Page 82 of Ground Zero

“Five minutes,” Jake said firmly, making it clear his statement wasn’t a request.

Sheridan studied Jake’s face.

He’d been on her suspect list from the beginning. He was the team leader with the most access, the most authority.

But something in his expression, a desperate urgency, made her nod.

“Five minutes,” she agreed.

As the others filed out—Kyle and Hudson reluctantly, Atlas with a meaningful look at Jake, and William practically running for the door—Sheridan wondered what Jake could possibly tell her that he couldn’t say in front of his own team.

When the door closed, leaving them alone, Jake’s composure cracked slightly. “I talked to Maverick. But Agent Mendez, if I tell you this, you have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“That you’ll help protect Maverick. No matter what it costs. Because the person who’s been setting him up? He’s not done.”

Sheridan’s pulse quickened. “Tell me everything.”

CHAPTER 45

Maverick hit the water feet first, body rigid, arms crossed over his chest.

The position had been drilled into him during combat diving training. Even with perfect form, the impact from three hundred feet felt like slamming into concrete.

The shock rippled up through his legs, compressing his spine, forcing the air from his lungs in a violent burst.

The cold Atlantic water instantly numbed his extremities. The ocean was colder than usual this year—near seventy.

Cold enough for hypothermia. If he had his wetsuit on, this would be a different story.

However, he’d trained for this, knew how to compartmentalize the pain, the cold, the desperate need for oxygen.

He let his momentum carry him deep, fighting the instinct to surface immediately. His ears popped from the pressure change. Saltwater burned his eyes, but he kept them open, orienting himself in the murky blue-green darkness.

Above, he could see the helicopter’s shadow hovering, the rotor wash creating a circular pattern of disturbed water. They were looking for him, waiting for him to surface.

Not yet.

Maverick kicked hard, swimming laterally away from the point of impact.

His lungs already screamed for air—the forced exhale on impact had cost him precious oxygen. But surfacing directly below the helicopter would be suicide.

Twenty yards. Thirty.

His chest felt like it might explode.

Forty yards.

He angled upward, breaking the surface with the smallest possible disturbance, just enough to grab a breath. The helicopter had moved, following his likely path.

Despite how careful he tried to be, gunfire split the air.

Bullets zipped into the water inches from his head, small geysers erupting where they hit.

Maverick dove again, this time at an angle, changing direction underwater. His body fought him. The cold sapped his strength, and his battered muscles protested every movement.

The impact had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. His ribs ached with each kick, suggesting bruising if not fractures.