Page 30 of Pressure Point (Lantern Beach Blackout: Detonation #2)

CHAPTER

THIRTY

As Quinn stared up at the lighthouse, the world around her seemed to shift and blur.

She’d been here before. She was sure of it.

The certainty hit her like a physical blow, bringing with it fragments of emotion that didn’t form a complete picture.

Salty air, the sound of waves against rocks, and underneath it all, a growing sense of urgency and fear.

But not fear for herself—fear for someone else.

The partial memory crystallized with shocking clarity.

An older man with gray hair and kind eyes, worry lines etched deep around his mouth. He wore a rumpled linen shirt and held a stack of weather data printouts. His hands shook as he spoke.

They were on a beach . . . except this one had palm trees that swayed with the strong wind.

“Quinn, I need your help,” he said. “The models aren’t matching what I’m seeing in the field data. This newest storm . . . it’s not behaving like anything we’ve predicted.”

Her voice was professional but tinged with growing concern as she responded. “Show me what you’ve found, Dr. Hartwell.”

Hartwell.

The name triggered another cascade of recognition. Maybe he was a colleague or a mentor.

“The pressure readings are all wrong.” He spread the papers across what looked like a makeshift desk inside the back of a van.

“If I’m right, this hurricane isn’t just going to hit the Bahamas.

It’s going to create a storm surge unlike anything we’ve ever seen. Entire communities could be wiped out.”

Fear gripped her—the desperate terror of someone who realized innocent lives were at stake.

“We have to warn people.” Her voice cracked as she said the words. “Issue an evacuation order, get people inland ? —”

“No one will listen. Not without proof. By the time we have proof, it’ll be too late.” His eyes appeared haunted, desperate. “That’s why I called you. Your storm surge models, your pressure differential research—you’re the only one who might be able to confirm what I’m seeing.”

At that moment, Quinn had somehow known he was going to die. Known with the terrible certainty that came from . . . what?

How could she have known that?

Quinn gasped and staggered backward, the memory fragmenting like broken glass.

Her heart raced, and a crushing headache built behind her eyes.

“Quinn!” Atlas gripped her arm. “What did you remember?”

She looked up at him, trying to process the flashback. “There was a man. An older scientist, I think. Dr. Hartwell. He was showing me weather data, storm readings that didn’t match the predictions.”

Atlas’s expression sharpened. “What kind of storm readings?”

“Hurricane data. Pressure differentials that suggested . . .” Quinn pressed her palms against her temples, trying to ease the pounding in her head. “He was afraid people were going to die because no one would believe his predictions.”

“And you were here to help him?” Atlas clarified.

“Yes, but . . .” Quinn’s voice trailed off as the darker part of the memory surfaced. “Atlas, I was afraid he was going to die. Not from the storm—from something else. Someone else.”

Atlas glanced back at his teammates, who’d stopped their search to watch this exchange.

“Do you remember anything else?” he asked Quinn. “What happened to Dr. Hartwell, or why you thought he was in danger?”

Quinn shook her head, frustration building inside her. “It’s all fragments, pieces that don’t fit together. Our conversation . . . it couldn’t have been about Hurricane Delilah. They just named that storm since my amnesia.”

“Another hurricane hit the Bahamas about two weeks ago,” Atlas said.

“Maybe that’s what he was talking about. Did the storm do a lot of damage?”

Atlas nodded. “Not as much as it could have done. The system fell apart before it hit land. Some people called it a miracle. You think Hartwell was researching that storm and asked you to help?”

She shrugged before shaking her head. “I wish I knew. But I have no idea.”

“At least it’s something . . .”

“But Atlas?” She met his gaze, letting him see the fear that was eating at her. “I have a really bad feeling about this island. Like something terrible is going to happen here. Maybe what was going to happen in the Bahamas. They got it wrong there, but maybe they want to test it again here.”

The wind picked up, whistling around them and sending sand swirling around their feet. In the distance, storm clouds continued to build, dark and ominous against the afternoon sky.

Quinn couldn’t shake the feeling that Hurricane Delilah wasn’t just bringing wind and rain to Lantern Beach.

It was bringing answers she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.

While Atlas spoke with his teammates, Quinn found herself drawn to the woods on the other side of the lighthouse. Flashes of being on a beach before continued to hit her.

Urgency pressed on her with each thought.

Almost as if in a trance, she walked toward the forest, pulled by something unseen.

She stepped between the trees, her eyes searching for something her mind wasn’t certain about.

Then she saw it.

A dark van parked in the shadows.

Still moving almost robotically, she walked to the newer vehicle and opened the door to the back.

The equipment scattered across the floor made her breath catch.

Weather monitoring devices. Barometric pressure gauges. Digital anemometers.

And scattered among everything else were waterlogged notebooks with pages that fluttered in the draft from the open door.

She’d been in this van before. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did.

Quinn climbed inside and sat on the gritty floor. Her hands trembled as she picked up one of the notebooks.

The ink had run in places, but she could still make out handwritten observations in careful, precise script.

Pressure dropping faster than models predict. Wind shear patterns inconsistent with Category 4 classification. Storm exhibiting intensification characteristics despite water temperature readings. Never seen a hurricane behave like this before.

Based on the date at the top of the page, Dr. Hartwell’s notes were about the hurricane that hit the Bahamas two weeks ago. Quinn was certain of it, though she couldn’t explain how she knew his handwriting. She wasn’t even sure who the man was. But his name had slammed into her mind with clarity.

As she turned the pages, more fragments of memory began surfacing like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle clicking into place.

Standing on a tropical beach, watching Hartwell’s increasingly frantic calculations. His gray hair disheveled, his shirt wrinkled from hours of work without rest.

“Quinn, look at these readings.” His voice sounded urgent and desperate. “The storm’s exhibiting signs of artificial enhancement. Someone’s been seeding the clouds, manipulating the pressure systems.”

Her breath caught. “That’s impossible. Weather modification on this scale would require ? —”

“Incredible resources and equipment. Exactly.” Hartwell turned to face her, his eyes bright with fear and discovery. “I think someone’s turning hurricanes into weapons.”

“What’s that mean for the Bahamas? There’s a storm approaching there now.”

His expression became even more grim. “It could be total devastation. I can only hope their plan doesn’t work.”

“When will we know?”

He frowned. “Soon. Someone would really need to know what they were doing to make this work. One incorrect variable would make this fall apart. Let’s pray someone made a mistake.”

Quinn gasped and dropped the notebook, the memory hitting her with such clarity it felt like a physical blow.

Then the next one came.

“Quinn . . . we’re lucky. The storm is falling apart. Something went wrong. This time. But if these people figure out their mistake . . .”

“It will be totally devastation next time,” she finished. “How did they even create this?”

“Someone had to be helping them. Another scientist.”

“Who? Who would do this?”

“That’s what we need to figure out.”

More, darker images crowded the edges of her consciousness.

Men in dark clothing appeared at the other end of the beach. Hartwell turned toward her, his voice urgent as the wind whipped around them. “Go. Run. Hide the data. Don’t let them ? —”

Gunfire sounded.

“I can’t leave you!” Panic raced through her as he thrust his notebooks into her arms.

“My knees are bad. I don’t stand a chance. I can’t make it back to the van. But you can. Now go! There’s no time to argue.”

Defeat pummeled her. She couldn’t leave him.

He’d die.

“Go!” His voice left no room for argument.

She glanced at the men.

They were getting closer.

But they were coming from the opposite side.

If she could make it to the van . . .

“Whatever you do, don’t help them!” Hartwell yelled.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Then she took off in a run.

And then . . . nothing. She wasn’t sure what happened next.

In the space where her memories should be there was only white static.

Quinn sagged against the side of the van, breathing hard as the implications crashed over her.

Dr. Hartwell discovered something that had gotten him killed. She’d run. She must have made it back to the van. Left his notebooks here.

Maybe she’d even driven away.

Maybe she’d come to Lantern Beach and hidden the van, knowing that this island was their next target.

Then she’d been grabbed—maybe before she could warn anyone—and . . .

She wasn’t sure.

She looked down at her wrists, remembering the defensive wounds, the rope burns.

She’d fought those men.

Whatever they’d done to her, she’d fought them every step of the way.

But they’d won. At least temporarily.

Quinn picked up the notebook again, forcing herself to focus on Hartwell’s final entries. The pressure readings, the wind patterns, the meticulous documentation of a hurricane that was behaving unlike any natural storm on record.

This information was on a different storm system.

But was Hurricane Delilah following the same pattern?

Her gut told her yes.

Understanding hit her like ice water. Whoever was behind this . . . they were conducting their experiment again.

And this time, what if their plan worked?