boat didn’t jerk. It rolled, tipping and tilting one way until it threatened to send everything and everyone sliding. Then