Page 90 of Lost Hope

“Buck, we’re going to need someone to watch over the prisoners.” The admiral’s voice carried from the co-pilot’s seat. “We should bring Murphy. Extra security?—”

“Your boy’s brother?” Richardson’s laugh was sharp. “No offense, Christian, but blood tells.”

Christian leapt forward, face red, fist cocked, Jack barely catching him before he reached Richardson. “I’ll take you down.”

“Stand down,” Jack barked, though his own face had hardened at Richardson’s jab.

“My father’s choices aren’t mine,” Christian spat, shrugging off Jack’s restraining grip. The fury in his voice wasn’t entirely feigned.

“Exactly my point,” Richardson said smoothly. “Family loyalty can be ... unpredictable.”

“Then Jack,” the admiral pressed. “These prisoners need watching?—”

Richardson continued with his preflight. “The kidnappers were clear, John. No extra personnel. It was hard enough convincing them to let me fly you over.” He checked his watch. “Speaking of which, we’re burning daylight. My team from Greece will be in position in six hours. They’ll stay out of sight, until I can persuade the kidnappers they mean no harm. Butwe need to get going if we’re going to meet the deadline.” He twisted himself around in the captain’s seat until he could lock eyes with Jack and Christian, blocking the aisle between the three of them and the cockpit. “Check their restraints one more time.”

“Sir.” Jack sounded way too much the eager flunky. But as he bent over Maya, he winked.

Christian hovered over Ronan. “Hold still,” he barked, though Ronan hadn’t moved.

His brother tugged at the restraints, and then, suddenly they fell away only to be instantly replaced.

“Izzy and Star came up with these,” Christian whispered, voice barely audible. “Three taps on the fastener and they pop off.”

He gripped Ronan’s good shoulder. “Wish I was going with you, bro.”

Radiating pretend rage, Ronan refused to meet his brother’s eyes. “You should come. I’d love to make it a one-way trip, dude.”

Christian laughed harshly. “I bet. Sorry, this is a private vacay. Just for you and your two buddies here. It ends with identical prison cells.” Christian clapped him hard on his injured shoulder, drawing a sharp groan, and backed away to tend to Axel’s restraints.

He was telling Ronan that they all three had new bindings. Nice.

When the time came, that would help. A lot.

Christian saw to Axel’s bindings, his movements sharp with apparent anger. “All secured, sir,” he reported to Jack. “Though why we’re bothering with procedure for traitors ...”

“Because we’re professionals,” Jack cut him off. “Unlike some people.” His glare at the prisoners crackled with convincing hatred.

As they descended the stairs, Christian turned back. “Rot in hell, baby bro,” he snarled at Ronan. “I’m only thankful our father never gave you his name.”

Jack paused in the doorway, saluting the older men. “Good hunting, sirs.”

As the jet’s door closed with a final, heavy thunk, Ronan’s gaze fell on Maya’s cross necklace, glinting in the pre-dawn light. He’d always respected her faith, even if he couldn’t share it. Had admired how she found strength in something he couldn’t see or touch or quantify. But now ...

For the first time in his life, he found himself reaching for that same invisible lifeline. The words felt clumsy, foreign in his mind. He didn’t know the proper way to do this, didn’t know if there were rules or protocols. But he figured if there was a God up there, He’d understand raw honesty.

Not for him. He chose this life. Chose the risks, the battles, the scars. But Maya, fierce, smart, beautiful Maya, wasn’t a warrior. Hadn’t signed up for this. Neither had Minerva Knight.

The prayer rose from somewhere deeper than thought:Keep them safe. Please. I’ll pay whatever price You want, take whatever hits are coming, just ... let them walk away from this.

No. Matter. What.

It felt like making a contract with the universe itself. Like the words carried a weight that changed something fundamental in the air around them. He didn’t know if anyone was listening, but he meant every syllable with an intensity that surprised him.

He slumped tiredly in his seat, his brain buzzing. The antibiotics Kenji had managed to slip him were finally kicking in. His head felt clearer than it had in hours, though fire still crawled beneath the bandages on his shoulder. Through the Pilatus’s windows, darkness had given way to dawn over the Atlantic. Six hours into a nine-hour flight to Italy.

Richardson’s voice drifted back from the cockpit as he adjusted their heading. Former Air Force pilot, current traitor, apparently. The admiral sat beside him as co-pilot—Richardson’s idea, keeping the man who’d “orchestrated” their transfer close. Making him complicit.

To allegedly face kidnappers. To save Minerva.

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