Page 3 of Lost Hope

Ronan’s chest tightened. Axel’s PTSD after Kandahar had been brutal—one more reason Ronan had kept his distance. Just being around him seemed to trigger Axel’s symptoms. Yet here his friend was, ready to face those demons to help Marcus.

What had their teammate gotten himself into?

The Lockheed Electra waited in the darkness like an aging prizefighter—still powerful despite the patches of bare metal showing through her faded paint. Ronan had grown oddly fond of the old turboprop; she might be past her airline glory days, but the converted cargo hauler could still outperform half the newer freighters in the sky. He ran through his preflight checks, grateful for the empty cargo hold. In this business, you didn’t load up until the last possible second.

“Won’t your boss miss his plane?” Axel asked, his voice tight as he climbed aboard.

Ronan couldn’t suppress his grin. “You bet. I’ll consider this my resignation letter.” He started the engines and began taxiing toward the runway.

In the dim cockpit light, Axel’s face had taken on an alarming pallor. Ronan searched for a distraction. “Tell me about Marcus. What’s he gotten himself into?”

“Not sure exactly.” Axel gripped the armrests as they picked up speed. “He wouldn’t talk about it over the phone. Just said he needed face-to-face. But he’s scared, man. Wanted the whole team together. I figured you and me would be faster though. Whatever this is, it’s bad.”

Ronan studied his friend’s profile. Axel had everything to lose by being here—the dealership, his comfortable life in Minnesota, his father’s trust. Yet here he was, white-knuckled but determined, because a teammate had called.

Ronan guided the Electra into position, his mind already jumping ahead to San Diego. Of all places, why had Marcus settled there? The legitimate world felt like a foreign country now—one where he no longer spoke the language. But something about this situation made his old training kick in, instincts he’d tried to bury surfacing like muscle memory.

Hell, even Coast Guard stations made him twitchy these days.

But Marcus? He’d always been the most dedicated of them all. The quintessential SEAL. One of the best operators Ronan had ever known.

He glanced at his friend’s white-knuckled grip on the armrests. “You gonna be okay? It’s a two-hour flight, minimum, and this old rust bucket doesn’t have autopilot. I can’t be letting go of the controls if you freak out.”

“No freaking out,” the big man responded, but the words sounded more like a plea than a reassurance as Axel’s murmured prayers filled the cockpit.

Once, Ronan would have joined him, back when he still believed someone was listening. Now he focused on the instruments instead, trusting in what he could see and touch.

The engines roared as they gathered speed down the runway. Every mile closer to San Diego would bring him that much nearer to everything he’d been running from, but beneath the dread, something else flickered to life. He’d built walls for a reason, constructed a life where no one could get close enough to matter. Where losing someone couldn’t break him again. But Marcus needed him, and some loyalties ran deeper than self-preservation.

The wheels left the ground, and they soared into the dark Arizona night, leaving the dust storm and his wasted years behind.

At least for now.

3

CLEAN SCENE

The foghornson Coronado made Ronan’s teeth ache. He hadn’t been this close to a Navy base in three years, and his body was making its objections known. His skin crawled as Axel guided the rental car through the quiet streets of Marcus’s neighborhood.

Too close. Way too close to the base.

Through gaps in the buildings, Ronan caught glimpses of the harbor lights, of the massive shapes of ships at anchor. Each sight sent another surge of bitter memories through him. He’d given everything to the teams. Broken bones, spilled blood, lost sleep—none of it had mattered in the end. One bad call, and they’d stripped it all away. The career, the brotherhood, everything.

“This is it.” Axel pulled up in front of a modest condo complex.

The middle of the night. Zero one hundred hours and change. Tank’s black Jeep sat in its designated spot, a light coating of dew suggesting it hadn’t moved in hours.

Ronan pushed away memories of the last time he’d seen that Jeep—the day he’d cleaned out his locker. “No lights. No response to texts.”

“Could be sleeping.” But Axel’s voice held zero conviction.

They climbed out into the damp night air. Nothing obviously wrong—no broken windows, no kicked-in door—but the hair on Ronan’s neck stood at attention. The scene was too perfect, too still. Like a movie set rather than a living space.

His body remembered its training even if his mind wanted to forget. He found himself moving differently, scanning sight lines, checking corners. Beside him, Axel did the same, their old partnership sliding back into place without discussion.

“Something feels wrong.” Axel’s whisper barely carried over the distant thrum of base activity.

“Copy that.”

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