Page 4 of Lost Hope

Ronan studied the building. Second floor corner unit. Good sight lines, decent egress options. Classic Tank. The orange glow of sodium lights cast weird shadows through the palm trees, making the whole scene feel surreal. Like one of those dreams where everything looks normal but feels off.

“Front door or back?” Axel asked.

“Front. If someone’s watching, skulking around back will only draw attention.”

They approached the stairs, keeping to the shadows. The metal steps felt solid, but Ronan tested each one before putting his full weight down. No sense triggering a booby trap if someone had gotten here first.

At the door, Axel pulled out a set of picks. Despite the tension coiling in Ronan’s gut, he had to smile. “Still got it, huh?”

“Like riding a bike.” Axel’s big hands worked the delicate tools with surprising grace. The lock yielded in seconds.

The deadbolt’s click echoed down the empty hallway. Ronan’s pulse hammered in his ears as they entered. The air felt wrong—stale, with an underlying smell that sent his heartrate zooming. Moonlight filtered through vertical blinds, creatingbars of light across the floor. In the shadows between, anything could be waiting.

“Tank?” Axel’s voice bounced off bare walls. No response.

The silence pressed in, broken only by the soft whisper of the AC. Every instinct screamed danger. Something bad had happened here. Ronan could feel it in his bones, in the way the darkness thickened around them. In the absolute stillness that felt more like absence than peace.

“Taking right,” Ronan whispered, falling into their old pattern.

Axel nodded and peeled left.

They cleared the condo room by room, muscle memory taking over. Kitchen first—spotless counters, empty sink. Living room—magazines perfectly aligned on the coffee table. Even the remote controls were arranged with military precision. Too much precision.

“No take-out containers,” Axel muttered. “No pizza boxes.”

Ronan knew what he meant. Marcus had always survived on delivered food. “No mail either. Nothing personal at all.”

The spare bedroom looked like a furniture showroom. Master bath—no towels hung crooked, no toothpaste tube squeezed in the middle like Marcus always did. The wrongness of it made Ronan’s skin crawl.

Light spilled from under the office door. Ronan’s heart slammed against his ribs as he pushed it open.

“Dear Lord. No.” Axel’s broken whisper hit harder than a punch.

Axel’s prayer wasn’t just shock this time—it was raw anguish. Ronan’s own throat closed around words he hadn’t spoken in years, prayers that died unformed. What kind of God let this happen to good men?

Back to them, their friend slumped at his desk, forehead against the surface, his service weapon still in his right hand. Powder burns to the temple marked the spot of the single shot.

The sight punched the air from Ronan’s lungs, but training kicked in, shoving grief into a box to be opened later. Beside him, he felt Axel do the same—that instant shift into operational mode that had kept them alive through countless missions.

“Don’t touch anything.” Ronan’s voice came out rough. He fought the urge to rush to his friend, to check for a pulse they both knew wouldn’t be there. The room temperature, the way Marcus’s skin had settled, the faint but distinctive odor—all things they’d seen too many times in their line of work.

“He’s been gone at least twenty-four hours,” Ronan said, his tactical mind cataloging details.

“About the time he sent that last text.” Axel’s voice was flat.

Ronan nodded grimly. The scene was too perfect, too clean. Like something staged for a photograph. His eyes swept the room again, catching on Marcus’s wrist. The watch face gleamed in the dim light, and something in Ronan’s gut twisted.

“Axel,” he said quietly. “Look at his watch. This isn’t right.” Ronan forced himself to study the scene clinically, pushing down the grief threatening to choke him. “His watchband is fastened on the wrong hole.”

“Could’ve lost weight.” But Axel straightened, professional training overtaking emotion. “Unless ...”

“Tank was obsessive about that watch. Never would have left it loose.” The words tasted bitter. If he’d answered his phone, if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own misery ...

“Stop it.” Axel’s voice was sharp. “I see that look. This isn’t on you.”

“I should’ve?—”

“We all should’ve. But right now, we need to focus. Something got him killed. Something big enough to bring in cleaners.”

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