Page 9 of Lost Hope

A black Audi appeared in her rearview mirror, three cars back. Just like the one from the crime scene. Or maybe not—in the pre-dawn darkness every dark sedan looked suspicious. She took the next right. The Audi continued straight.

Paranoid, Chen. Get it together.

Her phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number.

STAY AWAY FROM THE HARBOR.

Seriously? No way she’d stay away now.

She hung a right at the first entrance to the harbor parking lot.

Her pulse quickened. She killed her headlights and turned toward the massive commercial pier. The structure stretched before her, empty and dark. Salty air mixed with diesel fumes and rotting seaweed. The orange glow of ancient sodium vapor lights glinted off chain-link fencing, stacked shipping containers, and abandoned forklifts, throwing long shadows. Everything felt wrong—no security guards, no dock workers, no early-morning fishing boats.

Just Tom’s official vehicle, parked at an angle down near the seawall.

From this angle, the vehicle looked empty.

She drew her weapon, using her car door as cover. From here to the SUV—forty feet of exposed concrete. No cover except for a rusted forklift about halfway. The silence pressed against her eardrums, broken only by the soft lap of water against concrete and the distant hum of the city.

Maya swept her tactical light in a slow arc. The beam caught silver threads of fishing line strung between pylons, abandoned nets swaying in the breeze. Perfect place for an ambush.

But why? Killing her would help nothing. If Quinn and Reinhardt wanted to escape, they’d be long gone now.

Unless this was about more than escape. Sullivan had accessed their personnel files right before he died. Now Benson was missing. And someone high enough to contact base security wanted her to stay away.

She knew exactly what would happen if this went sideways. Internal Affairs would crucify her.Agent Chen demonstrated a pattern of reckless behavior consistent with her father’s record ...The comparisons she’d spent her whole career avoiding would finally stick. Everything she’d built at NCIS, all her careful work to establish herself as her own person, would evaporate. And that assumed she survived whatever was waiting down there.

But Tom might be down there, injured.

Three months as partners wasn’t long, but it was long enough to know he was a good man. The kind who brought her coffee without being asked. The kind who’d backed her play with the brass twice already, no questions asked. The kind who deserved better than dying alone because his partner was worried about her career.

She eased around her car door, staying low. The forklift threw distorted shadows across her path. Every scrape of her boots against concrete echoed too loud in the stillness.

Standard procedure said wait for backup. But she had no time. If they’d left Tom alive, seconds counted.

Twenty feet to the vehicle now. The driver’s door gaped open like a mouth. No movement inside. Her tactical light caught the interior—empty coffee cup in the holder, case files scattered across the passenger seat.

No sign of Quinn or Reinhardt. Or her partner.

Ten feet. Close enough now to see the keys dangling from the ignition, swaying slightly in the pre-dawn breeze.

Maya pressed her back against the car’s rear panel, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and gun oil. She reached around carefully, sweeping the back seat with her light. Empty. The tactical gear Benson always kept behind his seat was gone.

The beam of her light caught something else as she moved forward. Dark streaks on the pavement, leading away from the driver’s side. Too dark to be oil. Too fresh to be rust.

Her heart hammering against her ribs, she followed the trail toward the edge of the pier. Each step felt like an invitation for a bullet. The streaks grew wider, interrupted by scuff marks. Signs of a struggle. Or something being dragged.

Just before the seawall, the trail ended in a larger stain. Maya forced herself to look over the edge.

Something bobbed in the water. The flashlight beam caught pale flesh, dark fabric. The tide tugged gently at Tom Benson’s body, rocking it against the pier’s supports. His service weapon was gone. His hands showed defensive wounds.

Her fingers found the small cross at her neck—her mother’s parting gift. The same one she’d sworn she’d never take off, even after Maria Chen walked out. “Please, Lord, watch over him,” she whispered, the prayer automatic. Like muscle memory. Her father had scoffed at faith, called it a crutch. But right now, staring at her partner’s body, Maya needed something to hold onto.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. The same unknown number. This time, she answered.

“I told you to stay away.” Quinn’s voice, tight with urgency.

Her weapon was already up, scanning rooflines, shadows. Every exposed position where a shooter might set up. This wasexactly the kind of situation her father thrived on—outmanned, outgunned, running on instinct and adrenaline. The thought should have bothered her more than it did. “You and Reinhardt killed him.”

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