Page 42 of Ground Zero (Lantern Beach Blackout: Detonation #3)

M averick hauled himself into the helicopter, water streaming from his clothes onto the pristine leather interior. As the aircraft lifted off, he twisted to look back at the beach.

Those gunmen stood watching his escape, weapons lowered.

He was safe from them—for now.

But he had other problems to worry about.

He glanced at the helicopter’s occupants.

The pilot sat behind the controls, and the man who’d helped him into the copter now sat up front beside the pilot. He didn’t recognize the guy.

But it was the woman beside him who caught his attention.

Late thirties, with auburn hair pulled back in a sleek chignon that looked too perfect for someone who’d just participated in a beach extraction.

Her suit was charcoal gray, expensive, and tailored to accentuate her athletic build.

She was undeniably attractive. But her beauty had a sharp edge to it—like a blade polished to deadly perfection.

Her eyes, an unsettling pale green, studied him with the detached interest of a scientist examining a specimen.

“Who are you?” Maverick’s hand instinctively moved toward where his weapon should have been.

Of course, it was gone, lost somewhere in the ocean.

The woman smirked, the cold expression not reaching her calculated eyes. “You don’t know?”

“I have no idea.”

The smirk widened. “How disappointing. And here I thought I’d made more of an impression.”

“Should I know you?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She crossed her legs, perfectly at ease despite the situation. “We’ve been dancing around each other for quite some time. Your work, my work. Your successes, my . . . adjustments.”

Tension embedded itself in his back muscles. “Stop playing games. Tell me who you are.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She tilted her head, studying him like a cat with a mouse. “Besides, the fact that you came with us—with complete strangers—while running from gunmen . . . it’s only going to make you look more guilty.”

The helicopter banked sharply, heading inland, and Maverick realized the magnitude of his mistake. He’d just handed his enemies the perfect narrative: Suspected terrorist flees with unknown conspirators, possibly selling secrets, definitely confirming his guilt.

“Why?” His gaze latched onto the woman’s. “Why would you do this to me?”

“Because sometimes, Mr. Adams, the only way to prove your innocence is to look absolutely guilty first.” The woman laughed, a sound like ice cracking.

“Or maybe we just wanted to see how desperate you really were. And now we know. You’re desperate enough to climb into a helicopter with people you don’t even recognize. ”

Maverick looked out the window again. Below, he saw vehicles converging on the beach. The FBI? Sigma?

He wasn’t sure.

He turned back to the woman beside him.

“You’re Sigma.” His voice sounded flat and without emotion. “You sent those men after me, knowing it was the only way I’d get in this copter.”

The woman smirked again. “Sigma is such a limited term. We prefer to think of ourselves as revolutionaries. We’re the next logical step in private military contracting.”

He shook his head, the motion clipped and tight. “You’re terrorists.”

“We’re businesspeople. There’s a difference.” She leaned forward slightly. “Your father eventually understood that. Right before his unfortunate accident, to be precise.”

Rage flared in Maverick’s chest, but he forced himself to stay calm.

He was trapped in a helicopter with two Sigma operatives, no weapon, nowhere to run.

He’d escaped one trap only to hurdle himself directly into another.

Anger burned hot as it flowed through his veins. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can have a proper conversation. About your future. About whether you want to be part of the solution or remain part of the problem.”

“The problem being?”

“Your stubborn insistence on believing in antiquated concepts like patriotism and duty,” the woman said. “The world has moved past such things, Mr. Adams. Now it’s about profit margins and market share. Wars aren’t fought for ideology anymore—they’re business ventures.”

Maverick glanced out the helicopter. They were maybe three hundred feet up, over water now as they followed the coastline.

“We went to considerable trouble to extract you,” the woman said. “That should tell you something about your value.”

“Or about how badly you want me silenced.”

“If we wanted you dead, you’d be bleeding out on that beach.” She adjusted her suit jacket, and he caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster. “No, Mr. Adams. We want you alive. The question is whether you’ll stay that way.”

The helicopter banked again, heading toward an unknown destination with enemies who held all the cards.

Maverick had been in bad situations before. But this—trapped between sky and sea with nowhere to run—this might be the worst.

Sheridan and William stood frozen for another long moment, neither moving, both assessing. The conference room felt smaller with just the two of them, the silence heavy with unspoken accusations.

Finally, William raised his hands slowly, showing empty palms. “I’m not going to hurt you, Agent Mendez.”

“Then start talking.” She kept her hand on her weapon but didn’t draw it. “How did you find information about Project Election?”

William moved carefully to one of the chairs, maintaining distance between them. “I’ve been researching for months. Not under orders—on my own time. I was able to break into some old government servers to find information—fragments of old files, references to operations.”

She squinted. “Why would you do that?”

“Because there was an accident sixteen years ago, and my mom was killed.”

She still wasn’t following. “An accident?”

He nodded, his face all hard lines. “My mom worked as an assistant for Darius Adams. She was in the car with Darius and his wife when the accident took place.”

Sheridan sucked in a breath. “What? I had no idea.”

“I’ve always known there was more to the story, and I was determined to look into it. And I was right.” He pulled out a tablet, sliding it across the table to her. “Project Election was just one piece. There are dozens of operations going back twenty-five years.”

Sheridan glanced at the screen, seeing file names and dates that stretched back more than ten years. “You’re saying Sigma has been around that long?”

“Not Sigma as we know it. But the concept—creating threats to justify military spending, manipulating defense contracts—that’s been happening for decades. Sigma is just the latest evolution. Bigger, bolder, more organized.”

“They’ve regrouped,” Sheridan said, more pieces clicking into place in her mind. “Whoever ran these earlier operations, they’ve consolidated power.”

“Exactly. And they’ve embedded themselves so deeply in our government and military that they’re almost impossible to root out.”

Sheridan studied William’s face, looking for deception. He seemed genuinely troubled, even scared.

He didn’t display the expression of someone working for terrorists.

No, he looked like someone who’d stumbled onto something massive and dangerous.

“You’re not working for Sigma,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

William’s eyes widened with what looked like genuine shock. “What? No! I’ve been trying to expose them, not help them.”

“Then who at Blackout is?”

His expression tightened. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. Someone with high-level access has been?—”

The door swung open. Kyle and Hudson walked in, both still in tactical gear, both looking grim.

“Well . . .” Hudson’s gaze moved between Sheridan and William. “Isn’t this an interesting meeting?”

Kyle’s hand rested casually on his sidearm. “Agent Mendez. William. Just the people I wanted to see. We need to talk.”

The air in the room shifted, tension crackling like electricity before a storm.

Two suspects, both armed.

Sheridan was outnumbered.