Page 1 of Lost Hope

1

DESERT MIRAGE

The swamp coolerin Desert Mirage Bar fought a losing battle against the Yuma heat. As if there was a cooling system on the planet an August night in Southern Arizona couldn’t defeat. Even at 9:00 p.m. the temperature hovered near triple digits, turning the dingy establishment into a sweaty cave of desperation. Ronan Quinn nursed his third Monster of the night.

He and booze had broken up over a year ago.

From his usual corner, he had a clear view of both exits and the parking lot beyond the grimy windows. Old habits die hard, even when you were flying cargo planes of questionable legality for a boss who paid in cash.

In the back, beyond the warped and scuffed dance floor, a pair of Border Patrol Agents racked up another game of pool.

The local news droned on about the illegal immigration crisis, the anchor’s voice barely audible over the wheezing air conditioner. Sarah, the owner, cursed softly as she tried to fix the ceiling fan. The ancient thing hadn’t worked right in the four months Ronan had been coming in, but she kept trying.

Three years ago, he’d been piloting multi-million-dollar aircraft off carrier decks. Leading ultra-secret ops in shadowycorners of the world. Now he was lucky if the busted-up cargo planes in the boss’s fleet started on the first try. The irony wasn’t lost on him—a former Navy SEAL reduced to running “agricultural shipments” across the border. He’d earned his discharge, though. No point dwelling on it.

The door swung open, letting in a blast of desert heat. Ronan’s heart stopped. For a second, he thought the heat was causing hallucinations. There was no way Axel Reinhardt was standing in the doorway of this dump, looking like he’d just stepped out of a Minneapolis board meeting.

But it was Axel—pressed slacks, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and that familiar concerned expression that had always made Ronan feel about two inches tall. All six-foot-four of him filled the doorway, his bulk somehow both imposing and comforting. Even wrinkled and road-weary, he carried himself with that particular Midwestern grace that came from a lifetime of making his size work in normal-sized spaces. His usually well-groomed beard was untrimmed, but his eyes still held that same steady warmth that had made him the team’s unofficial counselor. The kind of guy who could make a corporate boardroom as comfortable as a NASCAR pit, equally at home in both worlds. Right now though, he looked like a teddy bear that had been through a washing machine—rumpled, exhausted, and somehow more real for it.

The regulars noticed immediately. Outsiders stuck out here, especially ones who looked like they belonged in a Fortune 500 company instead of a border town dive bar. Being a non-drinker now, Ronan wouldn’t be there either, if there was any place else in this hellhole to hang out.

Sarah moved closer to Ronan’s table, pretending to clean glasses while eyeing the newcomer. The pool players paused their game, leaving only the drone of the talking heads on the TV news.

Shame and defensiveness warred in Ronan’s chest as Axel’s eyes found him. He’d pushed the team away after the discharge. Axel hardest of all. Easier to disappear than face their disappointment. Now his past had tracked him down anyway.

“Hey,” Axel said, sliding onto the stool next to him.

Up close, Axel looked like he’d been driven over by a John Deere. His normally immaculate clothes were wrinkled. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. Something was seriously wrong. Axel wouldn’t have tracked him down—wouldn’t have left his comfortable life running his father’s car dealership—without a good reason.

“I’ve been calling you since Sunday.” Irritation warred with fear in Axel’s voice. “Ten times, Ro. What gives?”

Ronan shifted in his seat. The phone was probably in his truck somewhere, battery long dead. Or maybe he’d left it at his apartment. Hard to say. “Been busy,” he muttered.

“Yeah. I can see that.” Axel’s eyes swept the bar, taking in the peeling paint and ancient desert photographs. His gaze settled on the energy drink. “Seriously? You’re really not drinking?”

The question sparked anger in Ronan’s gut, but shame doused it quickly. After the discharge, he’d spiraled. Badly. Axel and the guys had scooped him up off the floor of too many base-side bars to count. The man had reason to question him.

He pulled the twelve-month AA chip from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Got it last week.” But Axel wouldn’t have known that. How could he? After he left San Diego, Ronan had methodically cut every tie to his old life. Eight teammates—family, really—and he’d ghosted them all. Axel had tried the hardest to maintain contact, but eventually even his stubborn persistence had worn thin.

“I’m sorry,” Ronan said softly. “About everything.”

Relief softened Axel’s features. “Glad to hear it.” He pushed the chip back across the table. “I mean it, dude. I’ve been praying for you for ... like forever.”

Ronan sighed. Still Axel. Still the faithful, faith-filled SEAL. He’d always envied his friend’s unwavering convictions, even if they hadn’t worn off on him.

A group of Marines burst through the door, young and loud and full of themselves. The sight made Ronan’s chest ache. Had he and Axel ever been that young?

Sarah cranked up the jukebox, drowning out their whooping.

Axel’s presence nagged at him. His former teammate looked completely out of place in his business casual wear, but it wasn’t just the clothes. Axel had built a good life for himself back in Minneapolis, running his father’s dealership. He wouldn’t have tracked Ronan down without reason.

“What are you doing here flying freight out of this dump?” Axel asked, his voice barely audible over the din.

Ronan bristled. “It’s not easy finding work with a general discharge.” He caught himself before adding that it could have been worse. A dishonorable discharge was like a felony conviction in the civilian world. At least he’d avoided that.

“Not easy with a bad attitude, either.”

Ronan couldn’t argue with that.

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