9. FightFlight
9
FIGHT OR FLIGHT
Maya pulled her borrowed jacket tighter as she walked away from the garage apartment, her mind churning through facts like case evidence. Her initial certainty about Ronan and Axel’s guilt had crumbled with each passing hour. Their handling of Marcus’s death scene replayed in her mind—the raw grief in Axel’s prayer, the way Ronan’s hands had shaken before he’d forced them still.
Killers didn’t react like that.
And they’d had multiple chances to eliminate her. Instead, Ronan had handed back her weapon—a move that still baffled her. Murderers didn’t arm potential witnesses. Their tactical movements were too clean, too professional. The way they cleared rooms, maintained sight lines, communicated without words—that kind of training ran bone-deep.
No, whatever was happening here, Ronan and Axel weren’t the killers. Which left her with a dead partner, no resources, and a desperate need for help.
The apartment complex sprawled around her, a maze of identical beige buildings showing their age. Half-empty parking spaces held a collection of well-worn Hondas and ancient pickup trucks. The morning air hung heavy with marine layer, not yet burned off by San Diego’s familiar sun. The gray light gave everything a film noir quality that matched her situation perfectly.
Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been a federal agent. Now her partner was dead, and she was somehow a suspect. The absurdity of it made her want to laugh, but she was afraid if she started, she might not stop.
In movies, this would be where the hero appeared. Maya scanned the empty courtyard, the silent windows. Nothing moved except a stray paper bag tumbling across cracked concrete. No dramatic music swelled. No cavalry charged in. No broad-shouldered former SEAL appeared to watch her six.
“Please, Lord. Is this the way forward?” she whispered. The words disappeared into the fog.
She pressed her fingers against her temples. Think. No ID. No credit cards. No phone. But across the street, the sprawling bulk of Plaza Del Mar Mall loomed against the brightening sky. The once-proud shopping center had seen better days. Half the store signs had been removed from its faux stone exterior, leaving ghostly rectangles of unfaded stucco. Only the county library branch and a scattered handful of mom-and-pop shops still advertised their presence. The kind of place that had once hummed with teenagers and holiday shoppers, now clinging to life with discount stores and government offices.
But it had computers. And if her rental car account from Andrea’s wedding was still active, with her credit card data on file ... It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was something. Better than admitting she’d made a mistake walking out. Better than going back and seeing the knowing look in Ronan’s eyes.
Anyone good enough to stage two murders would track her eventually, but she’d be long gone by then. The sun was finally starting to break through, burning away the marine layer. Time to move.
But something made her pause before crossing the street.
The man at the coffee shop window. Dressed casually, in chinos and a rumpled button down, he was reading a paper like any other bro on a coffee break, but his posture was wrong—too alert, too controlled. Another by the dry cleaner’s, phone in hand but never looking at the screen. They moved like professionals, checking corners, maintaining distance.
Not Ronan and Axel. These men were different. Hunting.
Maya’s throat tightened. Through the mall’s grimy glass doors, she could see the library branch’s familiar blue sign hanging above a first-floor storefront. What choice did she have?
Ten minutes. That’s all it would take to run back. She could picture Ronan’s face—no judgment, just that careful assessment as he adjusted plans to include her again. Axel would probably make some smart comment about women changing their minds, trying to break the tension. They’d be angry, but they’d take her back. Protect her.
The thought made her jaw clench. She didn’t need protection. She was a federal agent, trained and capable. Even if right now her heart was hammering against her ribs and her palms were slick with sweat.
But these men hunting her ... they moved like Ronan did. Like people trained to eliminate threats. And she was alone, armed with two rounds and borrowed clothes.
She took one step back toward the apartment. Then another. Then forced herself to stop.
No way she’d make it back to their hiding place before these men caught her.
It would have to be the mall. The empty corridors and abandoned shops would give her plenty of cover to lose a tail. She’d worked enough undercover ops to know how to use a building’s layout against pursuers. Get inside, lose them in the maze of service corridors and empty retail spaces, then double back to the library. One step at a time. Just like tracking a suspect, only now she was the one being hunted.
She squared her shoulders and started walking. Time to see if seven years of LAPD experience could outmaneuver whatever professionals were on her tail.
Maya pushed through the mall’s heavy glass doors, hit by the familiar mix of stale popcorn, cleaning products, and decay that seemed universal to dying malls. Her footsteps echoed off dated terracotta tiles. Most of the first-floor storefronts were dark, their security gates permanently drawn. A lonely kiosk seller scrolled through his phone, not even bothering to look up.
The library branch beckoned from the far end, past the defunct fountain where copper-green pennies still gleamed through murky water. An elderly couple power-walked the perimeter, their shuffling steps marking time like a metronome. Near the food court, a young mother wrestled with a stroller while her toddler wailed. Civilians. Potential casualties if this went wrong.
Maya kept her hand away from her weapon, though every instinct screamed for its reassurance. No need to start a panic. She forced herself to browse the window of a dusty gift shop, using the reflection to track her pursuers. They’d split up—one by the entrance, one drifting toward the escalator, a third moving parallel to her position. Professional. Coordinated. They were boxing her in.
The second floor might offer better options. Maya took the still-functioning escalator, nodding casually to a mall maintenance worker heading down. Now only a dollar store and a tax preparation office showed signs of life among the empty shopfronts. A cluster of teenagers lounged outside the dollar store, sharing a bag of chips. She needed to get clear of the public areas before this turned ugly.
She passed a shuttered Foot Locker, then a boarded-up Victoria’s Secret. The men adjusted their positions smoothly, one taking the escalator, one the stairs, the third maintaining line of sight from below. They were herding her, she realized. Using standard tactical containment to force her toward ... what?
A service corridor caught her eye, its “Employees Only” sign hanging askew. Too narrow for vehicles, but it might let her double back downstairs through the old service areas. More importantly, it was away from innocent bystanders. She took it at an easy pace, not running. Running attracted attention.
The corridor stretched ahead, emergency lights casting sickly fluorescent shadows. Past empty stockrooms and abandoned break areas, the smell of mildew growing stronger. Twenty yards in, she realized her mistake. The far exit was blocked by fallen ceiling tiles and debris, and footsteps echoed behind her.
Two new figures appeared at each end of the corridor. Black tactical gear, weapons holstered but ready. Not law enforcement—their movement was too predatory, too unleashed.
That made five, at least. The narrow walls suddenly felt like a trap.
Maya drew her weapon, knowing two rounds weren’t nearly enough. All she had was bluster. She held up her badge. “Federal agent! Stand down!”
The men kept coming. No badges shown, no commands given. Just the steady advance of professionals who knew they had their target cornered. The scent of old food court grease and cleaning products gave way to something metallic. Fear.
The first attacker moved faster than she’d expected. She fired once, catching him in the shoulder. He barely flinched. The second round went wide as another attacker slammed into her from behind, sending her weapon skittering across the stained linoleum.
Then the world exploded into violence.
Two shadows dropped from above—Ronan and Axel moving with liquid grace. The fluorescent lights caught the flash of a blade as Ronan swept the first attacker’s legs, while Axel drove an elbow into another’s throat with brutal precision. No shouts, no warnings. Just the muffled sounds of hand-to-hand combat from men who’d learned their trade in the world’s deadliest places.
Maya managed to break her attacker’s hold, even landed a solid combination that would have dropped most opponents. But these men were different. Professional. Trained. He shrugged off her best shots like they were love taps.
Then Ronan was there, moving past her with deadly efficiency. His attack was nothing like the controlled takedowns she’d learned at the academy. This was something else—swift, brutal, final. The kind of fighting that belonged to shadowy operations, not shopping malls in San Diego.
The fight ended as abruptly as it began. Five attackers down, Ronan and Axel barely winded. Maya retrieved her weapon, hands steady now despite everything. Beyond the service corridor, she could hear the normal sounds of mall life—muzak, distant conversations, the hum of escalators.
“We need to call this in,” she said, already reaching for her badge. “There could be civilians?—”
“No time.” Ronan was already searching the first unconscious man, his movements quick and practiced. No wallet. No ID. Not even a phone. He moved to the second while Axel checked the others. “Nothing. Not even unit patches or manufacturer’s labels in their gear.”
“Pros,” Axel confirmed, holding up a jacket liner where the tags had been carefully removed. “The kind who don’t leave breadcrumbs.” He pulled a single phone from one man’s pocket, thumbed through it. “But they left us this.”
The screen showed surveillance photos of her father’s condo complex. Time-stamped that morning.
“They were waiting for you to run,” Ronan said quietly. He was doing something to ensure the attackers stayed down—Maya decided not to look too closely. “Probably have teams at every transit point between here and LA.”
A child’s laughter echoed from the main concourse, making Maya flinch. “We can’t just leave them here. The mall opens properly in an hour?—”
“Already called it in.” Axel’s voice was grim as he handed the cell phone to Ronan. “Anonymous tip about suspicious activity. Local PD will find them, but we’ll be long gone.”
“The sort of professionals who can make a murder look like suicide,” Ronan added, pocketing the phone. “Ghost teams. No ID, no trace.” His meaning was clear—the same kind who could frame federal agents and erase evidence trails.
Distant sirens made the decision for them. “Move,” Ronan ordered, already heading for what looked like a maintenance exit. “Unless you’d rather explain to responding officers why a supposedly corrupt federal agent is standing over four unconscious men in tactical gear.”
Maya’s hands trembled as she stared at the fallen men. Her lungs felt too small, each breath shorter than the last. Four years working gangs in LA, three years in violent crimes, barely three months with NCIS—none of it had prepared her for this. These men had moved like machines, had shrugged off her best defensive techniques like she was a rookie. If Ronan and Axel hadn’t shown up ...
Her father had always said there were predators, and then there were apex predators. She’d thought she understood. But watching Ronan and Axel fight—that liquid grace, that lethal efficiency—she realized she’d been playing in a completely different league. These weren’t street thugs or even hardened criminals. They were something else entirely.
They’d known exactly where she’d run. Which meant every plan she’d made, every option she’d considered, had already been anticipated. She was a cop playing soldier, and she was hopelessly outmatched.
“Fine,” she said, hating the slight quaver in her voice as she fell into step behind them. “But this doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Good.” Ronan eased the door open, checking sight lines with a precision that made her own tactical training feel like child’s play. “Trust gets people killed. Right now, I’ll settle for you staying alive long enough to help us find who murdered our friends.”
Maya followed, her cop’s mind struggling to catalog details through the fog of adrenaline crash. The mall’s muzak played on, something upbeat and forgettable, while somewhere above them early morning shoppers went about their normal lives, unaware of the violence that had just played out beneath their feet. She might not trust them, but Ronan was right about one thing—she needed their help to solve this case.
She’d trained her whole life to protect others, to serve justice. Now she couldn’t even protect herself.
The thought burned like acid in her throat.
Maya followed them through the service exit, leaving behind the cheerful muzak and oblivious shoppers. Her body ached, her confidence shaken, but something deeper than training or instinct steadied her steps. Whatever darkness lay ahead, she had to trust that God had placed these warriors in her path for a purpose.