Page 19 of Pressure Point (Lantern Beach Blackout: Detonation #2)

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Quinn’s words hit Atlas like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs.

I think I’m one of the bad guys.

He stared at Quinn, noting the stark vulnerability in her eyes. She stood perfectly still as if waiting for him to draw his weapon or call for backup. She’d resigned herself to her fate.

“What do you mean you think you’re one of the bad guys?” His voice came out rougher than intended.

Quinn’s hands trembled at her sides. “I remembered something. Here, on this beach. I think I . . .” She swallowed hard. “I think I killed someone. A man. My partner, maybe. I’m not sure. I shot him and reported it as a successful termination.”

The clinical language sent ice through Atlas’s veins. Successful termination.

That wasn’t the vocabulary of someone forced into violence.

It was the cold efficiency of a professional killer.

Without thinking, he reached out and touched Quinn’s hand.

The contact sent a shock up his arm. The jolt of connection had nothing to do with static electricity and everything to do with the woman standing before him. Her skin was soft, warm, real—so at odds with the confession that had just left her lips.

Quinn’s breath caught at the touch, her eyes widening as if she felt it too.

Don’t.

The warning slammed through Atlas’s mind with brutal clarity.

Don’t let yourself feel anything for her. Don’t make the same mistake twice.

He jerked his hand back, but not before the memory of Noreen crashed over him like a rogue wave.

Noreen’s laugh as she’d told him about the intelligence she’d been feeding to the enemy. The way she’d smiled when she revealed that every romantic moment between them since her abduction had been calculated, every whispered “I love you” a lie designed to make him more malleable.

“You always were too trusting, Atlas. It’s what made you so easy to manipulate.”

Atlas’s jaw clenched as he forced the memory away. He couldn’t afford to make the same mistake again. He couldn’t let attraction cloud his judgment when lives were at stake.

But looking at Quinn now, he could see the genuine anguish in her expression as she waited for his verdict. He found it hard to reconcile her confession with the woman who’d trusted him completely from the moment he’d found her.

“Tell me about the flashbacks.” Atlas stepped back to put physical distance between himself and Quinn. “ All the flashbacks.”

Quinn wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive gesture that made her look smaller and more fragile. “I’ve gotten flashes of myself doing some missions and arguing with someone— as well as with myself—about whether or not they should be completed.”

“Keep going.”

Her voice grew quieter with each word. “And it’s always the same refrain—eliminate the threat, complete the mission, don’t let emotions compromise the objective.”

Something cold settled in Atlas’s stomach. “What kind of targets?”

“People.” Her voice strained. “Always people. Intelligence analysts, low-level operatives, anyone who knew too much or asked the wrong questions.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Atlas, I think I might be an assassin.”

The confession sliced between them like a knife.

As they stood there on the beach, the breeze kicking up around them, Atlas studied Quinn’s face. He searched for any sign of deception, any tell that might indicate this was an elaborate performance.

All he saw was a woman terrified of her own past.

“You said you remembered refusing an assignment,” he reminded her.

Quinn nodded, hope flickering in her expression. “Yes. And the man I killed—I think he was my handler. Maybe I was trying to get out, and he tried to stop me.”

Or maybe that was exactly what Quinn wanted Atlas to think.

The thought felt like a betrayal, but Atlas couldn’t ignore his training. Everything about Quinn’s story was convenient.

It could very well be textbook psychological manipulation.

But if it was an act, why confess to being a killer at all? Why not maintain the innocent victim facade?

“What are you going to do with me?” Quinn’s voice was barely audible above the sound of wind and water.

Atlas studied her face, noting the way she held herself—ready to run or fight, but not quite sure which was necessary. She was giving him the choice, he realized. Trust or betrayal. Salvation or condemnation.

The smart play was obvious.

Take her back to headquarters, turn her over to Colton and the team, let them handle the interrogation and threat assessment. Keep himself at a safe distance from whatever game she might be playing.

But looking at Quinn—really looking at her—Atlas found himself remembering something his grandmother used to say: Sometimes the right choice and the smart choice aren’t the same thing.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the first fat raindrops escaped from the sky.

“We need to get back.” He didn’t answer her question because he wasn’t sure he knew the answer himself.

“Of course.” She looked away as if disappointed.

As he turned away, he froze.

The hair on his neck rose. He knew that feeling. His instincts had been fine-tuned over the years to pick up on danger.

Someone was watching him, he realized. He and Quinn weren’t the only ones out in the woods right now.

And whoever else was here . . . they weren’t a friend.