Page 88 of Ground Zero

“Your boat.The Wahoo. Is she fueled up?”

Another pause, longer this time. Maverick could practically hear his friend processing the implications.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s a long story, but there’s going to be an attack at Norfolk, and I’m the only one who can stop it.”

“Mav . . .”

“I know how it sounds. But I need you to believe me.”

Silence stretched between them. Maverick held his breath, knowing he was asking his friend to risk everything.

“She’s at the marina,” Tom finally said. “Slip twelve. I left her with a full tank—and I just had her serviced last time I was on the island. Keys are in the tackle box under the captain’s chair.”

Relief flooded through Maverick. “Tom, I can’t thank you enough?—”

“Just bring her back in one piece. And Mav? Whatever you’re doing, be careful.”

“I will.”

“And if anyone asks, you stole her,” Tom continued. “I don’t know anything about this.”

“Understood.”

Maverick ended the call and looked at Sheridan. “We have a boat.”

“Can you handle a boat in your condition?”

He flexed his fingers, feeling sensation returning as his body warmed. His ribs still ached, and exhaustion pulled at him, but adrenaline would keep him going.

“I’ll manage. It’s our only shot at reaching Norfolk in time.”

She nodded, already turning the car toward the marina. “Then let’s go stop this attack.”

As they drove, Maverick prayed his plan would work. That they could reach Norfolk before Sigma struck. That a fishing boat and two fugitives could somehow prevent a disaster.

It wasn’t much of a plan. But it was all they had.

Sheridan pulled into the marina parking lot, her nerves on high alert. Every person could be FBI, every boat could hide Sigma operatives.

But the place was surprisingly quiet.

“There.” Maverick pointed to a sleek fishing boat bobbing at slip twelve. “The Wahoo.”

They parked and hurried from the car. As they approached the boat, a figure emerged from behind a storage shed.

Sheridan’s hand went to her weapon.

Maverick caught her wrist. “It’s okay. It’s Jimmy James.”

“Jimmy James?”

“He works the marina here. He’s a good guy.”

The man was in his thirties, tall and muscular with a bald head, multiple tattoos, and an earring—not the kind of guy she’d wanted to meet in a dark alley.

“Need help with the lines?” Jimmy James asked quietly, already moving to untie the boat.