Page 54 of Lost Hope

“A source,” she said primly. “A very reliable source who thought an investigative journalist might be useful.” She fixed him with that familiar penetrating stare. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Wait. No.” Ronan waved his hands in the air. “This is not how we work. We don’t bring in civilian?—”

“Actually,” Christian interrupted, surprising everyone. “We could use the help. Victoria has contacts we don’t.” He tipped his chin at Lawrence. “And Captain Chen’s got decades of insight into law enforcement.”

Ronan glared at his brother. Christian defending the woman who’d ruined his family?

“I knew you were a bright bunch,” Victoria added, settling gracefully into a chair beside Lawrence, who looked like Christmas had come early.

Ronan watched in horror as his mother and Lawrence Chen fell into an animated discussion about cold cases and corruption patterns, his mother’s hand occasionally touching Lawrence’sarm for emphasis. Maya caught his eye, her expression a perfect mirror of his own dismay.

“Wheels up in twenty,” Jack announced, mercifully breaking the moment. “Ronan, you good with the Pilatus?”

“Yes,” he said too quickly, grateful for the escape. “Very good. Extremely good.”

Christian stood. “Suit up and meet me in the armory in five. Let’s do this.”

Great. Just great. Trapped in a small aircraft with his brother, the woman who tied his stomach in knots, and the knowledge that his mother would be waiting here when they returned.

“Moving out!” Ronan announced, perhaps a bit too loudly. He headed for his quarters, heard Maya’s quiet laugh behind him.

“Your mom’s not so bad,” she murmured as they walked.

He shot her a look. “Wait until she starts planning our wedding.”

They both froze, realizing what he’d said. Christian, passing by, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “smooth.”

When did this become my life?Ronan wondered again. But as they headed for their rooms, he had to admit—if only to himself—that it felt better than the silence of the past three years.

Even if his mother was going to drive him insane.

25

RING WORK

“I’m telling you,that guy’s been doing the rings for like an hour. Has to be Cirque du Soleil.”

“Everything’s Cirque du Soleil to you. This is Venice Beach—could just be Tuesday.”

Ronan bit back a grim smile, tasting salt on his lips. If they only knew he was hunting a ghost, not auditioning for the circus. Though maybe a career change wouldn’t be the worst idea, given how this day was going. The metal rings had grown slick under his callused palms, and his shirt clung to his skin like a second layer.

He pulled himself up on the traveling rings again, muscles burning under the merciless August sun. Sweat trickled down his back, and the metal rings were hot enough to sting his palms. His fifth set, and still no sign of Griffin. The salt-laden breeze carried the mingled scents of coconut sunscreen, marijuana smoke, and cooking meat from the nearby food trucks. The air was thick with Venice Beach’s signature cocktail—sweat and sand, fresh-squeezed oranges from the juice cart, hemp oil from the massage tent, and that indefinable mix of sunscreen and desperation that seemed to hover over the performer’s circle. He scanned the crowd between reps,searching for that familiar ghost-quick movement, that shadow-shift that meant his friend was near. But spotting Griffin was like trying to catch smoke. Always had been. The man could vanish in an empty room if he wanted to.

Where are you, brother?

The weight of the past three years hung heavier than his own body on the rings. He’d had chosen to take the fall for Copenhagen, had walked into that Board of Inquiry knowing exactly what he was doing. It had been the right call—he might not have taken the shot himself, but he’d been CO. He put Griff in that situation. Griff begged him to tell the truth, but it wouldn’t have helped. Whether he pulled the trigger or not, he would have been punished. No reason for both of their careers to go down in flames.

But he knew Griffin’s burden was far worse. Living with letting someone else pay for your choices ... that was a special kind of hell.

He dropped down onto the sunbaked sand, grabbed his water bottle, using the motion to check his peripherals. The bottle was warm, water tasting of plastic. Griff would be here somewhere. Average height, average build, dark hair high and tight—a thousand guys on this boardwalk fit that description. But none of them moved like Ghost. None of them had that coiled-spring energy that made Griffin the fastest operator Ronan had ever seen.

A burst of laughter from the basketball courts mixed with the endless rhythm of waves and the thrum of skateboard wheels on concrete. The cacophony of Venice Beach on a summer afternoon should have provided perfect cover, but instead, every noise set his combat instincts humming.

“LAPD, making another pass,” Maya’s voice came through his earpiece, disguised by her pretense of narrating a workout video. She stood a few yards away, phone up, looking California-casual in shorts and a tank top. But Ronan could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she shifted her weight every few seconds, combat-ready despite her relaxed pose.

“Copy,” Christian replied from his food truck position. “That’s four units in ten minutes.”

Ronan forced himself back onto the rings, using the exercise to mask his own growing unease. Sweat stung his eyes. With BOLOs out for him and Maya, Southern California was the last place they should be right now. But Griffin had chosen this spot for a reason. The crowds pressed closer as the afternoon heat drove more tourists toward the relative cool of the ocean breeze. Each new face was a potential threat.

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