Page 3 of Ground Zero

Sheridan pulled out her handcuffs, fighting the tiny voice in her head that whispered he sounded sincere. Criminalsalwayssounded sincere when they got caught.

“Save it for your lawyer.” She snapped the cuffs around his wrists. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

But as she read him his rights, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Maverick Adams was either the best actor she’d ever encountered, or she’d just made a terrible mistake.

This had to be some kind of mix-up.

Maverick knew he should have run faster. But the optimist in him had screamed that a reasonable conversation could work out this misunderstanding and clear things up.

He’d been wrong.

Not only should he have run faster, but the woman had been a surprisingly fast sprinter. She’d caught up with him in no time.

And that tackle? Where had that come from?

Not standard FBI training, that was for sure.

Maverick mentally kicked himself for not being more on the ball.

His mistake might put him in prison for a very long time—if not for the rest of his life.

No more surfing for him. Not only that, but he’d abandoned his father’s surfboard when he’d seen the agent coming for him. Carrying it with him slowed him down too much.

Maverick tested the handcuffs—standard FBI issue, locked tight.

He spit the sand from his mouth before saying, “Lady, you’ve got the wrong person. I’m one of the good guys.”

The agent—Latina, maybe five-foot-six, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and intense brown eyes—rose to her feet, wiped the sand from her knees, and stared down at him with contempt.

“The evidence says otherwise, Mr. Adams.”

“What evidence?” Maverick struggled to sit up, which was harder than expected with his hands cuffed behind his back. “I work cybersecurity, not cyberterrorism.”

“Your digital fingerprints are all over the attacks on the Eastern Seaboard power grid. The same attacks that got my partner killed when he was investigating the source.”

The Eastern Seaboard attack two weeks ago had been a masterpiece of cyberterrorism. Three power grids had been taken down simultaneously, plunging millions into darkness for eighteen hours.

Maverick had been brought in by the FBI and had worked nonstop to restore power as hospitals struggled with backup generators and people were trapped in elevators.

And somewhere in that chaos, her partner had apparently died.

The thought that anyone could believe Maverick was responsible for that devastation made him physically ill.

However, the pain in the agent’s voice was real. Raw and fresh.

Whoever her partner had been, she’d cared about him.

Which made this whole situation infinitely worse.

“I’m sorry about your partner,” Maverick said. “But I didn’t kill him. I’ve been trying to prevent attacks like that, not cause them.”

The agent crouched beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something light and floral that seemed at odds with her tough-as-nails federal agent persona. Then shepulled him upright as if ready to lead him to her car and straight to prison.

He stood and found his balance, keeping his eyes wide open as he considered his options.

“The attack code contained algorithms that match your personal programming signature.” Her voice sounded hard as she said the words. “Code that’s never been published, never been shared. The only way someone could have that code is if you wrote it yourself.”

Maverick’s blood ran cold.