Page 27 of Ground Zero (Lantern Beach Blackout: Detonation #3)

M averick watched the two agents finish their search of Sheridan’s rental and step back outside. He didn’t recognize them. They could actually be FBI, but if so, he hadn’t worked with them.

He’d worked with many agents before—but none were here now.

There were too many people with too many secrets for him to feel sure about anything.

Thinking the men were leaving, he started to relax when one of them pointed directly at the house where he hid.

Maverick’s blood turned to ice.

“What about that one?” The man’s voice carried across the narrow space between the houses. “Looks empty, but we should check it out. Can’t be too careful.”

“Agreed. Mendez is at Blackout right now. But for all we know, Adams heard us coming and hid over there. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

Maverick’s heart hammered against his ribs.

The men moved toward the front door with the same purposeful strides they’d used at Sheridan’s place.

He had sixty seconds before they reached the house.

Running wasn’t an option—they’d see him the moment he stepped outside. The back door was too far away, and the windows faced directions that would expose him to their line of sight.

Thankfully, he’d cleaned up this place earlier. There shouldn’t be any signs he’d been here—except for the laptop he’d borrowed from his friend’s place.

He grabbed the computer and stuffed it under his shirt. Then he frantically looked around the living room for somewhere to hide. The furniture offered limited options.

At once, he remembered something from his teenage years.

The couch.

It was an old sofa bed, the kind his grandmother used to have. If the mechanism still worked . . .

Maverick pulled off the seat cushions as quietly as possible, revealing the metal frame and springs underneath. Just like he’d hoped—there was a narrow space between the frame and the fold-out bed mechanism, barely wide enough for a person if they could stay absolutely flat.

He squeezed himself into the cramped space, pulling the laptop tight against his chest. Then he reached an arm out and carefully replaced the cushions above him. He hoped they were all back in place. Thankfully, there were only two stiff cushions.

The weight of the bed pressed on him uncomfortably, but the hiding spot had worked when he was fifteen and playing hide and seek with his cousins.

It had to work now.

He prayed it would.

The front door rattled as someone tested the handle.

“Locked,” a voice said.

“Keys should work on this model too,” the second man replied.

The unmistakable sound of an electronic key sounded, then the door swung open with a creak that seemed impossibly loud in the silence.

Footsteps entered the house, deliberate and systematic. Maverick forced himself to breathe slowly and quietly through his nose, fighting the urge to shift his weight as the laptop’s edge dug into his ribs.

“From all appearances, this place hasn’t been used in a while,” one of the agents observed.

“Still worth checking. Adams is former military—he knows how to stay hidden. Besides, is it just me, or do you smell coffee?”

Maverick’s heart pounded harder. He could put items back in place, but smells were harder to extinguish.

The footsteps moved closer to the living room. Maverick saw shadows moving across the floor through the tiny gaps between the cushions above him. One of the agents stood less than three feet away.

“Anything?” the first voice asked.

“Negative. But I want to check the bedrooms too.”

As the footsteps moved toward the hallway, Maverick tried to place the voice. Had he heard either of them before? He wasn’t sure.

The first man had an accent that was slightly Southern. His tone was professional but with an underlying tension that suggested personal investment in finding him.

The agents spent ten minutes searching the house room by room. As they did, Maverick remained perfectly still. His muscles cramped from the awkward position, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he heard the men return to the living room.

“Nothing,” an agent said. “If he was here, he’s long gone.”

“Or he was never here at all,” the other voice replied. “Could be we’re chasing ghosts.”

“Maybe. But the boss wants every possibility covered. This operation is too important to leave anything to chance.”

The footsteps moved toward the door, and Maverick allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief.

“Ground Zero can’t be compromised,” the familiar voice continued as they reached the exit. “Not when we’re this close.”

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Maverick alone in the darkness beneath the sofa cushions, his mind reeling.

Those men knew about Ground Zero. Which meant either the FBI was more compromised than Sheridan realized, or those hadn’t been real federal agents after all.