31. Midnight Intel
31
MIDNIGHT INTEL
The coffee burned her throat, but at least it gave her hands something to do besides shake. Maya was five cups deep into the night, riding the edge between caffeine jitters and post-firefight adrenaline crash. Eight hours since the warehouse. Since the gunfire and the running and watching Ronan take that hit. The memory made her chest tight all over again.
The massive command center felt oddly intimate with just the core team remaining. Ethan and Christian maintained their silent vigil at the bank of monitors while Griffin wore a path in the carpet behind them. Ronan hadn’t moved from the satellite feed station in over an hour, though Maya caught him watching Griffin’s pacing in the screen’s reflection. Her father and Victoria had taken up positions at the conference table, presumably to review evidence, though they seemed more interested in trading meaningful glances when they thought no one was looking. The others had been ordered to rest, leaving the night shift to those too wired or worried to sleep.
Her dad’s soft snoring broke the silence. He’d dozed off watching Victoria work, his face softer than Maya had seen it in years. Even in sleep, he angled toward the journalist like a flower tracking the sun. Ronan’s mom, with her sharp wit and flowing scarves, somehow managed to look elegant even after hours of crisis. Maya ran a hand through her own practical bob, feeling the sweat-stiff strands. She’d never been that kind of woman. Never sparked that kind of fascination in men. She was all clean lines and quiet competence, like the moths that visited her apartment’s porch light—drawn to brightness but forever in the shadows of more brilliant creatures.
She shifted in her chair, every muscle screaming. She’d never run like that before, never felt such pure animal terror mixed with fierce determination. Her palms still stung from catching herself on concrete, and her shoulder ached where she’d slammed into a wall during their escape. But they’d made it. They were alive.
The command center’s blue-tinged quiet felt surreal after the chaos. Maya watched faces flicker past on her monitor, fighting exhaustion. She was starting to understand what had drawn her father to this life—the razor’s edge of purpose and danger, the rush of facing impossible odds. The way it forged bonds nothing else could touch.
Maybe that’s what he saw in Ronan’s driven mom. That spark of shared danger and purpose that Maya had always been too careful, too controlled to chase. She’d built her life around being reliable. Dependable. The steady one who kept the wheels turning while others chased excitement.
But today had changed something. Running for their lives, heart pounding, every sense razor-sharp—she’d felt more alive than in all her years of careful planning.
Her gaze drifted to Ronan across the room. Even injured, he radiated that quiet authority she’d noticed from minute one. But now she understood it better. She’d seen him in action, maintaining control even while bleeding, getting his team out safely. The kind of leadership her father used to talk about, back when she was young enough to still hero-worship his war stories.
A movement caught her attention—Ronan shifting in his chair, trying to hide a wince. Her chest tightened again. The image of blood spreading across his sleeve was still too fresh. For the first time in her life, she understood the kind of fear that could make someone reckless. The kind that made you forget about being careful and controlled.
“You should rest,” she said quietly.
“I’m fine.” But he met her eyes, and something passed between them in that look. Understanding. Concern. Maybe something more.
A sharp chime cut through the quiet.
“Got something,” Ethan called from his station.
Maya moved to look, very aware of Ronan doing the same. Their shoulders brushed as they leaned in. On the screen, a grainy image showed a man in blue scrubs loading samples into a van.
“Facial recognition got a hit,” Ethan said. “Guy’s name is Trevor Abramian. Works for Pacific Coast Medical Labs as a courier.”
“And?” Austin prompted.
“And he moonlights as a security guard. For Sentinel Security, among others.”
The room went quiet. Maya felt Ronan tense beside her.
“Could be nothing,” Christian said slowly. “Lots of guys work multiple jobs these days. Especially in San Diego.”
“Run his financials,” Ronan ordered.
Ethan typed. “Three part-time security gigs. Rent’s eating half his income. Looks like he spends the other half on bodybuilding supplements and video games. Nothing suspicious in his bank records.”
Lawrence stirred in his chair. “Why is a private lab picking up VA samples anyway? Don’t they have their own facilities?”
“They do,” Griffin confirmed. “Full labs at every major center.”
“Track the van,” Ronan said. “Where did those samples go?”
Ethan pulled up traffic cam footage, following the white van’s progress through San Diego streets. “Looks normal. Straight to Pacific Coast Labs, right on schedule.”
Maya felt the team’s energy deflating. Another dead end.
“Wait.” Ronan leaned closer. “Can you access the lab’s delivery logs? See what happened to those samples?”
“Give me a minute.” Ethan’s typing intensified. “Okay, got it. Samples logged in at 2:47 p.m. by ... huh.”
“What?”
“Different name. Dr. James McClelland signed for them.”
Griffin went very still. “McClelland? I know that name. Marcus had it in his notes.”
“Running facial recognition now,” Ethan said. “Tapping into the lab’s security footage from—” He stopped abruptly.
An overweight Caucasian man in a lab coat was handing a box to a tall, stubbled forty-something man with stiff, military bearing. Handsome, but stark. Cruel, even.
“That’s impossible,” Christian said sharply.
“No. Way.” Austin blinked hard. “No. Way.”
Ronan jabbed a finger at the screen. “And he is?”
“Reynaldo Pantone.” Christian’s voice rose in disbelief. “Chief Operations Officer of Sentinel Security.”
Ethan’s hands were already moving. “Cross-referencing Abramian’s delivery schedule with Marcus’s list of missing vets.”
Screens flickered as data populated. Maya watched the dates flash by, her throat tight. Three months ago. Two months. Six weeks ...
“There.” Griffin’s voice was like gravel. “Every time a vet disappeared, Abramian had picked up samples from their VA clinic somewhere between three and ten days beforehand.”
“And every batch went to McClelland personally,” Ethan added. “He’s not showing his face at the VA clinics. He’s got Abramian doing the legwork, then handles the samples himself at the lab.”
Ronan grunted. “And we’ve got proof of the connection between Pantone and McClelland. On the day, a set of samples was delivered to a Pacific lab no less.”
“Perfect deniability,” Lawrence said, fully awake now. “Private security company with military contracts. A legitimate medical lab as cover ...”
“Whatever they’re doing with those biological samples, it ain’t good,” Griffin muttered.
“It’s on now.” Frowning hard, Christian pulled out his cell. “Time to get Jack.”