15. Hard Calls
15
HARD CALLS
The command center hummed with contained energy. At the far end of the polished conference table, Star and Ethan moved in perfect sync, their rapid-fire tech discussion flowing in the kind of shorthand that came from years of partnership. She’d point at something on her screen, he’d nod and type, completing her thought without a word.
Jack cleared his throat and the room snapped to attention. Crime scene photos materialized on the main screen, and Ronan’s stomach lurched. He’d seen plenty of death in his years as a SEAL, had caused more than his share. But this was Tank. Marcus Sullivan. The man who’d saved his life in Kandahar, who’d carried wounded teammates on his back through firefights. Now he looked wrong—small somehow, crumpled against his desk like a discarded uniform.
“Timeline,” Christian said quietly. “From the beginning.”
Ronan started to speak, but Maya cut in, her voice clipped and professional. “Base Commander Phillips contacted NCIS at zero one hundred hours yesterday. Marcus Sullivan had accessed classified Naval Intelligence files just before zero hundred hours Tuesday from a terminal on base.”
“A terminal he shouldn’t have had access to,” Star murmured, hands gliding over the keys.
“Exactly.” Maya nodded. “He’d been out of the service for two years. Phillips wanted Tom and me to bring Sullivan in immediately. Said it couldn’t wait till morning.”
“How about this Phillips guy?” Austin asked, eyeing Maya.
Maya shrugged. “Don’t really know him. I’ve only been at NCIS San Diego for three months.”
“No worries. I’m running Phillips now,” Ethan said, his screen reflecting in his glasses. “Star, you want to trace Marcus’s movements?”
“Already on it.”
“Tell us about the ambush.” Jack’s eyes locked onto Ronan and Axel. “Walk us through it.” He pulled up a tactical display.
“We were following Benson’s SUV toward the naval base,” Ronan said. “Three minutes in, I spotted the tail cars.”
“How many?” Christian asked.
“Three vehicles on us, two on Benson. Professional. Military precision.” Ronan’s jaw tightened. “They split into two teams—one to separate us from Benson, one to take him down.”
“Classic Special Operations containment formation,” Christian noted.
“Yeah. Suppressing fire aimed high, herding tactics. They weren’t trying to kill us.” Ronan marked positions on the display. “They wanted us alive.”
“We managed to break through their roadblock,” Axel added. “But that was probably their plan all along—separate us from Benson.”
Ronan nodded grimly. “By the time we ditched our vehicle and circled back to help ...”
“They’d already forced his SUV down to the boat ramp,” Axel finished. “Two shots, close range.”
“They killed him to keep him from calling reinforcements,” Maya said quietly. “While their main team went after you two.”
“Question is—why do they want you alive?” Christian asked.
The room went quiet. Finally, Jack spoke. “How long had you been investigating Sullivan?”
“We weren’t.” Maya shook her head. “No active investigation until Phillips’s call.”
“Marcus contacted me last week,” Axel said suddenly. All eyes turned to him. “Said he was in trouble. Needed help from people he could trust.”
“What kind of trouble?” Christian’s voice was sharp.
Ronan shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve been ... out of touch since leaving the service. But Marcus was solid. Best heavy weapons specialist I ever worked with. Built like a linebacker, but he’d give you the shirt off his back.”
“He was an outstanding SEAL. No one better with heavy explosives,” Axel added. “Always looking out for the team.”
Christian shot Axel a sharp look. “So why didn’t he come to you directly with whatever he found?”
Ronan shifted in his chair. “I haven’t ... exactly been too social since—” Since taking the fall. Since watching his entire team’s careers flash before his eyes and making the call to shoulder all of it. “Since leaving the teams.”
“I’ve pulled up Sullivan’s file,” Star announced, saving him from fumbling through that explanation. “The classified one.”
Axel whistled softly, exchanging a look with Ronan. Yeah. He felt it too. The power these people had at their fingertips to pull up whatever intel they needed. Must be nice.
Star’s frown deepened as she read. “This doesn’t track. Your friend wasn’t intelligence. Not even close. He was pure combat operations. And since leaving the teams, he’s been working at a local VA hospital. Strictly civilian-level stuff.”
“Yet he accessed Naval Intelligence files,” Christian said, leaning forward. Ronan identified with the posture—the same tension in the shoulders, same way of bracing an elbow on the table.
He moved his hands into his lap. “Not hard to conclude something in those files got him killed.”
“Fair to assume that’s what the people who offed him thought,” Jack added, glancing between the brothers. Ronan caught the slight raise of Jack’s eyebrow—he’d noticed their mirrored positions too.
“We need to trace his—” Christian and Ronan spoke simultaneously, then stopped, glaring at each other.
“His recent contacts,” Austin jumped in smoothly, diffusing the tension.
Across the table, Angie silently slid her coffee toward Maya, who looked ready to vibrate out of her skin with contained energy. Maya’s quick nod of thanks spoke volumes.
“Star, you’re amazing,” Axel breathed, leaning over her shoulder to study the screens. “Is that real-time satellite tracking? I didn’t know civilians could access?—”
“We’re not exactly civilians,” Star’s husband squeezed her shoulder as he passed, a casual gesture that spoke of years of partnership.
Ronan watched Christian with his team, the easy flow of information, the trust in every interaction. His brother had built something real here. Something Ronan had thrown away when he’d stepped up to take the blame for that final mission.
“Focus,” Jack’s voice cut through his thoughts. “We need to figure out what Sullivan was investigating. Before anyone else dies.”
“I appreciate the help,” Maya cut in, her voice steady but strained. “But I’ve got twenty-four hours. Then I’m heading back to San Diego.”
The room erupted in protests. Jack raised his hand for silence, but Maya pushed on.
“My father won’t stay on the sidelines. The longer I’m gone, the more likely he is to start his own investigation.”
“Maya—” Christian started.
“Here’s his LAPD file,” Star interrupted, exchanging glances with Ethan. “Captain Lawrence Chen. And ... she’s right.”
Ethan nodded grimly. “Multiple commendations. And an equal number of official reprimands for creative interpretation of regulations. Known for, quote, ‘aggressive pursuit of justice regardless of jurisdictional boundaries.’”
Maya gestured impatiently. “Exactly my point. He’s going to come after me. And then bad things are going to happen. I have to head back. Sooner than later.”
“Not advisable,” Christian said flatly, his frustration evident. “These people got the drop on a SEAL team operator?—”
“Staged an elaborate suicide,” Jack continued.
“And killed a federal agent,” Axel added.
“While trying to take out two more SEALs, and another special agent,” Ronan finished. “This isn’t a twenty-four-hour fix, Maya. You go back now, you’ll die.”
The room fell silent. Maya’s jaw clenched, but Ronan could see the fear behind her anger. Not for herself, most likely. But for her father.
That’s when the idea hit him. This problem they could eliminate. “So let’s get your dad out of the line of fire.”
Maya’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you thinking?”
“Bring him here,” Ronan and Christian said simultaneously.
Maya’s jaw dropped. “My father. Here?” She glanced around the high-tech room, at the tactical gear, at the team’s focused faces. “You’ll hate that.”
Yeah. Ronan knew the feeling.
He watched Maya’s face cycle through a familiar range of emotions—horror, resignation, grim defeat.
Her dad sounded intense. But at least the man was a fellow professional.
If Victoria Quinn caught wind of this, she’d descend on Knight Tactical like a perfectly coiffed tsunami, armed with passive-aggressive concerns about her son’s life choices and suggestions for redecorating the tactical operations center.
He’d rather face down a raging terrorist. With a toothbrush.
“I’m not concerned.” Jack shrugged.
That drew a bitter laugh from Maya. “You should be.”
“Fair enough. We’ll consider ourselves warned. So how do we extract your father?” Jack persisted.
“I could call him,” Maya said slowly. “Try to explain?—”
Christian made a face. “And give him time to dig in his heels? Not a great plan. We need to move fast.”
“A direct approach might work,” Ronan countered, deliberately not looking at his brother. “The man’s law enforcement, he might appreciate?—”
“Straight talk won’t cut it,” Christian interrupted. “Not with someone this connected. He’ll start making calls, demanding answers?—”
“Because treating a decorated police captain like a hostile target is so much better?” Ronan’s voice had an edge now.
“Stop.” Maya’s command cut through their brewing argument. “You’re both right, and you’re both wrong.” She rubbed her temples. “My father ... he’s stubborn. Protective. The minute he suspects something’s wrong, he’ll launch his own investigation. And he won’t stop until he gets answers or gets killed.”
“So what’s your call?” Jack asked quietly.
Maya met his eyes. She looked like she wanted to throw up. “Black ops style grab. Quick and clean. No warning. No discussion.” She glanced around the room. “I’ll reason with him once he’s safe.”
“You sure about this?” Ronan had to ask.
“No.” Maya’s laugh was hollow. “But I’d rather have him hate me than have him dead.”
Ronan caught Christian watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. For once, they were both thinking the same thing: sometimes protecting family meant making the hard calls.
Or so he imagined.