Page 17 of Pressure Point (Lantern Beach Blackout: Detonation #2)

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

An hour later, Atlas guided Quinn through the maritime forest, starting at the spot where he’d first found her.

The canopy filtered the gray afternoon light into shifting patterns of shadow and brightness, and Spanish moss swayed like ghostly curtains in the breeze that carried the promise of the approaching storm.

Atlas needed to see Quinn’s reaction when she returned to the place where her story began. He needed to watch for any tells, any micro-expressions that might reveal whether her amnesia was genuine or an elaborate performance.

Because after that perfectly executed takedown of the helicopter earlier, he could no longer ignore the possibility that everything about Quinn seemed to be a lie.

She walked slightly ahead of him, moving through the underbrush with a grace that appeared too practiced for someone who supposedly had no memory of outdoor training.

Every few steps, she paused to examine broken branches or disturbed earth.

Her eyes tracked details with the methodical precision of someone conducting a forensic analysis.

Almost like she’d been trained to read a crime scene.

“Anything look familiar?” Atlas watched her face more than listened to her answer. Would he see any deceit?

Quinn shook her head. But he caught the way her pupils dilated slightly when they passed a particular cluster of pine trees.

Her breathing changed too—became shallower, more controlled.

Whatever memories were locked in her mind, this place was stirring them.

The question was whether she’d admit it.

Suddenly, Quinn stopped.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and for a moment, her composed mask slipped entirely.

Pain. That was what he saw in her expression. Raw, devastating pain that made his chest tighten with sympathy despite his suspicions.

Her trauma appeared to be genuine.

More than anything, he wanted to find answers for her—and for himself.

Atlas studied the ground around them, looking for any evidence that might have been missed by Cassidy’s guys in yesterday’s search. But the forest floor revealed nothing.

There were no footprints in the sandy soil, no broken vegetation to indicate a struggle, no discarded items that might provide clues to Quinn’s identity.

It was almost too clean.

Like someone had sanitized the scene.

Meanwhile, Quinn was keeping secrets—secrets that might provide them with some answers.

Even if her amnesia were real, there were still things she wasn’t telling him.

He needed to find out what those things were.

“Quinn.” Her name came out rougher than Atlas had intended. “We need to talk.”

She turned to face him. Something in his tone must have warned her that this wasn’t going to be a gentle conversation.

Her posture shifted subtly—weight balanced on the balls of her feet, hands loose and ready. Combat stance disguised as casual alertness.

There. That’s the tell I was looking for.

Atlas stepped closer, deliberately invading her personal space. He wanted to see how she’d react when pressed.

He needed to know whether the lost, vulnerable woman was her natural state or if this was another layer of camouflage.

“I know there’s something you’re not telling me,” he started. “Something you remembered that you’re keeping to yourself.”

Quinn took another step away from him. As she did, her back hit the rough bark of a live oak.

They stood close enough that Atlas could see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

He swallowed hard.

Their nearness was dangerous on multiple levels.

But he didn’t step back. This close, he could read every micro-expression, every tell that might reveal whether Quinn was victim or predator.

I know there’s something you’re not telling me. How would she respond to that?

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her pulse visibly hammered in the hollow of her throat. “What do you think I know exactly?”

“You knew that helicopter was a threat before it hit the water.” Atlas’s voice was soft but implacable. “Your reaction time was professional grade. Military ready. And that’s not something you develop overnight.”

Quinn’s breathing had become rapid and shallow. But her eyes remained steady on his. “I told you, I just had a feeling?—”

“Stop.” His voice sounded hoarse as he said the word. “Quinn, I’ve been trained to spot deception. Whatever game you’re playing, whatever you’re hiding, I will figure it out.”

Something flickered in her gaze.

Fear, maybe. Or calculation.

For a heartbeat, Atlas thought she might try to run. Or fight.

Instead, she seemed to collapse inward, her shoulders sagging with what looked like defeat.

“You’re right,” she whispered. “There are things I’m not telling you. But not because I’m lying about the amnesia. It’s because I don’t know.”

Quinn’s heart hammered against her ribs as the rough bark of the oak tree pressed into her back.

Atlas stood close, so close she could see the green flecks in his eyes, could feel the heat radiating from his body.

His proximity made her feel . . . trapped.

The word sent alarm bells through her nervous system, and she fought the urge to react. Even with her scattered memories, her body knew exactly how to get out of this situation.

A knee to his solar plexus, followed by an elbow strike to his temple. He’d be unconscious before he hit the ground.

The knowledge terrified her more than Atlas’s suspicions did.

What kind of person am I that violence is my first instinct?

Atlas searched her face with the intensity of a predator studying prey. He suspected her. She saw it in every line of his body, heard it in the careful control of his voice.

And the worst part was, he was right to suspect her.

“I’ve been having flashbacks.” Quinn’s voice was barely audible above the wind rustling through the Spanish moss. “Fragments of memories that don’t make sense. Training scenarios. Conversations. Arguments. Missions.”

His pupils dilated slightly. Maybe with surprise. Or maybe as a confirmation of the suspicions he’d already formed.

“What kind of missions?” His voice sounded carefully neutral.

But Quinn caught the subtle shift in his stance.

He was preparing for her to bolt or attack.

Smart man. If she were in his shoes, she’d be equally cautious.

She licked her lips before saying, “I don’t know. The memories are like broken glass—sharp pieces that cut when I try to examine them too closely. But they all have one thing in common.”

“Which is?”

Quinn met his gaze. “They all involve violence. And in every single one, I’m not the victim.”

There. She’d let him see the fear that ate her alive from the inside.

Now the question was—what would Atlas do knowing that? Turn on her? Shame her? Or help her?

Quinn could hardly breathe as she waited to find out.