Page 2 of Lost Hope

A burst of static from the Border Patrol Agents’ radios caught his attention. Something about a chase in progress. Behind them, the Marines were getting rowdier by the minute.

“What brought you down here?” Ronan asked, raising his voice over the chaos.

Axel glanced around the crowded bar. “Let’s take this outside. Somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think.”

Ronan nodded and followed him into the stifling night air. Whatever had brought Axel to this desert hellhole, it couldn’t be good.

2

NIGHT FLIGHT

The desert stretched endlesslyin every direction, nothing but scrub brush and sand under a sky dulled by dust and heat and despair. The bar’s gravel parking lot was half-empty, Axel’s gleaming BMW looking completely out of place next to Ronan’s rust-bucket truck.

“When’s the last time you heard from Tank?” Axel asked, leaning against his car.

“Not sure.” Ronan shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe a year ago?” The defensive note in his voice made him wince.

“He’s in trouble.”

The words hung in the hot air between them.

Ronan’s mind flashed to Copenhagen—the mission that had ended everything. The civilian’s face still haunted his dreams, along with the echo of that fatal shot. He’d taken the fall, as a team leader should. Better one career destroyed than eight. The brass had wanted blood after a civilian death on European soil, and he’d given them what they needed—a clean narrative, a single shooter, a clear end to the investigation.

“Don’t,” he said when he saw the guilt creeping into Axel’s expression. “I was team leader. My shot, my consequences.” The lie felt familiar now, worn smooth like river stones after threeyears of repetition. Griff had been the only other one in position that night, the only one who knew what really happened in that Copenhagen lab.

They’d never spoken of it again—not during the investigation, not during Ronan’s discharge, not in the years since. Some secrets were worth protecting, even at the cost of everything you’d built.

He caught Axel studying his face and forced his expression neutral. The big man had always been too perceptive, especially when it came to guilt. But what was done was done. The team had survived, unscathed. That’s what mattered.

A black SUV with tinted windows cruised past for the third time. Ronan tracked it in his peripheral vision, noting the driver’s furtive glances their direction.

He studied Axel more carefully now—the wrinkled suit, the exhaustion etched in his face. “Did you sleep in that suit or what?”

Axel’s jaw tightened. “You think I’ve slept? Been too busy driving, dude. You might not be aware, but Minneapolis is 1,826 miles from here. That’s two days on the road. Nonstop.”

The words hit Ronan like a physical blow. “Yikes, Ax. Why didn’t you call—” He stopped himself. Right. He had called.

“Tank needs us,” Axel said sharply, nodding toward the dilapidated airport on the horizon. “These the only rides you got?”

“Unfortunately.” Ronan’s stomach tightened. “Why?”

“Because you’re flying me to San Diego. Now.”

“I’ve got a run scheduled—” Ronan caught himself. Better not mention where. “We can go after.”

“We’re already two days late. We’re going now.”

Ronan opened his mouth to protest again, but as he looked around at his pathetic circumstances—the sketchy bar, thequestionable cargo runs—the words died in his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”

The BMW’s leather seats were cool against his back as they drove to the airfield. His truck sat abandoned at the bar.

“Will it be safe there?” Axel asked.

“I hope not.” Ronan directed him toward a storage facility where they could stash the BMW. The luxury car’s quiet ride was a stark reminder of how far he’d fallen. His truck leaked exhaust into the cab.

He glanced at his friend. “You doing okay with flying these days?”

“Sure.” Axel’s attempt at a casual tone failed miserably. “Long as I stay at least ten miles away from an airplane.”

---