Page 58 of Lost Hope

Steam billowed from industrial dishwashers, providing momentary cover. The clatter of pots and shouts in Spanish covered their footsteps. But there was no hiding from thetactical teams that had to be converging on their position—teams that shouldn’t have known where to look.

The smell of garlic and seared meat made her stomach clench, reminding her they’d been running this op for hours. Her muscles burned from the constant tension of staying alert while playing tourist.

Maya caught Griffin working his phone one-handed even as he guided her through the busy kitchen. When he noticed her watching, he gave a grim smile. “Insurance,” he murmured. He tucked the phone away before she could see more.

Through her earpiece, Ronan’s measured breathing told her he was still running. From the sound of it, taking evasive action.

Christian’s voice cut through the kitchen noise. “Creating a diversion at the checkpoint. These bodybuilders are very interested in proper form.”

Griffin guided them past a walk-in freezer, his hand signals indicating multiple hostiles converging. Maya caught a glimpse of their reflection in a steel cabinet—they looked exactly like what they were: fugitives.

“Ronan, south exit,” Griffin commanded through his own comms, his voice barely a whisper. “Christian, create chaos at the checkpoint.”

“Copy that, Ghost.” Christian’s reply was followed by the sound of weights crashing and men shouting.

They emerged into a wine cellar. Griffin pulled up a trapdoor Maya would have sworn was just part of the flooring. “Venice canal maintenance tunnels. Ladies first.”

“Whole tactical team moving in,” Ronan reported. “They’re not even trying to be subtle now.”

The tunnel was dank, the air thick with decades of moisture. Griffin produced a small flashlight, illuminating ancient brickwork. “This way. Ronan, Christian—mark your positions.”

Maya heard their locations, realized Griffin was leading them in a converging pattern. Smart. The tunnels would conceal their meet up from their pursuers. And the drones.

But as they approached the junction point, Griffin stopped abruptly. “Company.”

Flashlight beams bounced off the curved walls ahead. Behind them, more lights appeared. The tactical team had known about the tunnels.

“Ghost ...” Ronan’s warning came just as multiple tactical teams converged from both directions.

Maya’s pulse hammered in her throat as flashlight beams cut through the tunnel’s darkness. The dank air felt suddenly thinner, harder to breathe. Her back pressed against slick brick, every nerve ending screaming for action. But years of training held her still, held her ready.

She cataloged their situation with brutal clarity: two exits blocked, unknown number of hostiles, limited cover, and the copper-penny taste of fear in her mouth. They were underground, in the dark, outnumbered.

And she and Ronan, at least, were suspects in at least two murders, and untold breaches of national security. Whether the tactical teams were good guys or enemies, they’d have no trouble explaining why they shot the four of them dead.

Her fingers found the grip of her weapon, the familiar texture steadying her. The tunnel’s acoustics carried the soft clicks of multiple weapons being readied. The sound sent ice down her spine even as her muscles coiled for action.

A beam of light cut through the tunnel darkness, deliberately aimed to blind them. Maya caught glimpses as the light shifted: tactical gear, professional stance. The leader moved with the kind of effortless control she’d only seen in elite SWAT operators, his weapon an extension of his body. This wasn’t some rent-a-cop or weekend warrior. Every movementscreamed federal training, but not the kind they advertised in recruitment videos.

When he spoke, his voice carried both authority and amusement, bouncing off the tunnel walls. “Last chance, Hawkins!” The accent was pure Midwest, heartland America. Not what she’d expected from their shadowy pursuers. “You’ve got nowhere left to run.”

Griffin’s thumb moved across his phone screen, the glow highlighting his razor-sharp focus. “You might want to reconsider,” he called back. His voice held that dangerous edge Maya had learned to recognize. “I’ve got two years of Sullivan’s intel. Every clinic. Every lab. Every victim. One click, and it all goes public.”

“You’re bluffing.” But there was a new tension in that heartland voice, a flicker of uncertainty that hadn’t been there before.

“Try me.” Griffin’s thumb hovered over the screen. “I’ve got enough to bury everyone involved. Your choice—back off, or watch your whole operation implode.”

“Upload whatever you want. We own the channels.” The team leader’s voice echoed off the bricks.

Griffin’s laugh was soft, deadly. “I’m not talking about news outlets.” He thumbed something on his phone. “I’m talking FBI. CIA. NSA. All getting real-time data about American operatives disappearing American veterans. Think you can contain that?”

Flashlight beams caught the sweat on Griffin’s face. This was no bluff—Maya could read the tension in every line of his body.

Shots exploded outside the tunnel. Griff shoved her behind a support column. The back of her head collided with the wall, making her see stars. Return fire lit up the darkness as bullets crossed the entrance. Through the muzzle flashes, she caught Griffin’s subtle movements—the quick press of devices againstthe tunnel supports. Some kind of explosive charges, most likely.

“Run. Now. Back the way we came.” Griffin’s voice competed with the firefight. “Go!”

She understood instantly. While they’d been talking, he’d been positioning the charges between them and the enemy—and setting up their exit strategy.

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