Page 35 of Lost Hope

His chest tightened as he watched Maya pace the length of the open-plan living room, arms wrapped around herself like she was keeping something vital from spilling out. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been a rising star at NCIS. Now her partner was dead, her father hiding, and she was on the run with a guy whose service record screamed traitor.

“Stop it,” Axel murmured, appearing at his shoulder. “This isn’t on you. Whatever Tank was mixed up in, whatever conspiracy he stumbled into—not your fault. All we can do now is fix it.”

Ronan’s laugh was bitter. “Right. Because trouble doesn’t follow me everywhere I go.”

“Got a signal,” Ethan announced. “Star’s accessing traffic cams from the marina area.”

Maya turned sharply, and the streetlight caught her face. Ronan moved without thinking, closing the distance between them. “You’re bleeding.”

She touched her cheek, looking surprised at the smear of red on her fingers. “Must have caught something during the chase.”

His callused fingers caught slightly on the zipper of the med kit in his thigh pocket.

The antiseptic’s sharp bite cut through the room’s coffee-tinged air as he cleaned the small cut.

Her skin was warm under his touch, and she held perfectly still, eyes locked on his. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The empty feeling in his gut intensified. He wanted to pull her close, tell her everything would be okay. Promise her they’d find her father. Make it right.

But they barely knew each other. And what she did know—his General Discharge, the classified reports, the whispers of betrayal—none of it inspired confidence. On paper, he looked like the last person she should trust.

Yeah. On paper, he didn’t look good at all.

Maya suddenly stiffened. “Wait. Show me that video sweep again. The security camera from the stairwell.”

Everyone crowded around Ethan’s laptop. The footage showed the emergency stairwell, grainy but clear enough. Maya jabbed a finger at the screen. “There. That Snickers wrapper.”

“Could be anyone’s trash,” Blair said gently.

“No.” Maya leaned closer. “Look how it’s placed. Perfectly flat, wrapper facing up. Right in the camera’s line of sight.” Her voice gained strength. “My father eats Snickers all the time. Has since I was a kid. He says sugar helps him think.”

Ronan studied the image. The wrapper wasn’t crumpled or torn. It had been deliberately positioned. “Nice.” The excitement in his voice matched Maya’s expression.

“Hold on,” Christian cautioned. “Star, can you access any other cameras from the area? Before the system went down?”

“Already on it.” Star acknowledged. “Got something. Four tangos approaching the complex two hours before we arrived. Two front, two back. Full tactical gear.”

“Russian-made AS Val rifles,” Axel noted, studying the grainy figures. “Suppressed. High-end stuff.”

“Wait.” Ethan zoomed in on footage from a boutique’s security camera half a block away. “There. In the window reflection.”

The image was brief—just a flash of movement caught in plate glass—but unmistakable. Lawrence Chen, moving fast but controlled, disappeared into the shadows. “He caught sight of them in time to leave you clues and get out. How’d he have time to respond so quickly?”

Maya’s eyes were glued to the image. “After the BOLOs went out, he would have anticipated this. Go, Dad.” Her whisper held equal parts relief and fear. “Now where’s our next clue?”

The room fell silent as they all considered the impossible task ahead: tracking a highly trained LAPD detective who didn’t want to be found, while staying ahead of professional hunters who clearly had significant resources.

Ronan watched Maya pace the length of the safe house, the soft whisper of her boots against hardwood matching his own restless energy. The recycled air from the building’s ventilation system raised goosebumps on his arms as he studied her movements.

Then she stopped, like a bloodhound catching a scent. She turned to face them, something like hope lighting her face. “Seven years ago, missing girl case. Dad had this whole system worked out.” The words tumbled out faster now. “He was famous in the department for his gas station coffee addiction—used to say fancy coffee was for people who’d forgotten how to be real cops. He worked out this entire communication network with his CIs using coffee cups and newspaper stands.”

Ronan watched her expression shift as she explained—the mix of exasperation and admiration in her voice painting a picture of her father that no personnel file could capture.

“The position of the cup, the brand, whether it was empty or full—it all meant something different.” She shook her head. “I gave him such grief about it. Told him it was terrible tradecraft, that he needed to follow proper CI protocols. He just laughed and said sometimes the best hiding place was in plain sight.”

Ronan stepped closer to the screen, studying the Snickers wrapper with new eyes. “So this is what—a marker?”

“More like the start of a trail.” Maya’s eyes were bright now, that sharp intelligence he’d noticed from their first meetingfocused like a laser. “Star, can you pull footage from any newspaper stands within a six-block radius of the condo?”

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