Page 78 of Ground Zero
The woman smirked again. “Sigma is such a limited term. We prefer to think of ourselves as revolutionaries. We’re the next logical step in private military contracting.”
He shook his head, the motion clipped and tight. “You’re terrorists.”
“We’re businesspeople. There’s a difference.” She leaned forward slightly. “Your father eventually understood that. Right before his unfortunate accident, to be precise.”
Rage flared in Maverick’s chest, but he forced himself to stay calm.
He was trapped in a helicopter with two Sigma operatives, no weapon, nowhere to run.
He’d escaped one trap only to hurdle himself directly into another.
Anger burned hot as it flowed through his veins. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere we can have a proper conversation. About your future. About whether you want to be part of the solution or remain part of the problem.”
“The problem being?”
“Your stubborn insistence on believing in antiquated concepts like patriotism and duty,” the woman said. “The world has moved past such things, Mr. Adams. Now it’s about profit margins and market share. Wars aren’t fought for ideology anymore—they’re business ventures.”
Maverick glanced out the helicopter. They were maybe three hundred feet up, over water now as they followed the coastline.
“We went to considerable trouble to extract you,” the woman said. “That should tell you something about your value.”
“Or about how badly you want me silenced.”
“If we wanted you dead, you’d be bleeding out on that beach.” She adjusted her suit jacket, and he caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster. “No, Mr. Adams. We want you alive. The question is whether you’ll stay that way.”
The helicopter banked again, heading toward an unknown destination with enemies who held all the cards.
Maverick had been in bad situations before. But this—trapped between sky and sea with nowhere to run—this might be the worst.
Sheridan and William stood frozen for another long moment, neither moving, both assessing. The conference room felt smaller with just the two of them, the silence heavy with unspoken accusations.
Finally, William raised his hands slowly, showing empty palms. “I’m not going to hurt you, Agent Mendez.”
“Then start talking.” She kept her hand on her weapon but didn’t draw it. “How did you find information about Project Election?”
William moved carefully to one of the chairs, maintaining distance between them. “I’ve been researching for months. Not under orders—on my own time. I was able to break into some old government servers to find information—fragments of old files, references to operations.”
She squinted. “Why would you do that?”
“Because there was an accident sixteen years ago, and my mom was killed.”
She still wasn’t following. “An accident?”
He nodded, his face all hard lines. “My mom worked as an assistant for Darius Adams. She was in the car with Darius and his wife when the accident took place.”
Sheridan sucked in a breath. “What? I had no idea.”
“I’ve always known there was more to the story, and I was determined to look into it. And I was right.” He pulled out a tablet, sliding it across the table to her. “Project Election was just one piece. There are dozens of operations going back twenty-five years.”
Sheridan glanced at the screen, seeing file names and dates that stretched back more than ten years. “You’re saying Sigma has been around that long?”
“Not Sigma as we know it. But the concept—creating threats to justify military spending, manipulating defense contracts—that’s been happening for decades. Sigma is just the latest evolution. Bigger, bolder, more organized.”
“They’ve regrouped,” Sheridan said, more pieces clicking into place in her mind. “Whoever ran these earlier operations, they’ve consolidated power.”
“Exactly. And they’ve embedded themselves so deeply in our government and military that they’re almost impossible to root out.”
