Page 36 of Lost Hope

“On it,” Star responded. “Sending feeds now.”

“There.” Maya jabbed a finger at the screen. “Seven-Eleven coffee cup, left corner. That was his signal for ‘follow me’ to his CIs.”

“Got another,” Ethan announced. “Three blocks east. Different cup, right side of the stand.”

“‘Danger, go to ground,’” Maya translated, and Ronan could hear the years of experience behind her understanding—how many times had she watched her father work his unorthodox system? “He’s leaving us directions.”

She straightened, certainty replacing her earlier fear. “I know where this trail ends. The old Morton’s Coffee Shop on Sixth. It’s where he first showed me this system. Said if I ever needed to find him ...” She swallowed hard. “It’s been closed for years, but the building’s still there.”

“Could be a trap,” Christian warned.

“No.” Maya’s voice held the kind of conviction that came from bone-deep knowledge of another person. “This is pure Dad. He’s thinking like a street cop, not a tactical operator. The people after him will be watching official channels, looking for high-tech communication. They’d never expect ...” She trailed off, staring at the screen.

“He’s brilliant,” Ronan said softly, studying Maya’s face. Admiration twisted with something darker in his gut—here was a man who’d built his career on pure instinct and street smarts, while Ronan had thrown away years of elite training with one catastrophic judgment call.

“And buying time,” Christian added. “Star, how many cameras have eyes on Morton’s?”

“Two traffic cams, one ATM. All clear so far. No tactical vehicles, no suspicious movement.”

“What if we’re wrong?” Maya’s voice caught, and Ronan fought the urge to reach for her. “What if they figured it out, what if?—”

“They didn’t,” he cut in, certainty hardening his voice. “Men with Russian weapons and high-tech gear? They’re looking for digital trails, electronic signals. Not coffee cups and candy wrappers.” Like him, they’d be expecting military precision, not street cop ingenuity.

“He’s right,” Axel said. “These guys are pros, but they’re thinking like pros. Your dad’s thinking like a cop.”

Christian was already moving. “Blair, you and Austin take up positions here and here.” He marked points on Ethan’s street map. “Jack, coordinate with Star on surveillance. Ronan?—”

“I go with Maya.” The words came out before he could stop them. She might only know him as the disgraced operator with a file full of redactions, but he’d be damned if he’d let her face this alone.

Christian studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Stay on comms. First sign of trouble?—”

“We’re gone,” Maya promised. She reached for her jacket, then hesitated. “The coffee shop ... there’s a back entrance through the kitchen. Dad used to joke it was the best escape route in LA. It connects to the old service tunnels. Prohibition-era smuggling routes. He used to say only old beat cops remember they exist.” A ghost of a smile touched Maya’s lips. “He’s really doing this. Playing their own assumptions against them.”

“Your father,” Ronan said as they headed for the door, “is going to be an interesting man to meet.” If the man lived up to even half of what he’d seen so far, Lawrence Chen would take one look at Ronan’s record and want him nowhere near his daughter.

The thought shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

18

NIGHT ECHOES

Maya’s earsstrained against the unnatural quiet of downtown LA at 2:00 a.m., catching fragments of sound—a distant siren, the metallic rattle of a shopping cart, the soft whisper of Ronan’s tactical gear against brick. She pressed herself flatter against Morton’s facade, the lingering heat of the August night radiating through her shirt. The acrid taste of adrenaline coated her tongue, mixing with memories of burnt diner coffee and early morning stakeout conversations.

She fought the urge to check her watch again. The empty street stretched before her like a scene from one of those post-apocalyptic movies her father loved—all shadows and silence and waiting.

Seven years ago, she’d stood in this same spot, clutching her carefully organized case notes while her father chatted with a homeless man about the missing Hancock Park girl. She’d wanted to scream at him to focus on real evidence, not waste time with his “street sources.” Twenty minutes later, that same homeless man had given them the breakthrough that saved the girl’s life.

Now she forced her breathing to stay steady, hyperaware of Ronan’s solid presence beside her, of Christian’s teampositioned strategically around the block. Her father’s coffee cup markers had led them here, but doubt gnawed at her certainty. What if she’d read the signs wrong? What if someone else had decoded his system?

“Movement,” Star’s voice whispered through their comms. “Southeast corner. Single male, staying in the shadows.”

Maya’s heart hammered. The figure moved like her father—that distinctive rolling gait from an old motorcycle accident. But it could be a trap, could be someone who’d studied him ...

“Second signal,” Jack reported. “All clear on perimeter scan.”

This was the part her father had tried to teach her—that moment when procedure had to yield to instinct. When you either trusted your gut or lost everything.

The figure reached the edge of Morton’s stubborn pool of streetlight. Maya caught a glimpse of silver hair, a familiar stance. Then he stepped into the light.

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