Page 66 of Lost Hope

“Facial recognition got a hit,” Ethan said. “Guy’s name is Trevor Abramian. Works for Pacific Coast Medical Labs as a courier.”

“And?” Austin prompted.

“And he moonlights as a security guard. For Sentinel Security, among others.”

The room went quiet. Maya felt Ronan tense beside her.

“Could be nothing,” Christian said slowly. “Lots of guys work multiple jobs these days. Especially in San Diego.”

“Run his financials,” Ronan ordered.

Ethan typed. “Three part-time security gigs. Rent’s eating half his income. Looks like he spends the other half on bodybuilding supplements and video games. Nothing suspicious in his bank records.”

Lawrence stirred in his chair. “Why is a private lab picking up VA samples anyway? Don’t they have their own facilities?”

“They do,” Griffin confirmed. “Full labs at every major center.”

“Track the van,” Ronan said. “Where did those samples go?”

Ethan pulled up traffic cam footage, following the white van’s progress through San Diego streets. “Looks normal. Straight to Pacific Coast Labs, right on schedule.”

Maya felt the team’s energy deflating. Another dead end.

“Wait.” Ronan leaned closer. “Can you access the lab’s delivery logs? See what happened to those samples?”

“Give me a minute.” Ethan’s typing intensified. “Okay, got it. Samples logged in at 2:47 p.m. by ... huh.”

“What?”

“Different name. Dr. James McClelland signed for them.”

Griffin went very still. “McClelland? I know that name. Marcus had it in his notes.”

“Running facial recognition now,” Ethan said. “Tapping into the lab’s security footage from—” He stopped abruptly.

An overweight Caucasian man in a lab coat was handing a box to a tall, stubbled forty-something man with stiff, military bearing. Handsome, but stark. Cruel, even.

“That’s impossible,” Christian said sharply.

“No. Way.” Austin blinked hard. “No. Way.”

Ronan jabbed a finger at the screen. “And he is?”

“Reynaldo Pantone.” Christian’s voice rose in disbelief. “Chief Operations Officer of Sentinel Security.”

Ethan’s hands were already moving. “Cross-referencing Abramian’s delivery schedule with Marcus’s list of missing vets.”

Screens flickered as data populated. Maya watched the dates flash by, her throat tight. Three months ago. Two months. Six weeks ...

“There.” Griffin’s voice was like gravel. “Every time a vet disappeared, Abramian had picked up samples from their VA clinic somewhere between three and ten days beforehand.”

“And every batch went to McClelland personally,” Ethan added. “He’s not showing his face at the VA clinics. He’s got Abramian doing the legwork, then handles the samples himself at the lab.”

Ronan grunted. “And we’ve got proof of the connection between Pantone and McClelland. On the day, a set of samples was delivered to a Pacific lab no less.”

“Perfect deniability,” Lawrence said, fully awake now. “Private security company with military contracts. A legitimate medical lab as cover ...”

“Whatever they’re doing with those biological samples, it ain’t good,” Griffin muttered.

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