7. Trust Falls
7
TRUST FALLS
An hour later, finally dry and starting to get warm, at least physically, Maya watched steam curl from the ancient coffeemaker in the corner of the garage apartment, trying to stop her hands from shaking. Exhaustion or cold or shock—maybe all three. Her partner’s body was still out there in the bay. And here she sat, in a nondescript apartment less than a mile from the military base with two men who might have killed him.
Axel had picked the lock with a professional’s skills, insisting the whole time that this was his friend’s crash pad. She had to admit, the lone photo on the half-empty bookshelf did appear to show these two arm in arm with their SEAL squad, Ronan sandwiched in the middle grinning.
Her investigator’s mind wouldn’t shut off, cataloging details even as she fought the bone-deep chill. Ronan had fired her weapon, contaminating any GSR evidence that might have linked him to Tom’s murder. Their clothes were soaked, destroying any other trace evidence.
Her dad’s voice echoed in her head: The system only works until someone powerful enough wants it not to. She’d spent her whole career proving him wrong. Now she wasn’t so sure.
The space heater hummed, fighting the early morning chill. Their wet clothes hung nearby like dark ghosts—her tactical gear, their civilian clothes. The borrowed sweats draped her frame, making her feel smaller. More vulnerable. She fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself, instead watching the guys’ dynamics. The way they communicated without words. Military training, obviously. But there was something else—a rawness to their grief over Marcus Sullivan that felt genuine.
Every instinct screamed that she should be processing the scene of Tom’s murder. Collecting evidence. Doing her job. Instead, she’d fled with the suspects. She needed to start thinking three steps ahead. How to verify their story, their whereabouts when Marcus was killed.
Ronan moved quietly around the small kitchen space. He’d found an ancient first aid kit, setting it on the counter near her with deliberate casualness. His eyes flickered to her scraped palms, the cut on her forearm she hadn’t even noticed getting. That didn’t track with a cold-blooded killer, her mind noted. Unless it was calculated to gain her trust.
“Time for explanations,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite chattering teeth.
A beat, then Ronan spoke. “You should clean those cuts. Harbor water’s nasty.”
Axel was already wrapping himself in what looked like an old moving blanket. He tossed another toward her. The casual kindness almost undid her. These men might have murdered her partner. And Sullivan. She couldn’t afford to see them as human. Not until she knew for sure.
The blanket remained untouched beside her. She needed to stay sharp, stay objective. Get access to the evidence being collected at the scene. Contact her office.
How had she forgotten that?
She reached in her pocket for her phone. Gone. But she’d had it on the dock, hadn’t she? She couldn’t recall.
Unless ... She crossed to her wet clothes and patted them down. Nothing.
“Have either of you seen my phone?” she asked.
“It’s probably at the bottom of the marina,” Axel said.
“Or one of you took it.”
“That’s not how we roll,” Axel chided. “At all.”
Ronan didn’t say a word, the tightening of his jaw the only sign that he’d heard her. Finally, he shrugged, turning back to the coffeemaker. “Sugar’s there, if you want it. Might help with the shock.”
She almost laughed. Trust a potential killer to diagnose shock before she’d admitted it to herself. But her hands reached for the first aid kit anyway. One problem at a time. Clean the cuts. Warm up. Then figure out how she’d ended up here—and whether these men were killers or allies.
As for her phone, Axel was probably right. She couldn’t recall securing it anywhere before they hit the water.
“I’ve read both your files,” she said once she finished, wrapping her hands around the coffee mug again for warmth. “SEAL Team Eight. Retired two years ago.” She watched Ronan’s face. “Three for you, given your General Discharge.”
He met her eyes steadily. “Yup.”
When he didn’t elaborate, his friend broke the tension by rattling through kitchen cabinets. “Anyone else starving? There’s ... ah ... expired protein bars and some questionable peanut butter.”
“Marcus tried contacting us last week,” Ronan said. He couldn’t seem to stay still, moving from window to door, checking sight lines, running through what Maya recognized as tactical assessment patterns. A man used to action, not sitting in safe houses. “Said he needed help. Wouldn’t explain over the phone.”
“And you just came running?” She kept her tone skeptical.
“He was our friend.” Simple. Direct. Ronan paused his prowling to lean against the counter, fingers drumming against the worn Formica. “You read our files. Marcus’s, too. You probably have way more current info than we do. Tell us what you know,” he ordered, then caught himself. Softened his tone. “Please.”
Maya weighed her options, then decided there was nothing to be gained by hiding what she knew. They’d figure most of it out anyway. “Tom and I got orders to pick Marcus up last night. Base security found security footage of him entering the base and accessing restricted files after hours twenty-four hours previously. Including personnel files. Mine and Benson’s.”
Ronan and Axel exchanged looks.
“That doesn’t track,” Axel said. “Whatever he was searching for, Tank was too careful to get caught that easily.”
Ronan’s dark brows narrowed. “Who called the local cops?”
“My supervisor. Said we should have backup in case Sullivan resisted arrest.” Her heart thumped against her chest. “Turned out that wasn’t necessary.”
“Why send investigators in the middle of the night?” Axel asked.
She shrugged. “Commander Phillips didn’t say. I assumed it was because someone on base had just discovered the break-in.”
“Or someone wanted us to get caught in his apartment,” Ronan said to his friend.
Axel snorted. “Not a coincidence.”
“What about Benson?” Ronan made the question more of an accusation. “How do you know he was on the level?”
“Tom wasn’t involved in any of this.” Her voice caught. “The only thing he was guilty of was following orders to show up at Sullivan’s house. He wouldn’t—” She broke off, steadied herself. “There’s no reason anyone would want him dead.”
Probably. When it came down to it, how well did she really know her partner of less than three months?
“Your partner was between us and them,” Axel added, abandoning his search for food. “Wrong place, wrong time. These guys don’t leave loose ends.”
“Professional cleanup,” Ronan agreed. “They eliminate anyone who might have seen something. Heard something.” He met her eyes. “Or anyone who might ask questions about what happened to their partner.”
The implication hung heavy in the pre-dawn air. Maya felt the walls of her normal, ordered world crumbling. “You really think they’ll come after me next?”
“They already have,” Axel said quietly. “You just got lucky we showed up first.”
Maya paced the small apartment, her mind racing. The protein bar sat untouched on the counter. Tom’s face kept flashing through her thoughts—coaching his daughter’s soccer team, bringing donuts to the office, laughing at her terrible coffee. No way he’d been involved in anything illegal. Which meant she was hiding out with the only two suspects in his murder.
She considered her pitiful options. No way she’d be able to force these men anywhere. But heading to headquarters alone seemed increasingly dangerous. She’d seen how quickly evidence could be manufactured, careers destroyed.
Ronan tracked her movement, his expression knowing. “Whatever you’re planning—don’t.”
“There are procedures,” she snapped. “Protocols. Ways to handle this through proper channels.”
“Like the proper channels that just branded you a traitor?” His voice was gentle but firm. “Sometimes the rules don’t work.”
“That’s not?—”
Axel’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out automatically, blinking hard at the screen. “Well, this is about what I’d expected.” He turned the screen toward her and Ronan.
BOLO ALERT: NCIS AGENT MAYA CHEN IDENTIFIED IN CLASSIFIED INTELLIGENCE brEACH AND MURDER OF A SPECIAL AGENT. CHEN CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS. POSSIBLY IN COMPANY OF SUSPECTS RONAN QUINN AND AXEL REINHARDT. BOTH MEN HAVE BLACK OPS MILITARY TRAINING. APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION.
She exhaled hard, clutching her stomach. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I wish,” Ronan muttered. He was doing something with peanut butter and protein bars that looked dubiously edible.
“Welcome to the club,” Axel said grimly. “Time to assess our situation?”
“No resources,” Ronan started. “No weapons except Maya’s Sig.”
“No cash, no transport.” Axel said as Ronan handed them each a protein bar sandwich. “Can’t use credit cards or phones—they’ll track us instantly.”
“We’ve got burners,” Ronan added. “But we need help.”
“Knight Tactical,” Axel said immediately.
“No.” Ronan’s voice went flat.
“They’re literally perfect for this. Top tier private security, all former special ops?—”
“And Bible-thumping true believers,” Ronan cut in, jaw tight. “Everything’s God’s plan with them. Even the wetwork.”
“They get results,” Axel countered. “And they have resources we need.”
“They have an agenda,” Ronan said. “Just like everyone else who claims to be fighting for something bigger than themselves. They’re not an option.”
“Your brother?—”
“Half-brother,” Ronan cut in. “Who I’ve never even met.”
Maya looked between them, momentarily distracted from her own spiraling thoughts. “Someone want to explain?”
“Christian Murphy,” Axel said. “Founded Knight Tactical. Also happens to be?—”
“Nothing to me,” Ronan finished.
“They haven’t actually met,” Axel told her, rolling his eyes. “About time you two got acquainted, don’t you think?”
“We need a plan,” Maya interrupted. “A real one. I have contacts in the LAPD?—”
“Who’ll arrest us on sight,” Ronan said.
“Better than whatever you’re suggesting.”
Axel’s phone buzzed again. “Friend of a friend keeps me in the loop on any intel about me or my team,” he explained and turned the screen toward her.
She didn’t have to look to realize it was bad. His stony expression made that clear. She looked anyway. New images filled the screen—surveillance photos of her with Marcus, timestamps altered to put them together at classified sites she’d never visited. The evidence trail was already being laid.
“We need pros on this, dude,” Axel said quietly.
Maya stared at his phone, at the fabricated evidence of her betrayal appearing in real time. Her world had shifted in the space of a few hours, leaving her with nothing but instinct to guide her. And right now, instinct was screaming that whatever was coming, she wasn’t going to survive it alone.
She recognized the tactical precision in Ronan’s movements, the way he positioned himself between the windows and her without seeming to think about it. Everything in her training said not to trust him. Everything in her instincts said he was the only thing standing between her and whoever had killed Tom.
Her father’s voice again: Trust your gut, little dragon. It’s the only thing they can’t take from you.
She watched Ronan check sight lines for the third time in as many minutes, his shoulders tense with the need to move, to act. To protect, her mind supplied unhelpfully. She pushed the thoughts away. She couldn’t afford to see him as anything but a potential threat.
No matter what her instincts were trying to tell her.