32. Night Kitchen
32
NIGHT KITCHEN
Ronan leaned against the conference room wall, using the pressure to brace his injured arm. The pain meds were wearing off again, but he kept his expression neutral. Three a.m., and the room hummed with barely contained energy despite the hour.
The scent of Christian’s stress-baking filled the air—fresh croissants, cinnamon rolls, something with chocolate. The pastries covered one end of the long table, alongside a professional-grade espresso machine. Steam hissed as he pulled another shot.
Jack stood at the head of the table, sleeves pushed up, hair standing on end. He studied the screens where Star had arranged their evidence in neat columns: Abramian’s delivery routes, McClelland’s lab records, Pantone’s connection to Sentinel Security.
“Walk me through it again,” Jack said. “From the beginning.”
Dale Bosch, a Knight Tactical member and former NCIS director, tapped his tablet. Despite being called in at 0300, the man looked pressed and polished. “Sentinel Security has government contracts, more of them than we do, so they have easy access to military installations, VA facilities, and for sure sensitive operations.”
Austin reached for his third espresso. “And their COO is paying visits to the doctor in charge of processing stolen biometric data from veterans.”
“Who end up dead,” Axel added quietly.
Kenji cleared his throat. “The VA contracts out some lab work, but nothing this specialized. And definitely not identity verification protocols.”
Ronan watched Maya’s father study the evidence. The retired investigator’s rumpled appearance couldn’t hide his sharp focus. Like father, like daughter.
Griff paced near the windows, while Zara and Star huddled over laptops. Izzy cleaned her sidearm, the repetitive motion betraying her tension. Deke and Maya sat silent, but Ronan could practically see them gaming out tactical scenarios in their heads.
“We can’t just walk into Sentinel Security and start asking questions,” Christian said, sliding fresh espressos in front of Jack and Bosch. “They’ve got too much legitimate cover.”
“And political protection,” Bosch added. “Their CEO plays golf with three senators.”
Jack bit his lip. “I’ll run this new intel by the admiral, but I can tell you, he’ll want us to dig deeper before he runs any of this past Buck Richardson.”
“The lab, then,” Ronan said, pushing off the wall and ignoring the flare of pain. “Pacific Coast Medical. That’s where the evidence is.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed, studying him. “You’re thinking infiltration?”
“For sure. We need proof of what they’re doing with those samples. How they’re building the identity packages if that’s really what they’re doing.”
“And fast,” Griffin added. “They’ll notice Kate and Mike’s disappearances pretty quick. They’ll be cleaning house.”
The room went quiet except for the soft whir of laptops and the espresso machine’s hum. Ronan felt the weight of Jack’s assessment. He kept his posture carefully neutral, refusing to show weakness.
“Thoughts?” Jack asked the room.
“Maybe it’s time to shine a spotlight on this,” Ronan’s mom suggested. “I know the news directors at every major station. We could?—”
Ronan bit back a groan. “Mom, stop. We’re messing with classified intel. You’d just get shut down. Or arrested.”
Whether because of the pain radiating from his wound, or the lack of sleep, or just the constant pressure of being around his mother and his silent bio bro, irritation flashed through him. But it quickly dissipated. Victoria might have been a mostly absentee mom, but the woman loved him. Almost as much as she loved being in the center of the action.
“McClelland’s the weak link.” Jack redirected the conversation.
Exactly what he’d been thinking. “So we grab him, make him talk. He’ll crack.”
“Kidnapping?” Maya’s voice cut through the tension. “That’s a federal offense.”
“Yeah? And? So is murder. They killed Tank. And your partner. We don’t even know how many others. I’ll risk a little kidnapping.”
Axel crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Copy that, bro.”
“He’s right,” Griffin said, knuckles white around his coffee cup. “I’m all for it.”
Christian shook his head. “Think this through, guys. If we grab McClelland, Pantone knows instantly. Best case, they scatter. Worst case, they eliminate loose ends and take their operation underground.”
“More bodies,” Austin agreed. “We need something concrete linking the VA samples to Pantone without tipping our hand.”
Griffin slammed his cup down, coffee sloshing. “How?”
The raw pain in the man’s voice filled the room. Ronan pushed off the wall, ignoring his shoulder’s protest, and crossed to his friend. He placed a hand on Griffin’s shoulder, steady pressure grounding him. “We’ll get them. The right way. So it sticks. So they can’t wiggle out on technicalities.” He held Griffin’s gaze until some of the fury ebbed. “Tank and Tom Benson deserve a conviction that holds up in court. So do all those vets who ‘disappeared.’”
The room went quiet, watching the exchange. Even his mom’s perfect composure softened slightly.
He felt Maya’s gaze on him as he steadied Griffin, and when he looked up, their eyes met. Something in her expression had changed—less wariness, more ... what? Understanding? Respect? The intensity of her dark eyes made him want to look away and hold her gaze at the same time. He was used to people seeing the soldier, the commander, the man of action. But Maya saw deeper, and that unsettled him in ways he wasn’t ready to examine.
He forced his attention back to Griff, to the mission, to anything but the way Maya’s presence filled his awareness even from across the room.
Jack’s expression tightened. “We need to be careful here. Pantone could be operating independently. One corrupt executive doesn’t necessarily implicate all of Sentinel Security.”
“Agreed.” Ronan straightened, shoulder protesting. “Which means we need to tackle this from two angles. First, is Pantone a lone operator, or is Sentinel involved? Second ...” He met Griffin’s haunted eyes. “What’s worth killing for? What are they doing with those samples that requires eliminating witnesses?”
The questions landed heavy in the pre-dawn quiet.
Zara’s hands stilled above her keyboard. “I think I know,” she breathed. “Biological passports. They’ve got everything they need—DNA, fingerprints, complete medical histories, military credentials ...”
“Z’s right. Perfect foundation for foolproof forgeries,” Kenji added. “The kind that would pass any biometric verification system.”
Lawrence frowned. “But fake IDs are a dime a dozen. Even good ones. Give me an hour and I could get you ten of them. Why go to these lengths?”
The answer punched Ronan in the gut. “Because they’re not building street-level forgeries. They’re creating military credentials. The kind that get you past nuclear facility checkpoints. Biological screening. Classified installations.”
The room went dead silent.
“Two teams,” Jack said finally. “We split this. One group investigates Pantone, the other gets proof of what that lab is really producing.”
Ronan nodded. “Zara, Star, Ethan—you’re our best bet for tracing Pantone’s digital footprint.”
“But you’ll need a techie to run the VA op,” Star pointed out. “I say Ethan and Zara work the Pantone angle here. I’ll go with the team.”
“Belay that,” Ethan spoke up. “I’ll go. You and Zara have a better handle on the new AI protocols. I got this.”
Star kissed her husband on the cheek before addressing the group. “See? He’s learning. Instead of an order, he makes it a compliment. Smooth move, Mr. Hernandez. Very smooth.”
The cyber-security operative grinned hard. “Sometimes you can teach an old dog new tricks.”
It was a good move. Ronan had to admit, he would have flat ordered his wife to stay back. He could learn a thing or two from these domesticated warriors.
“Good plan,” Jack agreed. “The rest of us hit the lab.”
“Not you.” Jack’s voice was firm. “That arm needs time.”
“I’m going.” Ronan kept his voice level, but his hands clenched. They weren’t sidelining him. Not for this.
To his surprise, Maya spoke up. “He goes.” Her tone brooked no argument. “But you stay in the van,” she added, fixing Ronan with a look that somehow managed to be both commanding and concerned. “That’s non-negotiable.”
Ronan held her gaze, fighting a smile. “Deal.” Behind his back, his fingers crossed—an automatic gesture he hadn’t used since childhood. But something in Maya’s eyes said she knew exactly what he was thinking.
He’d worry about that later. Right now, they had work to do. And less than five hours to plan for it.