Page 7 of Pressure Point (Lantern Beach Blackout: Detonation #2)

CHAPTER

SEVEN

The thought of someone holding her captive made her stomach clench. “Maybe it’s better not knowing then. Maybe some memories are meant to stay buried.”

Atlas’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really believe that?”

She met his gaze and saw something there she couldn’t quite identify. Suspicion? Concern?

Or was it something deeper?

“I don’t know what I believe.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know who I am or where I belong. I don’t know if I have family somewhere wondering where I am or if I’m someone people are better off without. All I know is that sitting here feels like being suspended in limbo.”

Atlas leaned forward slightly. “What do you want to do?”

“I want answers. Even if they’re terrible. Even if they change everything. I need to know who I am.” She took a shaky breath. “Will you help me find those answers?”

Something flickered across his face. Doubt, maybe. Or calculation.

She braced herself for the “no” she was certain she’d receive.

Then his expression softened. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It wasn’t the wholehearted agreement she’d hoped for. But at least it wasn’t the outright refusal she’d expected.

Right now, with no memory of her past and no clear path to her future, something—anything—was enough.

Even if she couldn’t shake the feeling that Atlas was keeping secrets of his own.

The afternoon had stretched endlessly in the small clinic room. Though the shades were drawn, she sensed the sun was now setting.

Dr. Spenser had officially discharged her, but Atlas had asked her to wait in the room while he made some calls to secure accommodations.

He’d been gone an hour already.

Part of her feared he wouldn’t come back.

She wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. This was . . . a lot.

But Atlas was the only hope she had right now. Atlas and . . . God?

Did she believe in God? Did she trust in Him?

Her gut told her yes. And if that was true, she needed to trust Him now too, in the midst of this trying situation.

While Atlas was gone, she lay on the narrow bed. She’d been given some black sweats, flip-flops, and a pink scrub top to wear since her clothes were now evidence.

She stared at the ceiling tiles above her and tried to make sense of the fragments swirling in her mind.

Every time she closed her eyes, fleeting images flickered behind her eyelids like broken film strips. Rain. Darkness. The sensation of being hunted.

Underneath it all was the persistent feeling that time was running out.

Time was running out for what?

She shifted restlessly, her ribs protesting the movement. The bruises there were deepening, painting her skin in shades of purple and yellow that told a story she couldn’t remember.

But her body remembered something. Every muscle felt coiled, ready to spring into action at the first sign of danger.

And, apparently, she could speak Russian. But why? Nothing was making sense.

As she leaned her head back against the bed, the feeling of being watched crept over her again.

She sat up slowly, her senses sharpening despite the lingering effects of her concussion.

A soft scraping sound came from outside her window. Metal against glass, like someone trying to jimmy the lock.

Her heartrate spiked.

But alongside the fear came something else.

A cold, calculating alertness that seemed to emerge from somewhere deep inside her.

Without conscious thought, she observed the room’s contents: a metal tray of medical instruments, a heavy ceramic water pitcher, the IV stand that could serve as both weapon and shield.

How do I know how to think like this?

She glanced at the window, unable to see it with the shades drawn.

But she knew one thing for certain: someone was sliding it open with barely a whisper of sound.

She forced herself to remain still, to appear asleep while tracking the intruder’s movements through slitted eyes. A figure dressed in dark clothing slipped through the window with practiced stealth, landing silently on the linoleum floor.

He was medium height and build, wearing a ski mask that obscured his features.

In his right hand, he gripped a knife with a serrated edge that caught the light from the cracked bathroom door. He crept closer to her bedside, and she braced herself to act.

“Time to finish what we started, Quinn.” His voice carried a slight accent she couldn’t place.

Quinn?

The name hit her like a physical blow. But before she could process it, the man stepped toward her bed, his knife raised.

Instinct took over.

She grabbed the metal tray from the bedside table and swung it in a wide arc.

It caught her attacker across the temple.

He staggered but didn’t go down.

“You should just do this the easy way.” He lunged at her again, his knife poised to attack.

She ducked, but the blade caught the sleeve of her scrub top. The fabric tore, and the blade sliced the skin beneath.

Ignoring the pain, she leaped from the bed and backed toward the door, her mind racing.

“You can’t run forever,” he snarled. “I was given a mission, and I don’t fail.”

Her body seemed to know exactly how to move. How to keep the bedside table between herself and the knife. How to position herself for maximum escape routes.

But her conscious mind screamed with confusion.

Is Quinn my name? Who are “they”?

The attacker lunged again.

She shoved the rolling table at him. Then she grabbed a handful of medical instruments from a nearby tray and hurled them at his face.

Scissors and forceps scattered across the floor as he ducked and weaved.

But his movements were calculated.

He lunged at her once more.

He was herding her away from the exit, wasn’t he? Backing her into the corner where she’d have nowhere to run?

Even as she strategized her next move, panic raced through her.

“Atlas!” The name tore from her throat before she could stop it.