Page 38 of Lost Hope

Her father paused before getting in, his cop’s eyes taking in the team’s smooth choreography, the high-end gear, the practiced precision.

“Nice setup,” he murmured as he climbed in and they pulled away from the curb. “Not exactly standard NCIS resources.”

“No,” Maya agreed, watching the city blur past. “It’s not.”

The pursuit vehicle’s headlights flashed in their rearview, but Christian’s driving was subtle, professional—nothing to draw attention. Just two expensive SUVs gliding through the LA night, headed for the private airfield where their plane waited.

Her father sat back, his expression unreadable. “You’ve gotten yourself mixed up with some interesting people, baby girl.”

Maya thought of the initial victim, Ronan’s friend. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I really have.”

The SUVs purred through LA’s empty streets, Christian taking a deliberately meandering route through the city. Maya watched her father’s posture shift as he studied the vehicle’s tactical displays, the secure comms, the advanced surveillance setup. Thirty years of cop instincts kicking in.

“Your pursuit vehicle dropped back,” he said suddenly. “They’re parallel tracking now, probably called in backup.” His fingers drummed against his knee—his old tell when piecing together a pattern. “You said airfield?”

“Van Nuys,” Christian confirmed. “Private hangar.”

“They’ll be watching the main approaches.” Her father leaned forward, all business now. “But there’s a service road off Hayvenhurst. Old construction access. Most maps don’t show it.”

“Star?” Christian asked.

“Satellite confirms. Looks clear.”

Just like that, Maya became invisible—the familiar sensation from a hundred operations with her father. He and Christian fell into a rapid tactical discussion, years of experience meshing seamlessly. Alternative routes, counter-surveillance measures, airfield security patterns.

Maya caught Ronan’s voice through the comms, coordinating with the follow vehicle, but her focus stayed on her father. The way his voice had shifted to that familiar command tone, the one that had directed countless operations. The one that had always made her feel simultaneously proud and overshadowed.

Some things never changed. Somehow she was right back to being Lawrence Chen’s kid, watching from the sidelines while the grown-ups handled things.

She sank deeper into the leather seat, exhaustion hitting her like a physical wave. Her body felt hollow, wrung out from too many hours running on adrenaline and coffee. Even keeping her eyes open had become a conscious effort.

The familiar cadence of her father’s voice washed over her as he and Christian discussed approach vectors. She’d been an NCIS agent for all of three months, determined to forge her own path, to step out of Lawrence Chen’s long shadow. And here she was, pulled right back into his orbit like some huge, cosmic joke.

Through the comms, she heard Ronan’s voice continue—steady, confident, adapting instantly to her father’s suggestions. The similarity struck her then: that same quiet competence, that instinctive grasp of tactical thinking. But where her father was all contained energy and sharp edges, Ronan moved with the fluid grace of a predator. A younger, more dangerous version of Lawrence Chen.

And significantly better looking, whispered a traitorous part of her mind.

She pushed that thought away, but couldn’t help noticing how naturally the two men had fallen into sync, even through their initial antagonism. Like recognizing like. Her father might have started as a beat cop and Ronan as spec ops, but at their core, they operated on the same wavelength—thinking three moves ahead while trusting their gut.

What was her Savior trying to teach her, letting her get tangled up with two such hard-driving, reckless men?

19

FALSE FIT

Late morning lightcrept through the high windows of Knight Tactical’s guest quarters as Ronan eased the borrowed t-shirt over his head. Six hours ago, they’d touched down in the company’s private jet—a luxury he’d been too exhausted to appreciate. The expensive fabric settled against his ribs like muscle memory, a reminder of everything he wasn’t. He was going to miss these clothes. Whatever wonder fabric it was the stuff was way out of his price league.

Across the room, Axel’s soft snores provided a steady counterpoint to the distant hum of early morning aircraft.

He slipped out of bed. His thoughts and emotions tumbled like clothes in a dryer, refusing to sort themselves into anything coherent. Lawrence Chen had proven to be exactly as his daughter described—smart, intense, running on seemingly limitless energy even after their early morning arrival back at headquarters. The man’s wariness of Ronan and Knight Tactical was palpable. Understandable, really. What father wouldn’t be suspicious of a guy with a record like his? A guy who’d dragged his daughter into a deadly game of shadows?

Because that’s exactly what Ronan had done. If he and Axel hadn’t shown up at Tank’s house, Maya wouldn’t be in thecrosshairs of killers who clearly had massive resources at their disposal. And Tom Benson would still be alive.

His gaze drifted toward Maya’s room two doors down. It was probably a blessing that they were polar opposites—her the rule-follower, him ... decidedly not. Because otherwise, he’d find her impossible to resist. Her energy, her dedication, even her faith—though he’d never admit that last part aloud. He wasn’t religious, but he envied that kind of unwavering devotion.

Just like he envied Christian Murphy’s team and their rock-solid belief. Add that to the growing list of ways his half-brother had beaten him at life: growing up with a real father instead of a rotating cast of nannies and a celebrity journalist mother who was never home. Getting the structure and discipline to succeed in the teams. Building this impressive second life as a civilian.

“Ugh.” The frustrated gesture escaped before he could stop it.

---