Page 20 of Pressure Point (Lantern Beach Blackout: Detonation #2)

CHAPTER

TWENTY

Quinn felt the tension radiating from Atlas as they turned to leave. His entire body suddenly coiled like a spring ready to snap.

The conversation they’d just finished—about her memories, about trust, about what came next—hung between them like smoke.

But something else had captured his attention.

She’d been too distracted by their talk to notice anything—which could be a fatal mistake. She felt like she should have known better.

Atlas’s hand poised over his weapon.

She froze, her senses on full alert.

Fat raindrops continued to fall, pattering against the leaves above them with increasing intensity. But it wasn’t the approaching storm that made the hair on the back of Quinn’s neck stand up.

Someone’s watching.

The realization hit her with the same instinctive certainty that had made her grab the rifle during the helicopter attack. Her body knew danger even when her conscious mind couldn’t explain how.

Quinn’s breathing shifted into the controlled rhythm she didn’t remember learning. Her eyes swept the woods around her, searching for shadows and movement.

That was when she saw it—a flash of dark clothing behind a cluster of pine trees, maybe fifty yards into the forest.

Her gaze darted toward more movement. The subtle shift of Spanish moss that suggested a person rather than wind was moving through the canopy.

A rock formed in her stomach.

She and Atlas weren’t alone out here.

“Atlas,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the increasing rainfall.

“I know.” His response was equally quiet, his hand now resting openly on his sidearm. “How many?”

The question came naturally, as if he expected her to be able to assess tactical situations. Which, apparently, she could.

Quinn let her gaze drift across the forest, noting the small signs that screamed of human presence to her trained eye. “At least two. Maybe three. They’ve got us in a crossfire position.”

The words left her mouth before she could think about what they revealed. Atlas shot her a sharp look—part surprise, part confirmation of suspicions he’d been harboring.

Before either of them could say anything else, a bullet whizzed past her ear.

Bark exploded from the tree behind her as the round embedded itself in the trunk.

Quinn dropped to the ground.

Atlas had his weapon drawn and returned fire before the echo of the first shot faded.

She wished she had a weapon. Did Atlas have an extra?

Even if he did, she felt certain he wouldn’t give it to her.

“Stay down!” Atlas barked.

Then he squeezed off three more rounds toward the muzzle flash in the distance.

But Quinn was already moving, rolling behind the dubious cover of a fallen log as another bullet kicked up sand where she’d been lying.

They were too exposed, their cover too limited, and an unknown number of hostiles with superior positioning surrounded them.

This was bad.

Atlas fired twice more.

Then Quinn heard a distinctive click.

Her blood ran cold.

That was the sound of an empty chamber.

What were they going to do now?

Click.

The sound of Atlas’s firing pin hitting an empty chamber was the worst sound he’d ever heard.

He dropped behind the trunk of a live oak, fumbling for his spare magazine while bullets thudded into the wood around him.

The hostile fire wasn’t letting up. If anything, it was intensifying.

Whoever was out there knew he was reloading and was taking advantage of the opportunity.

The tactical situation was deteriorating fast. Multiple shooters, superior positioning, and now he was temporarily out of the fight.

He caught sight of Quinn pressed flat behind a rotting log that wouldn’t stop a determined squirrel, let alone high-velocity rounds.

A bullet splintered the trunk inches from his head, showering him with bark.

Atlas slammed the fresh magazine in place and chambered a round. But as he prepared to return fire, he realized their attackers had shifted position.

He and Quinn were being herded.

The shooters were pushing them deeper into the forest, where the thick canopy would muffle gunshots and bodies could disappear without a trace.

These weren’t random attackers. They were organized, professional, and closing in fast.

Atlas squeezed off two quick rounds toward movement in the underbrush then made his decision.

They couldn’t win a firefight against unknown numbers with superior positioning.

Their only chance was mobility.

He turned to Quinn as she sheltered behind the fallen tree. “We need to move! When I say go, we run for the SUV!”

She nodded, her face pale but determined. Whatever training lurked in her buried memories, those skills were keeping her calm under fire.

Atlas swept his weapon across the perimeter to force their attackers to take cover. “Go!”

He and Quinn sprang to their feet and broke from their positions. They sprinted through the forest as bullets whined around them.

Quinn moved with the fluid grace of someone who’d done this before. She stayed low, used trees for cover, and never ran in a straight line for more than a few seconds.

Behind them, the underbrush crashed as their pursuers gave chase. At least two sets of footsteps, maybe three, closed the distance with the relentless efficiency of trained hunters.

Atlas’s SUV came into view through the trees—a black shape parked on the sandy road that suddenly looked impossibly far away. Between them and safety lay thirty yards of open ground with no cover except scattered palmetto bushes.

Atlas grabbed Quinn’s hand as they reached the tree line. Her fingers were ice cold but steady.

“The moment we break cover, they’re going to have clear shots.” He scanned the open space between them and the vehicle. “No cover, nowhere to hide.”

Quinn squeezed his hand, and her eyes met his with grim understanding. “How fast can you get us out of here once we reach the SUV?”

“Fast enough. If we make it that far.”

Behind them, the sound of pursuit was getting closer. Voices called to each other in what sounded like tactical coordination.

“On three.” Atlas tightened his grip on both Quinn’s hand and his weapon. “One . . .”

A bullet shattered the bark on the tree beside Quinn’s head.

“Go!” Atlas shouted, abandoning the count.

They burst from the trees at a full sprint.

Quinn’s hand gripped his as they raced across the exposed ground toward the SUV.

The crack of gunfire sounded behind them. The air felt displaced as rounds passed close enough to kill.

Twenty yards.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Quinn’s breathing was controlled and even, despite their desperate pace. She wasn’t panicking, wasn’t slowing them down. If anything, she seemed to be pulling him forward, her legs finding reserves of speed Atlas hadn’t expected.

Five yards from the SUV, the distinctive whistle of a bullet passing between them caught his ear.

His breath hitched.

That was entirely too close.

They reached the vehicle, and Atlas yanked open the driver’s door. He shoved Quinn across to the passenger seat as another round of ammo spider-webbed the rear window.

He cranked the engine just as three men broke from the woods with their weapons raised.

Atlas threw the SUV into Drive and floored the accelerator, feeling the rear tires spin on the sandy road surface before finding traction.

More gunfire erupted behind them. But he and Quinn were moving now, putting distance between themselves and the kill zone.

In the passenger seat, Quinn was twisted around, watching their six through the damaged rear window.

“Are they following?” Atlas took the first curve fast enough to make the SUV’s suspension protest.

“Not yet.” Quinn’s voice remained steady despite what they’d just survived. “But Atlas? Those weren’t amateurs. That was a coordinated assault by trained operatives.”

“I noticed.” Someone had found them in the middle of nowhere, set up a professional ambush, and tried to eliminate them both.

The question was whether he and Quinn would live long enough to figure out who.