Page 5 of Lost Hope

Ronan nodded, grateful for Axel’s steady presence. His friend was right. They could grieve later. Right now, they needed answers.

The office looked wrong, just like the rest of the condo. Marcus had been methodical, but never pristine. His desk should’ve been cluttered with coffee cups and protein bar wrappers. Instead, everything was arranged with artificial precision.

They stood in silence, absorbing the implications. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to sanitize the scene. To make it look like their friend had simply given up and eaten his gun.

The precision reminded him of his SEAL training—analyze, compartmentalize, execute. Skills he’d buried under cargo runs and cheap motels. Skills he’d need again if they were going to find justice for Marcus. The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like coming home.

“We can’t leave him like this.” Axel’s voice cracked.

“No.” Ronan squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “But we can’t call it in yet either. Not until we know what he was working on.”

“Something worth killing for.” Axel’s eyes were wet, but his jaw was set.

They swept through the condo again, this time slower, more methodically. Every surface gleamed. Even the refrigerator had been wiped clean—no obvious smudges, no takeout menus held by magnets, no photos. Tank had always kept photos.

Ronan hesitated at the office doorway, his hand tight on the frame. Marcus’s body was still there, still arranged in that unnatural pose, and every instinct screamed at him to stay back. To not look again at what had been done to his friend. But they needed answers.

“I got this,” Axel said quietly, moving to stand between Ronan and the desk, partially blocking his view of their friend’s body. The simple gesture—pure Axel—helped Ronan focus.

The laptop sat on the corner of the desk, positioned at that precise forty-five-degree angle Tank always used. At first glance, it was his—same model, same subtle scratch near the touchpad. But someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make it look well-used without actually knowing how Tank lived. The wear pattern on the wrist rest was too even, too uniform. Marcus had always favored his right side when typing, should have worn that side down more.

“They studied his habits,” Ronan said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “But they didn’t get all the details right.”

The room itself felt like a military display—everything aligned at perfect angles, pens arranged by size, books alphabetized. But Marcus’s organization had been different. Organized chaos, he’d called it. He’d color-coded his files, stacked reference books by frequency of use, kept his favorite coffee mug full of colored markers within arm’s reach. None of that personality remained. Someone had stripped away every trace of the man who’d lived here, replacing it with this sterile facsimile of military order.

“They did a thorough job,” Axel muttered, running a finger along the dustless windowsill. “Professional clean team.”

“Agreed.” Ronan’s jaw tightened. “But they didn’t know him.”

“The mail,” Axel said suddenly. “There’s no mail anywhere. Not even junk mail.”

Ronan fought the urge to run. Getting caught here would end badly, but they couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until they figured out what had gotten their teammate killed.

He clapped a hand to the back of his neck, as if he could massage away the fury. The grief. Someone had gone to a lot oftrouble to make this look like suicide. Someone professional. Someone meticulous.

Someone who didn’t know about the big man’s book habit.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. While he’d been running from his past, hiding in desert bars and making illegal cargo runs, Marcus had been fighting something big enough to get him killed.

A flash of red and blue reflected off the window, painting the sterile walls with police lights. Ronan groaned.

“Someone called it in.” Axel moved to the window, keeping to the side. “Three patrol cars, and a fourth pulling up.”

Ronan’s mind raced. Back door? No—they’d be covering it. Fire escape? Too exposed. They were three stories up, and the parking lot below would be filling with law enforcement.

“We’re blown.” The words tasted like ash. Getting caught here would mean federal charges, minimum. And whoever had cleaned this scene hadn’t left Tank like this just to have two ex-SEALs discover the truth.

“Options?” Axel asked, falling into their old pattern.

“None.” Ronan heard car doors slam, followed by purposeful footsteps on the stairs. “We’ll have to play it straight.”

Axel’s eyebrows shot up.

“We got worried about our friend. Came to check on him. Found ...” Ronan’s voice caught. “Found this.”

Axel nodded slowly. “Think they’ll buy it?”

“No.” Heavy footsteps in the hallway now. “But it’ll buy us time.”

---