Page 19 of Lost Hope

The library branch beckoned from the far end, past the defunct fountain where copper-green pennies still gleamed through murky water. An elderly couple power-walked the perimeter, their shuffling steps marking time like a metronome. Near the food court, a young mother wrestled with a stroller while her toddler wailed. Civilians. Potential casualties if this went wrong.

Maya kept her hand away from her weapon, though every instinct screamed for its reassurance. No need to start a panic. She forced herself to browse the window of a dusty gift shop, using the reflection to track her pursuers. They’d split up—one by the entrance, one drifting toward the escalator, a third moving parallel to her position. Professional. Coordinated. They were boxing her in.

The second floor might offer better options. Maya took the still-functioning escalator, nodding casually to a mall maintenance worker heading down. Now only a dollar store and a tax preparation office showed signs of life among the empty shopfronts. A cluster of teenagers lounged outside the dollar store, sharing a bag of chips. She needed to get clear of the public areas before this turned ugly.

She passed a shuttered Foot Locker, then a boarded-up Victoria’s Secret. The men adjusted their positions smoothly, one taking the escalator, one the stairs, the third maintaining line of sight from below. They were herding her, she realized. Using standard tactical containment to force her toward ... what?

A service corridor caught her eye, its “Employees Only” sign hanging askew. Too narrow for vehicles, but it might let her double back downstairs through the old service areas. More importantly, it was away from innocent bystanders. She took it at an easy pace, not running. Running attracted attention.

The corridor stretched ahead, emergency lights casting sickly fluorescent shadows. Past empty stockrooms and abandoned break areas, the smell of mildew growing stronger. Twenty yards in, she realized her mistake. The far exit was blocked by fallen ceiling tiles and debris, and footsteps echoed behind her.

Two new figures appeared at each end of the corridor. Black tactical gear, weapons holstered but ready. Not law enforcement—their movement was too predatory, too unleashed.

That made five, at least. The narrow walls suddenly felt like a trap.

Maya drew her weapon, knowing two rounds weren’t nearly enough. All she had was bluster. She held up her badge. “Federal agent! Stand down!”

The men kept coming. No badges shown, no commands given. Just the steady advance of professionals who knew they had their target cornered. The scent of old food court grease and cleaning products gave way to something metallic. Fear.

The first attacker moved faster than she’d expected. She fired once, catching him in the shoulder. He barely flinched. The second round went wide as another attacker slammed into herfrom behind, sending her weapon skittering across the stained linoleum.

Then the world exploded into violence.

Two shadows dropped from above—Ronan and Axel moving with liquid grace. The fluorescent lights caught the flash of a blade as Ronan swept the first attacker’s legs, while Axel drove an elbow into another’s throat with brutal precision. No shouts, no warnings. Just the muffled sounds of hand-to-hand combat from men who’d learned their trade in the world’s deadliest places.

Maya managed to break her attacker’s hold, even landed a solid combination that would have dropped most opponents. But these men were different. Professional. Trained. He shrugged off her best shots like they were love taps.

Then Ronan was there, moving past her with deadly efficiency. His attack was nothing like the controlled takedowns she’d learned at the academy. This was something else—swift, brutal, final. The kind of fighting that belonged to shadowy operations, not shopping malls in San Diego.

The fight ended as abruptly as it began. Five attackers down, Ronan and Axel barely winded. Maya retrieved her weapon, hands steady now despite everything. Beyond the service corridor, she could hear the normal sounds of mall life—muzak, distant conversations, the hum of escalators.

“We need to call this in,” she said, already reaching for her badge. “There could be civilians?—”

“No time.” Ronan was already searching the first unconscious man, his movements quick and practiced. No wallet. No ID. Not even a phone. He moved to the second while Axel checked the others. “Nothing. Not even unit patches or manufacturer’s labels in their gear.”

“Pros,” Axel confirmed, holding up a jacket liner where the tags had been carefully removed. “The kind who don’t leavebreadcrumbs.” He pulled a single phone from one man’s pocket, thumbed through it. “But they left us this.”

The screen showed surveillance photos of her father’s condo complex. Time-stamped that morning.

“They were waiting for you to run,” Ronan said quietly. He was doing something to ensure the attackers stayed down—Maya decided not to look too closely. “Probably have teams at every transit point between here and LA.”

A child’s laughter echoed from the main concourse, making Maya flinch. “We can’t just leave them here. The mall opens properly in an hour?—”

“Already called it in.” Axel’s voice was grim as he handed the cell phone to Ronan. “Anonymous tip about suspicious activity. Local PD will find them, but we’ll be long gone.”

“The sort of professionals who can make a murder look like suicide,” Ronan added, pocketing the phone. “Ghost teams. No ID, no trace.” His meaning was clear—the same kind who could frame federal agents and erase evidence trails.

Distant sirens made the decision for them. “Move,” Ronan ordered, already heading for what looked like a maintenance exit. “Unless you’d rather explain to responding officers why a supposedly corrupt federal agent is standing over four unconscious men in tactical gear.”

Maya’s hands trembled as she stared at the fallen men. Her lungs felt too small, each breath shorter than the last. Four years working gangs in LA, three years in violent crimes, barely three months with NCIS—none of it had prepared her for this. These men had moved like machines, had shrugged off her best defensive techniques like she was a rookie. If Ronan and Axel hadn’t shown up ...

Her father had always said there were predators, and then there were apex predators. She’d thought she understood. But watching Ronan and Axel fight—that liquid grace, that lethalefficiency—she realized she’d been playing in a completely different league. These weren’t street thugs or even hardened criminals. They were something else entirely.

They’d known exactly where she’d run. Which meant every plan she’d made, every option she’d considered, had already been anticipated. She was a cop playing soldier, and she was hopelessly outmatched.

“Fine,” she said, hating the slight quaver in her voice as she fell into step behind them. “But this doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“Good.” Ronan eased the door open, checking sight lines with a precision that made her own tactical training feel like child’s play. “Trust gets people killed. Right now, I’ll settle for you staying alive long enough to help us find who murdered our friends.”

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