Page 6 of Lost Hope

“Time for what?”

“To figure out who did this. And why they wanted us to find him.”

Axel’s steady presence at his back felt like absolution he didn’t deserve. Three years of silence, yet here they were, falling into old patterns like muscle memory. Whatever Marcushad discovered, whatever had gotten him killed, they’d face it together.

The way it should have been all along.

4

BREAKING PROTOCOL

San Diego’snewest NCIS Special Agent Maya Chen followed her partner’s SUV through the pre-dawn streets, her mind racing through Commander Phillips’s urgent briefing. The Commander had just learned that Marcus “Tank” Sullivan—former Navy SEAL who’d somehow accessed classified VA files approximately twenty-four hours ago—was now dead in his condo. Apparent suicide. And two of his old teammates already on scene.

Different city, different badge, but suspicious deaths were universal. She’d worked enough of them in LA to know when things didn’t add up. A man breaks into secure files, then conveniently kills himself before anyone can question him? And his SEAL buddies just happen to find the body?

They pulled up to the darkened condo complex, already alive with the red and blue pulse of patrol cars. Her new partner emerged from his agency Explorer clutching gas station coffee like life support, twenty years with NCIS showing in every weary movement. He wasn’t anything like her old partner back in LA. Then again, that’s exactly why she’d left—to get away from a precinct where every detective had worked with the legendaryLawrence Chen, where every move she made was measured against her father’s legacy.

“The locals are containing the scene,” Tom Benson said, scanning the collection of patrol cars. “But Phillips wants us to handle everything inside. Says it’s sensitive.”

Maya checked her weapon with the smooth efficiency that had made her the youngest female detective in LAPD’s Pacific Division. “When isn’t it sensitive? What else did Command tell you?”

“Sullivan accessed medical records from the VA clinic terminal. Files he shouldn’t have been able to see. Then he offs himself? Weird.”

“Maybe he knew we were coming.”

The sergeant manning the perimeter approached, looking uncomfortable. “Agents. We’ve got two men upstairs—Quinn and Reinhardt. They were here when we arrived.”

Maya exchanged looks with Benson. Command intervention at the local level, this time of night? For a simple suicide?

“What do we know?” she asked the sergeant manning the perimeter.

“Not much. I had a look at the vic. I’m not a coroner, but it’s obvious the guy’s been dead a while. I’m thinking a day or so.” He gestured toward the third floor. “When we arrived, they informed us the body was inside. Apparent suicide. We secured the scene and called it in per protocol.”

“And you left them up there?” Benson sounded shocked.

The sergeant shifted uncomfortably. “Got orders from really high up to maintain the perimeter, keep everyone else out, but ... uh ... let those two stay put. Said you folks were coming to handle it.”

Maya was already moving, taking in details. A black Jeep with military tags. A rental car that didn’t belong. The metal stairs leading to the third floor where two figures stood inthe shadows of the doorway. Different jurisdiction, but the fundamentals never changed: observe, analyze, stay ahead of the threat.

She drew her weapon, Benson mirroring her movement with considerably less grace. She gestured for the local officers to hang back—she’d learned that lesson the hard way during a joint FBI-LAPD raid that went sideways when too many badges tried to be heroes.

The door gaped open like a wound in the pre-dawn darkness.

“Federal agents,” she called out, voice carrying with practiced authority. “Come out with your hands visible.”

Movement inside. Two figures emerged from the shadows, and Maya’s threat assessment kicked into overdrive. Back in LA, she’d worked protection details with private military contractors—these men had that same contained lethality. The larger one filled the doorway like a defensive lineman gone corporate in pressed slacks and a button-down, but his casual stance screamed special ops.

She caught the lean one’s precise movements, the way he controlled the space. Different from the cocky SWAT guys back in LA who tried to intimidate her. This one had nothing to prove—which made him more dangerous.

From the file she’d scanned, they were Ronan Quinn and Axel Reinhardt. A few years older and a lot more weary-looking than their military ID photos, but clearly the deceased’s former SEAL teammates.

“NCIS,” Maya announced, keeping her weapon at low ready. “Want to explain why you’re contaminating my crime scene?”

“Your crime scene?” Ronan Quinn’s voice held a dangerous edge. “Funny. I don’t see any crime here. Just two friends checking on another friend who wasn’t answering his phone. Now we know why.”

Their eyes met in that moment of mutual evaluation, and she saw him catalogue everything about her in seconds. Professional. Dangerous. And definitely hiding something.

“Friends who pick locks past midnight?” She nodded toward the fresh marks on the door.

---