18. Night Echoes
18
NIGHT ECHOES
Maya’s ears strained against the unnatural quiet of downtown LA at 2:00 a.m., catching fragments of sound—a distant siren, the metallic rattle of a shopping cart, the soft whisper of Ronan’s tactical gear against brick. She pressed herself flatter against Morton’s facade, the lingering heat of the August night radiating through her shirt. The acrid taste of adrenaline coated her tongue, mixing with memories of burnt diner coffee and early morning stakeout conversations.
She fought the urge to check her watch again. The empty street stretched before her like a scene from one of those post-apocalyptic movies her father loved—all shadows and silence and waiting.
Seven years ago, she’d stood in this same spot, clutching her carefully organized case notes while her father chatted with a homeless man about the missing Hancock Park girl. She’d wanted to scream at him to focus on real evidence, not waste time with his “street sources.” Twenty minutes later, that same homeless man had given them the breakthrough that saved the girl’s life.
Now she forced her breathing to stay steady, hyperaware of Ronan’s solid presence beside her, of Christian’s team positioned strategically around the block. Her father’s coffee cup markers had led them here, but doubt gnawed at her certainty. What if she’d read the signs wrong? What if someone else had decoded his system?
“Movement,” Star’s voice whispered through their comms. “Southeast corner. Single male, staying in the shadows.”
Maya’s heart hammered. The figure moved like her father—that distinctive rolling gait from an old motorcycle accident. But it could be a trap, could be someone who’d studied him ...
“Second signal,” Jack reported. “All clear on perimeter scan.”
This was the part her father had tried to teach her—that moment when procedure had to yield to instinct. When you either trusted your gut or lost everything.
The figure reached the edge of Morton’s stubborn pool of streetlight. Maya caught a glimpse of silver hair, a familiar stance. Then he stepped into the light.
His usually immaculate chinos were wrinkled, his left hand curled like it did when his old shooting injury acted up. But his eyes were sharp as ever as they swept over her, then locked onto Ronan with laser focus.
“Baby girl,” he said softly, using the nickname she’d outgrown decades ago. “Want to tell me why you’re running with this crowd?”
Ronan tensed beside her.
“Who are you?” Her dad’s voice held the edge she recognized from interrogation rooms. “And how did you get my daughter into this mess?”
“Dad—”
“It’s a long story, sir.” Ronan’s voice remained steady, professional despite the hostility. “One we should discuss somewhere secure. Right now, we need to move.”
“They killed Tom.” Maya’s voice caught on her partner’s name. “And probably the victim Tom and I were called out to question.” She swallowed hard. “And now they’re after you.”
Her father’s expression flickered—too brief for anyone else to catch, but she had thirty-four years of practice reading Lawrence Chen’s micro-expressions. Fear. Not for himself.
“You need to walk away from this, Maya. No matter what your partner might have been involved in.” He shifted his weight, and she recognized his tell. He was about to disappear into the shadows again. “Forget you found me. Go back to?—”
“That’s not happening.” The steel in her voice surprised even her. “Those men at your condo weren’t amateurs, Dad. Russian weapons, tactical gear?—”
“Which is exactly why you need to?—”
“Tom wasn’t dirty.” The words came out raw. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But our victim, Marcus Sullivan, was onto something big enough to kill for. To destroy my life for. And now I think they’re going after you to get to me.”
Her father went still. That dangerous stillness she remembered from stakeouts, from moments before everything exploded into action. His gaze shifted back to Ronan, reassessing.
“Are you really military?”
“Former SEAL.” Ronan kept his tone neutral. “And I brought help. Operatives with Knight Tactical Protection. All former special forces. They’re a professional team with a secure facility and plenty of resources. And they have a common interest in finding out who’s behind this.”
“Common interest?” Her father’s laugh held no humor. “Son, you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”
Maya fought back a hard eye roll. “Like you do? Tell me why you’re out here alone instead of utilizing department resources.”
The silence stretched. She watched her father’s face, seeing the war between his instinct to protect her and his need for help. She knew that war intimately—had fought it herself every time she’d had to choose between procedure and what was right.
“This Knight Tactical team,” her dad asked Ronan sharply, “they any good?”
“We’re still alive.” Ronan kept it simple.
Her father nodded once, a decade of street cop instinct weighing their options. Then he looked at Maya, and for the first time she saw real fear in his eyes. “You sure about this?”
“You raised me to finish what I start.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Yeah. Sometimes I think I did too good a job.” The smile faded. “But baby girl, you’ve been federal for all of three months. I’ve dealt with these alphabet agencies for thirty years. When the feds get involved ...” He shook his head. “You better know what you’re getting us into. Because once we start down this road, there’s no turning back.”
“Yeah, about that.” Ronan interrupted. “We need to hit it.”
Then Dad was moving, that familiar purposeful stride that meant decisions had been made.
The small group moved fast and tight through the shadows, Maya hyperaware of her father analyzing every movement, every formation position. Ronan took point while Axel materialized from the darkness to cover their six. Her father’s eyebrows rose slightly at their silent efficiency.
Two black SUVs idled in the adjacent alley, engines purring with quiet German engineering.
“Thirty seconds,” Star warned through comms. “Bogey vehicle approaching from the north.”
Christian stood ready at the lead vehicle’s passenger door. “Lieutenant Chen.” His nod was respectful but urgent. “Welcome to the party. Maya, you’re with your father in the lead car. Ronan, Axel?—”
“Second vehicle,” Ronan finished, already moving.
Her father paused before getting in, his cop’s eyes taking in the team’s smooth choreography, the high-end gear, the practiced precision.
“Nice setup,” he murmured as he climbed in and they pulled away from the curb. “Not exactly standard NCIS resources.”
“No,” Maya agreed, watching the city blur past. “It’s not.”
The pursuit vehicle’s headlights flashed in their rearview, but Christian’s driving was subtle, professional—nothing to draw attention. Just two expensive SUVs gliding through the LA night, headed for the private airfield where their plane waited.
Her father sat back, his expression unreadable. “You’ve gotten yourself mixed up with some interesting people, baby girl.”
Maya thought of the initial victim, Ronan’s friend. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I really have.”
The SUVs purred through LA’s empty streets, Christian taking a deliberately meandering route through the city. Maya watched her father’s posture shift as he studied the vehicle’s tactical displays, the secure comms, the advanced surveillance setup. Thirty years of cop instincts kicking in.
“Your pursuit vehicle dropped back,” he said suddenly. “They’re parallel tracking now, probably called in backup.” His fingers drummed against his knee—his old tell when piecing together a pattern. “You said airfield?”
“Van Nuys,” Christian confirmed. “Private hangar.”
“They’ll be watching the main approaches.” Her father leaned forward, all business now. “But there’s a service road off Hayvenhurst. Old construction access. Most maps don’t show it.”
“Star?” Christian asked.
“Satellite confirms. Looks clear.”
Just like that, Maya became invisible—the familiar sensation from a hundred operations with her father. He and Christian fell into a rapid tactical discussion, years of experience meshing seamlessly. Alternative routes, counter-surveillance measures, airfield security patterns.
Maya caught Ronan’s voice through the comms, coordinating with the follow vehicle, but her focus stayed on her father. The way his voice had shifted to that familiar command tone, the one that had directed countless operations. The one that had always made her feel simultaneously proud and overshadowed.
Some things never changed. Somehow she was right back to being Lawrence Chen’s kid, watching from the sidelines while the grown-ups handled things.
She sank deeper into the leather seat, exhaustion hitting her like a physical wave. Her body felt hollow, wrung out from too many hours running on adrenaline and coffee. Even keeping her eyes open had become a conscious effort.
The familiar cadence of her father’s voice washed over her as he and Christian discussed approach vectors. She’d been an NCIS agent for all of three months, determined to forge her own path, to step out of Lawrence Chen’s long shadow. And here she was, pulled right back into his orbit like some huge, cosmic joke.
Through the comms, she heard Ronan’s voice continue—steady, confident, adapting instantly to her father’s suggestions. The similarity struck her then: that same quiet competence, that instinctive grasp of tactical thinking. But where her father was all contained energy and sharp edges, Ronan moved with the fluid grace of a predator. A younger, more dangerous version of Lawrence Chen.
And significantly better looking, whispered a traitorous part of her mind.
She pushed that thought away, but couldn’t help noticing how naturally the two men had fallen into sync, even through their initial antagonism. Like recognizing like. Her father might have started as a beat cop and Ronan as spec ops, but at their core, they operated on the same wavelength—thinking three moves ahead while trusting their gut.
What was her Savior trying to teach her, letting her get tangled up with two such hard-driving, reckless men?