Page 12 of Pressure Point (Lantern Beach Blackout: Detonation #2)

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Atlas knocked softly on Quinn’s door at eight the next morning.

He half expected to find her still asleep after the trauma of yesterday.

Instead, her voice called out clearly, “Come in.”

She was not only awake but dressed in clean clothes—white linen pants and a soft blue T-shirt that brought out her eyes. She’d pulled her dark hair back in a simple ponytail, and though she looked tired, there was something more alert about her this morning. More present.

He paused just inside the doorway. “How did you sleep?”

She stood near the window, her arms crossed and her body stiff. “Better than expected.”

“Glad to hear that. Are you hungry? The cafeteria serves a decent breakfast. I thought I could walk you down there.”

“I could use a bite to eat.” She paused and frowned. “It’s strange—I don’t even know what I like to eat, but my body seems to know it needs fuel.”

“Makes sense. Let’s get you some food.”

As they walked down the hallway toward the stairs, Atlas found himself studying her.

Her movements this morning seemed more grounded. She seemed more confident than the lost woman he’d found on the road. But the haunted look still remained in her gaze.

“How are you feeling today?” he asked as they descended the main staircase. “I know yesterday was overwhelming.”

Quinn was quiet as if considering her response.

“It’s all so weird,” she said finally. “It’s like being untethered from everything that should anchor a person. I have no known past, no connections, and no sense of where I belong in the world. It’s . . . unsettling.”

“Like being a ship without a harbor,” Atlas murmured. “Drifting on currents you can’t control, searching for a safe place to drop anchor.”

She glanced at him with surprise, then smiled—the first genuine smile he’d seen from her. “You have a way with words. That’s exactly how it feels.”

His colleagues often teased him about his tendency toward poetry, calling it impractical for a former CIA operative. But Atlas had learned that poetry was anything but impractical. It was the most efficient way to understand what drove people, what they feared, what they longed for.

In his line of work, knowing how someone’s heart worked was often more valuable than knowing how their mind worked. But something about Quinn made him want to find the right words, the ones that might help her feel less alone.

Stay focused, he reminded himself as they reached the ground floor. Whatever connection you think you feel, remember what she said in her sleep. Remember that someone wants her dead for a reason.

But when she smiled at him like that, focus became much more difficult than it should be.

For years, Atlas had been a romantic at heart. But he thought that side of him had died.

If he knew what was smart, he would keep it that way.

The cafeteria was larger than Quinn had expected, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a well-maintained lawn leading down to the water.

Round tables dotted the space, and a serving line offered everything from fresh fruit to made-to-order omelets.

The smell of coffee and bacon caused her stomach to growl.

She gravitated toward eggs, bacon, and wheat toast—choices that felt automatic rather than conscious. As she and Atlas settled at a table near the windows, she realized she had no idea if these were foods she actually enjoyed or just what her body craved for recovery.

She glanced around before she started to eat. Twelve other people—most of whom carried themselves like Atlas—were eating at various tables. A woman with two children also sat at a table, watching as her kids slurped down some cereal.

She smiled at the sight of them. Something about seeing children here made the place feel more homey—safer even.

“This is a beautiful facility.” She glanced around the modern but comfortable space. She hadn’t gotten a good look at it last night. She’d been too distracted. “Tell me more about Blackout.”

Atlas cut into his omelet using the side of his fork. “As I told you earlier, Blackout is a private security firm. We do executive protection, threat assessment, and specialized tactical operations, to mention a few. We employ about fifty people.”

“And you’ve been here how long?”

“Six months or so.”

Something about the way he said the words made her think there was more to that story, but she didn’t push. “What did you say you did before coming here? You worked for the CIA?”

Atlas paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “That’s right. I did psychological warfare and intelligence analysis as well as fieldwork.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What exactly did that involve?”

Atlas slowly chewed on a bite of his omelet as he chose his words.

“The intelligence analysis side involved building psychological profiles—predicting how targets might react under pressure, identifying which of our own people might be vulnerable to enemy manipulation, reading micro-expressions and body language to detect deception during interrogations.”

“In plain English?”

He met Quinn’s eyes. “Basically, I learned how to get inside people’s heads and use what I found there as a weapon. I found their weaknesses and developed strategies to exploit them.”

She could only imagine. “That sounds . . . intense.”

“It’s not something you can just turn off when you come home.”

His words somehow made her feel vulnerable, like he’d be able to read things in her that she didn’t even know about herself.

And it sounded dangerous—for her, at least.

“I see,” she murmured. “What about the psychological warfare?”

He paused, his expression growing darker. “Sometimes that meant deprogramming captured assets who’d been brainwashed. Other times it meant creating disinformation campaigns designed to make enemy operatives doubt their handlers or turn against their own organizations.”

“I can’t imagine . . .” It sounded brutal.

“Being in the CIA wasn’t as glamorous as the movies make it seem.” Atlas offered a slight smile. “In fact, it was a pretty lonely profession most of the time. It’s hard to maintain relationships when you can’t tell people what you do or where you’ve been.”

For some reason, his words resonated with her. The loneliness he described, the isolation of a life lived in shadows—it felt familiar. Too familiar.

Have I lived that kind of life too?

“Are you freer to speak details about your current job?” Quinn asked before taking a sip of coffee.

He shrugged. “Usually, world peace isn’t at stake so there’s more freedom. But discretion is always wise.”

“Makes sense.” She took the last bite of her toast, surprised to find she’d cleaned her plate without really tasting the food. She’d been hungrier than she realized.

Atlas studied Quinn’s face, some kind of thought brewing inside him. “Quinn, I could try some memory recovery techniques with you. Controlled stress responses, environmental triggers—ways to safely access what’s been buried without forcing it.”

“Of course. Whatever we need to do.”

Something that almost looked like relief fluttered through his gaze. “Okay . . . great. I can put together a plan.”

She swallowed hard, knowing this was a good thing yet still fearing it at the same time. “So . . . what now?”

“I thought you might want to take a walk and get some fresh air. I could show you around the grounds. Then if you still want to go back to the woods where I found you, we can.”

“I’d still like to do that.” She stood then paused as every muscle in her body seemed to come alive at once. “I’m hoping it will stir some memories.”

The thought of what she might discover about herself made her nervous system flip into a different mode.

Her eyes automatically swept the room, noting exits and potential threats. Her hands tingled with the urge to reach for weapons she didn’t remember learning to use.

“Quinn?” Atlas watched her with sharp attention. “What is it?”

She blinked, and the hyperawareness faded slightly, though it didn’t disappear entirely. “I’m not sure. I just feel . . . wired, I guess. Like my body is getting ready for something.”

Atlas’s expression was carefully neutral, but she caught the flicker of concern in his green eyes. “Ready for what?”

“I don’t know.” She flexed her fingers, trying to shake off the feeling. “Self-defense maybe? Or an . . .”

The word that came to mind was attack , but she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud.

Instead, she forced a smile. “It’s probably just nerves and being in a new place with armed security around. My body’s probably just being cautious.”

Atlas nodded, but she sensed he was filing away her reaction for later analysis.

“That’s understandable,” he murmured before motioning toward her with his hand. “Come on, let’s get that fresh air.”

As they headed toward the exit, Quinn tried to ignore the way her body remained coiled and ready, like a weapon waiting to be utilized.

She tried not to think about why the sight of Atlas’s colleagues—clearly trained operatives—made part of her want to assess their capabilities rather than feel safe in their presence.

Most of all, she tried not to wonder what kind of person developed those instincts and what that might say about who she really was.

But with each step toward the door, the certainty grew that she was walking toward answers she might not want to find.

What if her amnesia was the chance to start fresh? To forget a life she didn’t admire?

But was a fresh start like that really possible? Considering everything that had happened with her so far, she doubted it.