48. Fighting Chance
48
FIGHTING CHANCE
The planes touched down at Hope Landing just before dawn, the sky turning pearl-gray over the mountains. Maya closed her eyes briefly, lifting a quiet prayer of thanks. For survival. For success. For the unconscious man being tended by Kenji two rows ahead.
“He’ll be okay,” Kenji said, catching her worried look. His usually stoic expression softened. “Trust me, I’ve patched this idiot up more times than I can count. The fever’s already responding to treatment.”
“You sure?” Izzy called from behind them. “Because I still owe him for that prank in Buenos Aires, and if he thinks dying will get him out of it?—”
“Nobody’s dying,” Deke cut in, but his attempt at sternness was undermined by his grin. “Though I’d pay good money to see that prank revenge.”
“Focus, children,” Zara drawled, but Maya caught her checking Ronan’s vitals for the hundredth time.
The moment the cargo ramp lowered, their little convoy was swarmed. Maya’s father broke through first, but instead of the lecture she’d braced for, he just pulled her into a fierce hug.
“You’re okay,” he whispered.
“Told you I’d be careful,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“Careful?” came Mike’s voice as he and Kate pushed through. “Is that what we’re calling black market identity sales and explosions these days?”
“Don’t forget kidnapping,” Axel added helpfully.
Maya groaned. “Not helping.”
Ronan’s mother pushed past them in a cloud of lavender perfume. “My boy,” she whispered, reaching for her son’s hand as Kenji wheeled his stretcher past. Her eyes were wet, but her voice was steady. “Always fighting everyone’s battles.”
“We’ve got him, Mrs. Q,” Griff assured her, appearing at her side like a protective shadow. “Kenji’s the best. Even if he is way too smug about it.”
“I heard that,” Kenji called over his shoulder.
“You were meant to!”
“Children,” the admiral’s voice cut through the banter, warm with amusement. He approached with his wife on his arm, both of them looking tired but radiant. The newly-reunited couple couldn’t seem to stop stealing glances at each other. “Let’s get our patient inside before you start the comedy routine.”
“John,” Minerva chided gently, “let them have their moment.” Her eyes softened as she looked at Ronan. “Though perhaps we should move this inside. I believe I owe this young man and his friends a considerable debt.”
“We all do,” the admiral said quietly.
Maya watched as Ronan’s team fell into formation around his stretcher—Griff, Kenji, Izzy, Deke, Axel, and Zara—moving with the unconscious synchronization of people who’d trusted each other with their lives for years.
“They’re something else, aren’t they?” Kate said, coming to stand beside Maya. “Even after everything that happened with the discharge ... they never wavered. Not once.”
“Family,” Mike agreed, his arm around his wife. “The real kind.”
“Speaking of family,” Minerva said, her eyes twinkling as she looked between Maya and Ronan, “I do hope you’ll all be staying close. We’re planning a little get together as soon as Ronan’s up for it.”
“Minnie,” the admiral warned, but he was smiling. “Let them breathe.”
“I’m just saying?—”
“We know exactly what you’re saying, Love.”
Later, after they’d gotten Ronan settled in Knight Tactical’s medical bay, Maya found herself watching through the observation window as his team settled in for their vigil. Izzy had already claimed the best chair, her feet propped on Deke’s lap as she worked on her laptop. Zara was arguing with Kenji about treatment protocols while Axel played referee. Griff stood slightly apart, that haunted look more pronounced now that the adrenaline had faded. He caught her eye and headed out into the hallway.
Maya approached him carefully. “Want to talk about it?”
He managed a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks, but ... it’s between me and Ronan. Something we need to work through together.” His eyes went distant. “When he’s better.”
“Well, if you ever need an outside perspective ...”
“I’ll know who to call.” This smile was warmer. “You’re good people, Maya. I see why he ...” He trailed off, shrugging.
Inside the room, Izzy was now threatening to draw mustaches on Ronan while he slept. Deke had produced a pack of cards from somewhere and was attempting to teach Zara some complicated variant of poker, while Kenji periodically reminded them to keep their voices down in the medical bay.
Maya watched them, something aching in her chest. This was what she wanted. Not just the missions or the adrenaline or even the chance to stop terrible things before they happened. She wanted this—the way they moved around each other like planets in a perfect orbit, the shorthand of inside jokes, the absolute certainty that any one of them would die for the others without hesitation. At LAPD and NCIS, she had colleagues.
Here, she could have family.
The realization settled over her like sunrise. She’d spent so long trying to follow her father’s path, to be the daughter he wanted. But watching Ronan’s team—his family—she finally understood. Sometimes the right path was the one that scared you most.
Ronan’s team had only joined forces to help Marcus. Nothing said they’d turn into the next Knight Tactical. But even if it wasn’t with Ronan, she wanted this. Maybe the admiral would see her potential?
If not, she’d keep looking until she discovered her own found family. Having seen genuine teamwork in action, she knew she couldn’t live the rest of her life without it.
She needed air. She slipped out of the medical wing and into the morning sunshine, letting the crisp mountain breeze clear her head. Her father would be waiting—she’d seen him heading toward the main headquarters. The workout room, probably. Might as well get this over with. She’d made up her mind, after all. The past few days had shown her exactly where she belonged, even if it meant disappointing him. Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner.
The familiar smell of leather and sweat hit her as she pushed open the gym door. Her father was already there, working the heavy bag with the focused intensity she remembered from childhood. Without turning, he caught a set of sparring gloves and tossed them her way.
“Your cross still dropping?” he asked, steadying the bag.
Maya smiled, wrapping her hands. Some things never changed. “Only when I’m tired.”
“Which you must be.” He moved to the mat, raising his guards. “Long few days.”
She squared up across from him, feeling the familiar rhythm settle over them. Jab, cross, slip. Block, counter, move. They’d done this dance a thousand times.
“Dad, I?—”
“You’re leaving NCIS.” He caught her hook, nodded approval at the follow-up she threw. “Not a question.”
“Yes.” She ducked under his combination. “What they do here, what Knight Tactical does ... it’s not just about solving crimes or getting justice after the fact. They prevent the worst from happening in the first place. That’s what I want to do.”
She waited for the argument, the disappointment. Instead, he dropped his hands, his expression thoughtful.
“You know, when you were little, all I wanted was for you to follow in my footsteps.” He smiled, touching his glove to her chin like he used to when she was small. “Took me too long to realize you needed to make your own path. And this”—he gestured toward the medical wing—“this looks like a pretty good path.”
Maya blinked hard against sudden tears. “Really?”
“Really.” He pulled her into a sweaty hug. “Just promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“When you and Ronan figure out whatever this is between you—and don’t try to tell me there isn’t something—you’ll let your old man walk you down the aisle?”
“Dad!” But she was laughing, ducking away from his teasing jab.
“Just saying.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m proud of you, baby girl. Always have been.”
She stared him full in the face, chest tight. “Thank you.”
He looked away. “Should have said those words way more often. I’m sorry about that.”
“You’re saying them now. That means everything.”
Hands on his lean hips, he shuffled his feet, nodding in acknowledgement.
Needing to steer the conversation away from Ronan, away from her hopes that were nothing more than far off possibilities, she took charge.
“So let’s talk about your love life,” she said, mostly to lighten the moment, but also because she was intrigued. “You’re pretty taken with Victoria Quinn.”
His mouth dropped open. “Taken? I don’t know about that.”
“Dad. Don’t even bother. You like her. A lot.”
He squeezed the back of his neck, wincing. “That obvious?”
“Afraid so.”
He got a dreamy look in his eyes. “She’s a magnificent woman.”
“Ask her out.”
“What? No. The woman’s got a demanding schedule. And my shifts are way too unpredictable.”
She pulled off her gloves and made a face. “Wow. Is that an excuse I’m hearing? From the legendary Lawrence Chen? Really?”
He threw up his hands. “You’re right. That’s fair.” He grinned at her. “How about this? I’ll ask Victoria on a date if you talk to your guy. Neither one of us has anything to lose. What do you say?”
He was wrong. She had a lot to lose.
But she couldn’t admit that aloud. Not to her father. Or herself. So she responded the only way she could. “Deal.”
“Deal.” Her father pulled her in for a bone-cracking hug, and then stowed his sparring equipment.
Maya watched him leave the gym, her smile fading. If only things were as clear-cut as her father saw them. A neat Hollywood ending where the guy gets the girl, the team welcomes her with open arms, and everyone lives happily ever after.
She unwrapped her hands slowly, studying her knuckles. The mission’s success didn’t change the fundamentals. Ronan was still Ronan—damaged, distant, wrapped in layers of armor she wasn’t sure anyone could breach.
And Knight Tactical ... she’d helped with one mission, sure. But that didn’t automatically translate to a job offer. These people had years of history, trust built in blood and fire. They’d worked together seamlessly while she’d just tried to keep up.
The bitter taste of reality settled on her tongue. She’d meant what she’d told her father about wanting this life, this mission. But wanting something and getting it were vastly different things.
Maya tossed the gloves in the bin and headed for the showers. Time to face the day—and whatever complications it brought—with clear eyes.