6. Professional Courtesy
6
PROFESSIONAL COURTESY
Ronan crouched in the shadows of a shipping container, watching the pretty NCIS detective. Thirty yards away, the black Audi idled behind a warehouse.
His jaw clenched. Ten minutes ago, they’d been following Benson’s SUV toward the naval base, a compromise that had seemed smart at the time.
Now another man was dead.
Three minutes into the drive, he’d spotted the tail cars. Professional. Military precision. He’d tried to catch Benson’s attention by flicking his headlights, but before Benson could react, the black Audis were already boxing in the SUV, forcing it down the road.
Their own pursuers had come fast and hard—three vehicles, classic Special Operations containment formation. The kind designed to trap and extract, not eliminate. He’d reversed the Jeep at full speed, smashing through their attempted roadblock. Two bursts of suppressing fire aimed high—another extraction tactic. Keep the targets down, don’t damage them.
Only when they’d broken free did he understand the full play. The team hadn’t really broken off pursuit—they’d herded him and Axel deliberately, trying to separate them from Benson. An NCIS agent would call in armed suspects fleeing the scene. Which meant Benson had to die quickly, buying them time to pursue their real quarry.
Clean. Professional. And now they had another dead body to add to their body count, another good man killed just because he was in the way.
By the time they’d ditched the Jeep and circled back on foot to help, they’d heard the shots. Seen Benson’s SUV trapped against the harbor fence, driver’s door open.
Too late. Always too late.
“They’re moving. North side.” Ronan tracked the Audi’s headlights as they flicked on. Chen was still standing at the edge of the water, above her partner’s body, weapon drawn. Too exposed.
“Ronan.” Warning in Axel’s tone. “We spook her now, she’ll shoot first and?—”
“And what? Get dead?” Ronan was already moving. “That worked out great for Benson. We were too slow last time.”
“Wasn’t our fault. We couldn’t have?—”
“We could have found a way to warn him. Could have prevented them from separating us.” The guilt drove him forward, each step eating up the distance to the woman. He wasn’t watching another agent die because he was too cautious, too slow.
Axel muttered what sounded like a prayer but moved to cover him.
The Audi’s engine revved softly. Ahead of them, Chen shifted her stance, scanning rooflines. Good instincts; wrong direction. She hadn’t spotted the real threat yet, the driver reaching for something on his passenger seat.
“Same goons that dragged the woman’s partner out of the SUV and shot him while he and Axel raced to the scene.
He forced the image away. Focus on the target. On the now.
“Ronan crouched behind a stack of pallets. Twenty feet separated him from the detective.
Miraculously, the killers hadn’t chosen to shoot Agent Chen. Yet.
“Now,” Ronan hissed. “Before they?—”
Chen spun, weapon leveled at Ronan’s chest. Her hands were rock steady, eyes cold. “That’s close enough.”
“Agent Chen?—”
“On your knees. Hands where I can see them.”
The Audi’s doors opened with soft clicks. The men emerged. Broad-shouldered. Confident bearing. They raised handguns. Long barrels. Pro equipment.
No time for careful. No time for procedure.
“Get down!” He lunged for her.
Her shot went wide as Ronan slammed into her, pulling her down behind the pallets as the first silenced round cracked past their heads. She fought like someone used to close quarters, all elbows and leverage.
Only he had fifty pounds on her and far more experience. Still, disarming her without hurting her took some doing.
“They’re here to kill all of us,” he gritted out. “Just like they killed Marcus. And your partner.”
Another burst of suppressed fire had them both pressing lower. Axel appeared beside them, keeping his head down. “We need to move. Now.”
He caught the distinctive crunch of boots on concrete. They had seconds. Maybe.
“Your choice, Agent Chen,” Ronan said. “Trust us enough to get out of here alive, or we all die. Choose fast.”
Her eyes locked onto his then shifted to the Audi, to the distinctive professional stance of its shooters.
“Harbor patrol shack,” she said finally.
“Move fast and stay low.” Ronan kept her Sig trained on the Audi while Axel pulled her behind a row of containers. Seven rounds. Had to make them count. A burst of automatic fire sparked off metal above his head. Three shooters, moving with military precision. No way they could hold position here long.
“The shack’s no good,” he called to Axel. Too much glass, thin walls. They’d be trapped.
“Working on it.” Axel was already moving, dragging Maya with him. His eyes scanned the harbor setup with the practiced eye of someone who saw possibilities in everyday objects. “Got propane tanks on the maintenance dock. Emergency flares in the shack.”
Ronan tracked the closest shooter through the Sig’s sights. “How long?”
“Two minutes. Maybe less.” Axel’s voice held the familiar tension that came before he did something insane. “Keep them busy.” Then he turned to the woman. “Agent Chen, unless you want to die here, you’re coming with me.”
Another burst of gunfire forced Ronan lower. He squeezed off one round, making the nearest shooter duck. Six left. The harbor patrol sirens were closer now, but they’d never make it in time.
Through his peripheral vision, he caught Axel’s movement—quick and precise, gathering what he needed from the shack’s emergency supplies. Maya stayed close to him, whether from trust or necessity wasn’t clear.
“Incoming, ten o’clock,” he warned as a second shooter tried to flank. Another round from the Sig bought them space. Five to go.
“Ready,” Axel called. “Water’s our best exit. Can you swim, Agent Chen?”
“Better than I can trust you two,” she shot back.
“Fair enough.” Axel’s grin was razor sharp. “Ronan, on my mark, put two rounds into that tank. Then run.”
Ronan nodded. The closest shooter was moving again, confident now. Cocky. Five rounds left would have to be enough.
“Three,” Axel began. “Two?—”
The explosion ripped through the night, sending a cascade of burning fuel into the air. Ronan grabbed Maya’s arm, pulling her toward the pier’s edge. She didn’t resist, matching his stride. Good. She understood survival trumped procedure.
They hit the water together, the December Pacific shocking the air from his lungs. Maya tensed beside him but kept moving, strong strokes carrying her deeper into the harbor’s darkness. The water muffled the sounds of gunfire above, each shot a dull pop through the depths.
Ronan stayed close to her, hyper-aware of her smaller frame in the freezing water. She might be a strong swimmer, but hypothermia wouldn’t care about her skills. They needed to find shelter fast. Through the murk, he caught Axel’s signal—stay under, stay quiet, fifty yards minimum.
They glided through the black water like seals, letting the current help carry them away from the firefight. Every few strokes, Ronan checked Maya’s position, fighting the instinct to pull her closer. She wasn’t some civilian to protect—she was a trained federal agent. Still, something about her triggered every protective instinct he’d developed in the teams.
“This way.” Axel’s voice was barely a whisper. He angled toward the nearest dock, a long stretch of pristine moorings where sleek boats bobbed in the pre-dawn darkness. “B dock. High-end cruisers. Lots of cover.”
Maya treaded water beside them, her eyes hard in the darkness. “And if I’m not interested in adding breaking and entering to my night?”
“Then swim for the shore,” Ronan said. “If the hostiles don’t shoot you, you can try explaining to Harbor Patrol why you’re soaking wet near your dead partner. While those professionals back there plant evidence on your hard drive.”
“You don’t know that’s what?—”
“Yeah. We do.” The image of Benson’s body drifting flashed through Ronan’s mind. “They’re very good at what they do.”
Another explosion rolled across the water—secondary charges Axel had rigged. Beyond the pier, voices shouted orders. Red and blue lights painted the smoke. Through the darkness, Ronan tracked movement on the pier—tactical teams pulling back, regrouping. The explosion had drawn too much attention. Local PD would be swarming the area soon.
The black Audi’s headlights swept the marina before peeling away, followed by two more sedans. They’d be back, but for now, the heat was too high. These guys might be good, but they weren’t stupid. No point risking exposure when their targets were trapped in the harbor.
Ronan wiped saltwater out of his eyes and nodded toward a luxury cruiser. “Over there. There’ll be dry clothes, shelter. A chance to figure out our next move.”
“Breaking into a million-dollar yacht.” Her laugh held no humor. “Perfect.”
“Better than floating here waiting to get shot.” Axel was already moving, his strokes silent and efficient. “Besides, these guys always hide a key. Part of the maintenance agreement.”
They reached the boat’s stern platform, keeping low. Axel made quick work of the hidden key box while Ronan kept watch, Maya’s wet Sig useless in his waistband. At least the weather was warm. Small favors.
The cabin door clicked open. “Ladies first,” Axel whispered.
She hesitated, scanning the docks. More sirens approached.
“Fine,” she said finally, and hauled herself up onto the deck with impressive speed.
The yacht’s cabin held traces of summer—beach towels, spare clothes in lockers, a lingering mix of sunscreen and salty air. While Ronan crouched on the back deck, keeping watch, Axel moved with practiced efficiency, closing the interior shades, then finding lights, checking spaces.
“All good.” He waved Ronan and Maya inside.
Ronan stripped off his wet shirt, used it to wipe down the woman’s Sig. Through the windows, emergency lights swept the harbor in steady patterns. They’d have maybe ten minutes before the search expanded to the boats.
“Here.” Axel tossed them both clothes from the owner’s stash. “I found some women’s in the forward berth.”
She caught the bundle but didn’t move. “Start talking. What did your friend tell you before he died?”
“Nothing specific.” Ronan pulled on a dry shirt, thinking fast. “Just that he was onto something big. Asked us to watch his back.”
She winced.
“Yeah.” The guilt hit fresh. “Whatever trail Tank was following, it was dangerous enough to warrant his death. And your partner’s.”
Maya’s expression didn’t change, but her shoulders tensed.
Ronan slumped against the cabin wall, saltwater pouring steadily from his clothes onto the polished teak floor. “Look, I get it. You think we killed Marcus. Maybe even Benson. If I were you, I’d think the same thing.” He ran a hand through his wet hair, sending rivulets down his neck. “But we didn’t. And the only way we’re going to prove that—the only way any of us gets justice for Marcus or your partner—is if we work together. Because right now? We’re all running out of time.”
“I’m a federal agent,” Maya said, voice clipped. She wrapped her arms around herself, suppressing a shiver as her soaked jacket clung to her shoulders. “Once our crime scene unit processes both scenes, we’ll have solid evidence. Real proof. Come in with me. We’ll do this right.”
“We’ll be dead before we hit the front doors,” Ronan said. “Just like Tank. Just like your partner.”
“Or soon after.” Axel wrung out his shirt over the sink, water pattering against steel. “Easy to get us into custody, then make us disappear. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Tank called us,” Ronan said, his voice tight with urgency. “Said he needed immediate assistance. Something terrified him—a decorated SEAL who’d seen everything. So we showed up to help. Instead, we found him dead.”
“Think about it,” Axel added. “Who knew we were going to NCIS headquarters? Only your commander. Those weren’t random thugs. You saw their tactics. That was military precision. They knew exactly when and where to hit us.”
“Someone’s already two steps ahead here,” Ronan pressed. “They killed Tank before he could talk to us. They separated us from Benson, tried to grab us while their partners killed Benson so he wouldn’t call for backup. If we go in now, we’re walking right into their kill box. And you know it, or you would’ve called for backup already.”
Maya’s hand tightened on her phone, but she didn’t dispute it.
“That’s not how I operate,” she snapped, leaving wet footprints as she paced the narrow cabin. “This isn’t some movie. I’m taking you in, and we’re doing this by the book. You’ll give statements, document whatever evidence you have?—”
“You still don’t get it, do you?” Ronan straightened, frustration burning through the exhaustion. Water trickled down his back, making him acutely aware of every bruise and scrape from their escape. The woman might be beautiful, with that shining black hair and her delicate features. But she’d be dead soon all the same unless she followed orders.
He stared her down. If facts didn’t work, maybe pure intimidation would. “The minute we’re in custody, we’re dead. And so are you. But not before they frame all of us for whatever Marcus stumbled into. Make it look like we were all part of it.”
“Not everything is a conspiracy.”
The laugh that escaped him held no humor. “You sure about that? They’re thorough. In a couple of hours, you’ll be NCIS’s most wanted. Right behind us, probably.”
Through the cabin windows, a patrol boat’s spotlight swept past. Maya’s hands tightened on the dry clothes.
Ronan held out her Sig, grip first.
“Oh, wonderful,” Axel muttered. “Give the person who shot you their gun back. Because that’s how trust-building works in your world? Next time I need a hostage negotiator, remind me not to call you.”
Maya’s eyes moved from the gun to Ronan’s face, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. The spotlight swung back, closer now. Time was running out.
Her Sig felt heavy in his outstretched hand. He was betting their lives on reading her right—that somewhere under that professional mask, she had the same questions about Marcus’s death that had been eating at him and Axel.
The woman still hadn’t moved. Still watching him with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. Including, he hoped, the fact that he and Axel could have disappeared into the night with her weapon. Could have left her to deal with this alone.
Instead, he was offering her the choice. And the means to shoot them both if she thought they were lying.
“Guys?” Axel’s voice held an edge. “Not to rush anyone’s trust issues, but we need to move before they start sweeping the docks. Doolittle still has his crash pad. It’s less than a mile from here.”
Ronan eyed the neighborhood out past the empty parking lot sandwiched between the marina and the homes. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all night, bro.”
Maya’s face shifted. Something harder settling into place as she reached for her weapon.
Time to find out if he’d bet right.