Page 44 of Lost Hope

“Stop overthinking it,” Axel said. “Just dial.”

Ronan’s thumb trembled slightly over Zara’s number. He forced himself to hit dial before he could chicken out, half-hoping it would go to voicemail.

It rang once. Twice.

“This is a secured line.” Zara’s voice, crisp and professional, hit him like a physical blow. “State your business.”

“Z ... it’s Ronan.”

The silence stretched so long he thought she’d hung up. Then, “Well. King Ronan Quinn himself. Must be the apocalypse.”

He deserved that. “Z, I?—”

“Save it. What do you need?” Her tone wasn’t angry, exactly. Just flat. Controlled.

“Tank’s dead.” The words felt like ground glass in his throat. “Murdered. And we need ... I need ...”

Another pause, shorter this time. “Give me a sec to secure this call properly.”

Ronan caught Axel watching him, nodded slightly to show he was okay. While they waited, he could hear Zara’s rapid typing, imagined her in her dark office, screens glowing around her like always.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Tell me everything.”

As Ronan laid out the situation, he heard the subtle changes in her breathing, the tiny sounds she made when pieces clicked together in her mind. Same old Zara, building a puzzle in her head.

“I’ll start digging,” she said when he finished. “And Ro? Next time you disappear for three years, I will hack every electronic device you own and make them play nothing but ABBA. On repeat.”

He actually smiled. “Copy that.”

After disconnecting, he looked at Izzy’s number. One down, one to go. Across the room, he could hear Axel talking quietly to Deke.

“Your turn,” Axel mouthed, pointing at the phone.

Ronan nodded, dialing before he could lose his nerve. The shop’s phone rang three times before a familiar voice barked, “Reyes Custom. Make it quick.”

“Iz.” His voice cracked slightly. “It’s Ronan.”

The clang of a dropped wrench echoed through the line. “As in Lieutenant Commander Ronan Quinn? You kidding me?” Her tone could have stripped paint. “What, you drunk? Lost? Dying?”

“Tank’s dead.”

Another clang, softer this time. Like she’d sat down hard. “¿Qué? What are you talking about?”

“Someone murdered him. Made it look like a robbery.” His free hand clenched into a fist. “Iz, we need?—”

“Address. Now.” The sound of keys jingling. “I’ll close the shop?—”

“No, wait. We need intel first. Tank was investigating something. Something big enough to get him killed.”

A stream of creative Spanish filled his ear. Then, “Talk.”

He outlined the situation, hearing her pace, the rhythmic sound of her boots on concrete. When he finished, the silence stretched.

“You know,” she said finally, “my kid asks about her Uncle Ro sometimes.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. “Iz?—”

“Don’t. Just ... don’t.” She took a breath. “I’ll make some calls. Got a few clients who might know something about private security operations in SoCal. And Ro?”

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