Page 55 of Lost Hope

An LAPD-issue SUV rolled by again, its tinted windows reflecting the relentless sun. Ronan’s scalp prickled with familiar combat instincts, the same sixth sense that had saved his life a dozen times downrange. They were exposed here, vulnerable. And Griffin still hadn’t ...

Maya’s voice cut through his thoughts, barely audible over a nearby busker’s electric guitar. “Three o’clock. LA County bike patrol officer by the smoothie stand.”

Ronan twisted, letting his momentum on the rings give him a natural-looking view of the target. The “officer” wore his watch high on his wrist—classic agency tell. The man’s shirt was too crisp, too new. Real beach patrol wore uniform tees faded by sun and salt air.

The press of bodies around them grew thicker. Tourists seeking shade clustered under the palms, their chatter and children’s squeals creating a wall of sound that made tracking movement even harder. The scent of grilled fish and hot pavement mixed with sunscreen and sweat.

Come on, Ghost. Where are you?

A street performer—one of those silver-painted living statues—broke his pose as Ronan completed another set. The manmoved with mechanical jerks toward the rings, his tip bucket extended. Nothing unusual for Venice Beach, except ...

The performer’s eyes met Ronan’s for a fraction of a second beneath the metallic paint. In that instant, Ronan recognized the micro-expression code they’d used a hundred times in the field.Ghost. His heart slammed against his ribs, muscle memory recognizing his friend even as his brain caught up.

He dropped a dollar in the bucket, felt paper brush his palm. The statue moved on, working the crowd with robotic movements. Just another hustler on the boardwalk. But Ronan’s fingers burned where they’d touched Griffin’s for that split second.

Ronan palmed the note while reaching for his water bottle, the paper damp with sweat against his skin. “Package received,” he murmured into comms, his voice nearly lost in the screech of a nearby seagull fighting over dropped french fries.

“What package?” Maya kept her phone up, still playing tourist. The late afternoon sun caught the tension in her jaw. “I don’t?—”

A bead of sweat tracked down his spine. The crowd seemed to press closer, bodies hemming them in on all sides. The sickly-sweet smell of cannabis drifted past, mixed with hot tar from the softening asphalt.

Ronan unfolded the note behind his bottle, the familiar block letters hitting him like a punch to the gut: FOLLOW PROTOCOL 7. EYES HIGH + LOW. MEET WHERE KINGS PLAYED. “That was Griff. We’re blown.”

Christian’s voice tightened in their earpieces. “Drone, northwest approach.”

Ronan crushed the note, letting his gaze drift up naturally, as if shading his eyes from the sun. The drone was there, a dark speck against the bleached-blue sky, moving with deliberate precision. Not the lazy wandering of a tourist’s toy. The whineof its rotors carried on the breeze, a persistent whisper of surveillance.

“Moving to secondary,” he said quietly, grabbing his gym bag. The canvas strap was gritty with sand, still hot from baking in the sun. But as he turned toward their exit route, Maya’s sharp intake of breath stopped him.

“Two SUVs just blocked Ocean Front Walk,” she reported. Through her camera’s viewfinder, he watched her track the vehicles—black paint gleaming, windows tinted impenetrable. “And the police checkpoint at the pier ...”

“They’re checking IDs.” Christian’s voice was grim. “Box formation. They’re closing the net.”

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees despite the August heat. Ronan’s mind raced. Protocol 7 was their old scattered-retreat strategy. But with watchers on the ground, eyes in the sky, and Griffin’s warning about kings ...

Kings.The chess players.

The daily gathering of chess players at the beach tables. Where Griffin had taught him that knight’s gambit, years ago. Where they’d waited out a surveillance team during that op in 19?—

“They knew,” he said softly, understanding hitting him like a physical blow. The crowd’s chatter faded to white noise, replaced by the thundering of his pulse. “They knew we were coming before we did.”

26

KNIGHT’S DEFENSE

Maya’s lungsburned as she rounded the corner onto Speedway, Ronan and Christian hard on her heels, the taste of salt and adrenaline sharp on her tongue. The drone’s whine sliced through the tourist chatter behind them, getting closer. When Ronan grabbed her arm and yanked her into the narrow gap between buildings, she didn’t resist. The brick walls radiated August heat, making the already tight space feel like an oven.

“We could try the tunnels under the old canals,” Ronan suggested, his voice low and urgent.

Christian shook his head. “They’ll have those covered. Those tunnels are in every tourist guide now.”

“Then we fight our way out.” Ronan’s jaw clenched. “Together.”

The look he gave her made her stomach flip, despite the danger. Or maybe because of it.

“That’s exactly what they want,” Christian snapped. He moved closer to Ronan, dropping his voice. “Think. They’re looking for a team. Three people moving together? Might as well paint targets on our backs.”

“We’re not splitting up.” Ronan’s voice held that familiar steel, the tone that had commanded SEAL teams through impossible situations.

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