4. Breaking Protocol
4
brEAKING PROTOCOL
San Diego’s newest 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 legendary Lawrence 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 in the 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.
“He gave me a key.” Reinhardt spread his hands slowly. “Look, we can explain?—”
“Let me guess,” Quinn cut in. “You got here awful fast for local law enforcement. Which means someone important made a call. Which means you’re not telling us everything either.”
Maya kept her expression neutral. He was fishing for information, and doing it skillfully.
“We’d appreciate it if you’d come back to NCIS with us,” Benson said. “Answer some questions about Mr. Sullivan’s activities in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Not happening.” Quinn’s stance shifted subtly. “We’ve got nothing to hide, but we’re not going anywhere until we know Tank’s body is handled properly.”
Quinn checked his phone, a quick glance that seemed rehearsed. Reinhardt murmured what sounded like a prayer, but his eyes stayed sharp, scanning the perimeter. Maya had seen that look before—not prayer, but communication. These men were waiting for something.
The local sergeant approached, holding his radio. “Just got word from dispatch. We’re to clear out, leave it to NCIS.”
“Perfect timing,” Quinn said softly, exchanging another look with Reinhardt. “Actually, you know what? We’ll come in. Voluntarily. After your crime scene team processes everything.”
The way he emphasized ‘voluntarily’ made it clear he knew exactly what legal authority they did and didn’t have. Maya couldn’t shake the feeling they were agreeing because it suited some agenda of their own.
“Wait outside,” she told them firmly. “Both of you. You’ve contaminated this scene enough already.”
Quinn’s mouth quirked in that dangerous half-smile. Under other circumstances, it would have been breathtaking. “Yes ma’am.” He headed down the stairs with fluid grace, Reinhardt following.
Their immediate compliance only heightened her suspicion.
While the local cops packed up, she moved through the condo with measured steps, Benson’s camera clicks providing an irregular rhythm behind her. The scene felt wrong in a way that went beyond her training, beyond even her father’s meticulous lessons. Something spiritual, her mother would have said. She shoved the thought away. She dealt in evidence, not intuition.
The kitchen gleamed like a showroom display. No dishes in the sink, no takeout containers, not even a coffee mug left out. The living room had the same artificial precision—magazines aligned perfectly on the coffee table, remotes arranged by size.
“When’s the last time you saw a guy living alone keep house like this?” she murmured.
Benson grunted, snapping photos. “Military guys can be neat.”
“This isn’t neat. This is sanitized.”
Back in LA, she’d caught three staged suicides where the cleanup crews had done the same thing—stripped away every trace of personality, leaving behind a sterile perfection that screamed cover-up.
Still, none of this would have been noticeable from outside. What had Quinn and Reinhardt seen that made them break in?
She continued searching. The hall bathroom gleamed like a hospital room. No towels hung crooked, no toothpaste residue in the sink. Maya remembered her father drilling into her the importance of personal habits—they told you who someone was, how they lived. And more importantly, how they died. The absence of those habits often spoke louder than their presence.
She paused at the office doorway, that sixth sense she’d developed on the force screaming a warning. The room beyond held answers, but something told her she wouldn’t like the questions they raised.
The scene that greeted her confirmed every instinct. The condition of the body suggested he died about twenty-four hours ago, give or take. Probably not long after he broke into that base computer. The body was positioned too perfectly, the weapon placement textbook. She’d worked enough real suicides to know death was rarely this tidy. Her last case with LAPD had been similar—a “suicide” that turned out to be a professional hit meant to silence a whistleblower.
Subtle details hit her. The wear pattern on the chair didn’t match how Sullivan was sitting. The angle of the weapon contradicted the blood spatter. Small things, things her father had taught her to notice, things that had made her the youngest detective in Pacific Division.
Car doors slammed outside. While she watched through the window, two NCIS crime scene vans arrived as the last patrol car pulled away. Quinn and Reinhardt waited next to Benson’s SUV, their relaxed poses betraying years of tactical training. Every few minutes, Quinn would check his phone, then share some wordless communication with his partner. Reinhardt’s lips moved in what looked like prayer, but his eyes never stopped scanning their surroundings.
Van doors opened, the crime scene unit quickly donned Tyvek coveralls. Maya didn’t figure there was much else for her to accomplish inside, so she headed down the stairs. The team would need room to work their magic. Benson was just completing his update when she reached the group. After quick nods, the team headed upstairs, leaving her alone with Tom, and the two glowering SEALs.
Tom nodded at his plain wrap SUV. “I’ll take them in. You can get preliminaries from the crime scene crew and follow me in.”
“Sounds good. Send me those photos. Something about this scene isn’t sitting right.”
Her partner gestured toward his SUV. “Let’s get this done.”
“We’ll follow you in,” Quinn said, nodding toward their Jeep. “Got some sensitive equipment we need to secure first.”
Maya caught the look that passed between the two men—something more than just concern about gear. “That’s not protocol.”
“Your protocol doesn’t account for our clearance level.” Quinn’s voice was calm and reasonable and not-to-be-disobeyed. “Or the nature of our equipment. You can call Commander Phillips if you want verification.”
Benson rubbed his tired eyes. “Look, it’s almost two-thirty. They’re cooperating. Let’s just get to base and sort it out there.”
Maya didn’t like it, but Quinn was right—they had no grounds to force the issue. These men were coming in voluntarily, and Phillips had made it clear this needed to be handled delicately.
“Fine,” she said. “But we go straight to base. No stops, no delays.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Quinn’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He looked past her, scanning the street with too much intensity for a simple drive to headquarters.
Benson hopped into the driver’s seat and fired up the SUV, waving as he backed out of the parking spot. Maya watched Quinn and Reinhardt drive off, eerily calm in the front seat of their rental.
While the vehicles disappeared around the corner, she pulled up Quinn’s file on her phone. Former Navy SEAL. Multiple commendations. Then general discharge for killing a civilian. Just him. No one else on his squad charged.
Like the crime scene, it didn’t add up.
A dark sedan caught her attention—parked just at the edge of her vision. She shook her head. The job was making her paranoid.
Still, no need to stand outside in the dark. She slipped inside her vehicle, pulling up the terminal logs from base security while she waited for the crime scene team to finish. Might as well study the small details while she had a second.
The files loaded. And her heart stopped. In the hours before his death, Marcus Sullivan had accessed multiple personnel files. Including hers. And Benson’s.
She hit speed dial. Straight to voicemail.
“Come on, Tom. Pick up.”
She fired up the engine and tried again.
No answer.
Through her windshield, she caught the crime techs’ shadows pass back and forth under the harsh portable lights they set up in the apartment.
She tapped the steering wheel, thinking hard. Two ex-SEALs who just happened to find their friend’s body. A sanitized scene that screamed professional hit. And now her partner, alone with them, heading toward the base.
According to her father, the difference between paranoid and prepared was about two minutes.
She threw the car into Drive.