Page 85 of Lost Hope

“Moving to support,” Ethan reported. “Christian, watch your six.”

“I see Pantone,” Jack called out. “He’s running. Ethan, can you track him?”

“Negative, too much interference. Christian?”

“I’ve got him,” Christian confirmed. “Moving to intercept.”

Then a single shot. Different from the others. Deeper.

Then silence.

“Report,” Ronan demanded. “Someone report.”

“Pantone’s down,” Christian’s voice was tight. “Sniper round. Professional.”

“What?” Maya leaned forward. “From where?”

“Unknown shooter,” Jack said. “But that wasn’t us.”

“Whoever took that shot knew exactly what they were doing,” Austin added.

Ronan stared at the feeds, at Pantone’s crumpled form, at their only link to Richardson lying dead on cold concrete. Around him, his team’s voices continued reporting positions, movements, threats—the smooth coordination of highly trained operators.

But none of it mattered now. “Who just shot our only lead?”

Kenji was examining something—a uniform patch. “I grabbed this off one of the guys in the group that shot Pantone.”

“What is that?” Maya asked.

Austin glanced over, his expression hardening. “That’s a Sentinel Security identifier. Executive protection division.”

“His own security detail killed him?” Christian’s voice was sharp with disbelief. “Why would they take out their boss?”

“Richardson’s dirty,” Ethan finally said, looking up from his tablet. “Has to be. No other reason for this level of cleanup.”

That felt right. Of course. Pantone was the number two guy at Sentinel. No way his own people took him out without orders from higher up. And they all knew there was only one guy above him …

The van’s interior lights cast harsh shadows as Jack pulled out his secured sat phone.

“Sir,” Jack said into the phone. “Mission completed, but with complications.” He paused, listening. “Yes sir. Pantone’s dead. But there’s more—it was his own security detail that took the shot.”

“Tell him about the patch,” Christian suggested, but Jack was already shaking his head at something the admiral was saying.

“Sir?” Jack’s voice changed subtly. Everyone in the van noticed. “Sir, what’s wrong?”

“When?” Jack demanded. “How many—” He broke off, listening. “Yes, sir. We’ll head back immediately.”

Jack’s haunted expression made Ronan’s chest tighten.

“What is it?”

Jaw hard, Jack swallowed. “The admiral’s wife is missing.”

42

CODE BLACK

Dawn paintedthe windows of Knight Tactical’s top floor orange-gold as Ronan surveyed the crowded briefing room. Ten hours since Minerva Knight disappeared somewhere between the harbor in Napoli and the restaurant in Capri where she planned to meet her daughters. His entire arm, hot and inflamed, pulsed with each heartbeat, sending fresh waves of heat through his system, but he forced himself to focus on the assembled team.

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