Page 12 of Lost Hope

Another burst of gunfire forced Ronan lower. He squeezed off one round, making the nearest shooter duck. Six left. The harbor patrol sirens were closer now, but they’d never make it in time.

Through his peripheral vision, he caught Axel’s movement—quick and precise, gathering what he needed from the shack’s emergency supplies. Maya stayed close to him, whether from trust or necessity wasn’t clear.

“Incoming, ten o’clock,” he warned as a second shooter tried to flank. Another round from the Sig bought them space. Five to go.

“Ready,” Axel called. “Water’s our best exit. Can you swim, Agent Chen?”

“Better than I can trust you two,” she shot back.

“Fair enough.” Axel’s grin was razor sharp. “Ronan, on my mark, put two rounds into that tank. Then run.”

Ronan nodded. The closest shooter was moving again, confident now. Cocky. Five rounds left would have to be enough.

“Three,” Axel began. “Two?—”

The explosion ripped through the night, sending a cascade of burning fuel into the air. Ronan grabbed Maya’s arm, pulling her toward the pier’s edge. She didn’t resist, matching his stride. Good. She understood survival trumped procedure.

They hit the water together, the December Pacific shocking the air from his lungs. Maya tensed beside him but kept moving, strong strokes carrying her deeper into the harbor’s darkness. The water muffled the sounds of gunfire above, each shot a dull pop through the depths.

Ronan stayed close to her, hyper-aware of her smaller frame in the freezing water. She might be a strong swimmer, but hypothermia wouldn’t care about her skills. They needed to find shelter fast. Through the murk, he caught Axel’s signal—stay under, stay quiet, fifty yards minimum.

They glided through the black water like seals, letting the current help carry them away from the firefight. Every few strokes, Ronan checked Maya’s position, fighting the instinct to pull her closer. She wasn’t some civilian to protect—she was a trained federal agent. Still, something about her triggered every protective instinct he’d developed in the teams.

“This way.” Axel’s voice was barely a whisper. He angled toward the nearest dock, a long stretch of pristine moorings where sleek boats bobbed in the pre-dawn darkness. “B dock. High-end cruisers. Lots of cover.”

Maya treaded water beside them, her eyes hard in the darkness. “And if I’m not interested in adding breaking and entering to my night?”

“Then swim for the shore,” Ronan said. “If the hostiles don’t shoot you, you can try explaining to Harbor Patrol why you’re soaking wet near your dead partner. While those professionals back there plant evidence on your hard drive.”

“You don’t know that’s what?—”

“Yeah. We do.” The image of Benson’s body drifting flashed through Ronan’s mind. “They’re very good at what they do.”

Another explosion rolled across the water—secondary charges Axel had rigged. Beyond the pier, voices shouted orders. Red and blue lights painted the smoke. Through the darkness, Ronan tracked movement on the pier—tactical teams pulling back, regrouping. The explosion had drawn too much attention. Local PD would be swarming the area soon.

The black Audi’s headlights swept the marina before peeling away, followed by two more sedans. They’d be back, but for now, the heat was too high. These guys might be good, but they weren’t stupid. No point risking exposure when their targets were trapped in the harbor.

Ronan wiped saltwater out of his eyes and nodded toward a luxury cruiser. “Over there. There’ll be dry clothes, shelter. A chance to figure out our next move.”

“Breaking into a million-dollar yacht.” Her laugh held no humor. “Perfect.”

“Better than floating here waiting to get shot.” Axel was already moving, his strokes silent and efficient. “Besides, these guys always hide a key. Part of the maintenance agreement.”

They reached the boat’s stern platform, keeping low. Axel made quick work of the hidden key box while Ronan kept watch, Maya’s wet Sig useless in his waistband. At least the weather was warm. Small favors.

The cabin door clicked open. “Ladies first,” Axel whispered.

She hesitated, scanning the docks. More sirens approached.

“Fine,” she said finally, and hauled herself up onto the deck with impressive speed.

The yacht’s cabin held traces of summer—beach towels, spare clothes in lockers, a lingering mix of sunscreen and salty air. While Ronan crouched on the back deck, keeping watch, Axel moved with practiced efficiency, closing the interior shades, then finding lights, checking spaces.

“All good.” He waved Ronan and Maya inside.

Ronan stripped off his wet shirt, used it to wipe down the woman’s Sig. Through the windows, emergency lights swept the harbor in steady patterns. They’d have maybe ten minutes before the search expanded to the boats.

“Here.” Axel tossed them both clothes from the owner’s stash. “I found some women’s in the forward berth.”

---