Page 1 of Ground Zero (Lantern Beach Blackout: Detonation #3)

T he morning waves rolled onto Lantern Beach in perfect three-foot swells. Maverick Adams couldn’t have asked for better conditions.

He paddled out on his surfboard, the salt spray cooling his face as he left the chaos of the past few months behind him.

Between bomb threats, an artificially enhanced hurricane, and the lingering suspicion that someone on his own team might be a traitor, he needed this. He needed the simplicity of just him, his board, and the ocean. This was the first day off he’d taken in months, and he intended on enjoying it.

His waterproof phone buzzed in his wetsuit pocket, but he ignored it. Whatever crisis Blackout was dealing with could wait thirty minutes. The waves wouldn’t.

He caught the next swell, riding it toward shore with fluid grace that came from years of practice.

This was where he did his best thinking—not hunched over a computer screen but moving with the rhythm of something bigger than himself.

The ocean reminded him of the vastness of God, reminded him of what a small piece of the puzzle he was in the grand scheme of things.

But he planned on making the most of that small puzzle piece that was his life.

As he kicked out of the wave and paddled back toward the lineup, his phone buzzed again. Then again.

Seriously?

Stradling his board, Maverick pulled the device from his pocket, water dripping from his curly hair onto the screen.

Seven missed calls from Colton Locke, one of his bosses. A string of texts from Ty Chambers, his other boss at Blackout, a private security firm made up of former special ops military.

As Maverick read the words on the screen, his blood ran cold.

Where are you? FBI is here.

They’re looking for you.

Get back. Now.

The last message was from his colleague Jake Laudner.

Whatever you do, don’t come back to headquarters. Something’s wrong.

Maverick’s stomach dropped faster than if he’d wiped out on a huge swell. The FBI? Looking for him? That made no sense . . .

He tucked his cell phone back into his pocket and began paddling toward shore, his mind racing through possibilities. His latest security protocols for Blackout. The encrypted files he’d been working on. The investigation into their compromised communications.

What if someone had used his own work against him?

The beach came into focus as he rode a smaller wave to shore. This was his favorite beach—one of the most secluded here on the North Carolina island of Lantern Beach.

It wouldn’t be secluded for much longer as several new houses were being constructed on the other side of the dune, but he would enjoy the area for as long as he could.

He glanced down the shore. A few early morning joggers claimed the beach to the south, some beachcombers slowly walked the sand in the other direction, and a woman in a dark suit who seemed entirely overdressed for?—

Wait. He pulled in a quick breath.

The woman in the suit was watching him. Intently. Even from a distance, her stance screamed law enforcement.

Maverick’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

He angled his board away from her, hoping to avoid whatever trap waited for him.

But as he threw his legs off the surfboard and waded into the knee-deep water, pulling his board toward the sand, he saw her move.

The woman wasn’t just watching anymore.

She was running.

Straight toward him.

FBI Special Agent Sheridan Mendez had been tracking cybercriminals for eight years, but she’d never had to chase one through ocean surf.

Her sensible black pumps were definitely not designed for beach sprints, but no way would she let Maverick Adams slip away because of inappropriate footwear. While the rest of her team looked for Maverick at the Blackout headquarters, she’d wanted to try a different approach.

And her hunch paid off.

The target was exactly as described in his file—tall, athletic build, dark curly hair. He was currently dripping with ocean water, wearing a black wetsuit and carrying a surfboard like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Like he hadn’t spent the last few months orchestrating cyberattacks against federal infrastructure.

Like her partner Danny’s death meant nothing to him.

Sheridan’s jaw clenched as she kicked off her heels mid-stride. Her feet hit the cold sand.

Maverick had spotted her and headed away from her. He probably had an escape route planned.

Not happening.

She’d obsessively studied his file. The man was a computer genius, former military EOD specialist, and currently employed by Blackout. On paper, he appeared to be a patriot. In reality, the digital evidence painted him as a traitor of the worst kind.

The kind who hid behind being honorable while secretly selling out his country.

The kind who got good agents killed.

Sheridan pushed herself harder, grateful for the daily five-mile runs that kept her in shape. The suspect was fast, but he was dragging a surfboard through water and sand.

She had the advantage.

“Maverick Adams! FBI! Stop where you are!”

He glanced back, and for a split second their eyes met across the beach. Even from this distance, she saw the confusion in his expression.

Good. Let him wonder how much we know.

Instead of stopping, Maverick abandoned his surfboard and broke into a full sprint away from her.