2. Night Flight
2
NIGHT FLIGHT
The desert stretched endlessly in every direction, nothing but scrub brush and sand under a sky dulled by dust and heat and despair. The bar’s gravel parking lot was half-empty, Axel’s gleaming BMW looking completely out of place next to Ronan’s rust-bucket truck.
“When’s the last time you heard from Tank?” Axel asked, leaning against his car.
“Not sure.” Ronan shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe a year ago?” The defensive note in his voice made him wince.
“He’s in trouble.”
The words hung in the hot air between them.
Ronan’s mind flashed to Copenhagen—the mission that had ended everything. The civilian’s face still haunted his dreams, along with the echo of that fatal shot. He’d taken the fall, as a team leader should. Better one career destroyed than eight. The brass had wanted blood after a civilian death on European soil, and he’d given them what they needed—a clean narrative, a single shooter, a clear end to the investigation.
“Don’t,” he said when he saw the guilt creeping into Axel’s expression. “I was team leader. My shot, my consequences.” The lie felt familiar now, worn smooth like river stones after three years of repetition. Griff had been the only other one in position that night, the only one who knew what really happened in that Copenhagen lab.
They’d never spoken of it again—not during the investigation, not during Ronan’s discharge, not in the years since. Some secrets were worth protecting, even at the cost of everything you’d built.
He caught Axel studying his face and forced his expression neutral. The big man had always been too perceptive, especially when it came to guilt. But what was done was done. The team had survived, unscathed. That’s what mattered.
A black SUV with tinted windows cruised past for the third time. Ronan tracked it in his peripheral vision, noting the driver’s furtive glances their direction.
He studied Axel more carefully now—the wrinkled suit, the exhaustion etched in his face. “Did you sleep in that suit or what?”
Axel’s jaw tightened. “You think I’ve slept? Been too busy driving, dude. You might not be aware, but Minneapolis is 1,826 miles from here. That’s two days on the road. Nonstop.”
The words hit Ronan like a physical blow. “Yikes, Ax. Why didn’t you call—” He stopped himself. Right. He had called.
“Tank needs us,” Axel said sharply, nodding toward the dilapidated airport on the horizon. “These the only rides you got?”
“Unfortunately.” Ronan’s stomach tightened. “Why?”
“Because you’re flying me to San Diego. Now.”
“I’ve got a run scheduled—” Ronan caught himself. Better not mention where. “We can go after.”
“We’re already two days late. We’re going now.”
Ronan opened his mouth to protest again, but as he looked around at his pathetic circumstances—the sketchy bar, the questionable cargo runs—the words died in his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”
The BMW’s leather seats were cool against his back as they drove to the airfield. His truck sat abandoned at the bar.
“Will it be safe there?” Axel asked.
“I hope not.” Ronan directed him toward a storage facility where they could stash the BMW. The luxury car’s quiet ride was a stark reminder of how far he’d fallen. His truck leaked exhaust into the cab.
He glanced at his friend. “You doing okay with flying these days?”
“Sure.” Axel’s attempt at a casual tone failed miserably. “Long as I stay at least ten miles away from an airplane.”
Ronan’s chest tightened. Axel’s PTSD after Kandahar had been brutal—one more reason Ronan had kept his distance. Just being around him seemed to trigger Axel’s symptoms. Yet here his friend was, ready to face those demons to help Marcus.
What had their teammate gotten himself into?
The Lockheed Electra waited in the darkness like an aging prizefighter—still powerful despite the patches of bare metal showing through her faded paint. Ronan had grown oddly fond of the old turboprop; she might be past her airline glory days, but the converted cargo hauler could still outperform half the newer freighters in the sky. He ran through his preflight checks, grateful for the empty cargo hold. In this business, you didn’t load up until the last possible second.
“Won’t your boss miss his plane?” Axel asked, his voice tight as he climbed aboard.
Ronan couldn’t suppress his grin. “You bet. I’ll consider this my resignation letter.” He started the engines and began taxiing toward the runway.
In the dim cockpit light, Axel’s face had taken on an alarming pallor. Ronan searched for a distraction. “Tell me about Marcus. What’s he gotten himself into?”
“Not sure exactly.” Axel gripped the armrests as they picked up speed. “He wouldn’t talk about it over the phone. Just said he needed face-to-face. But he’s scared, man. Wanted the whole team together. I figured you and me would be faster though. Whatever this is, it’s bad.”
Ronan studied his friend’s profile. Axel had everything to lose by being here—the dealership, his comfortable life in Minnesota, his father’s trust. Yet here he was, white-knuckled but determined, because a teammate had called.
Ronan guided the Electra into position, his mind already jumping ahead to San Diego. Of all places, why had Marcus settled there? The legitimate world felt like a foreign country now—one where he no longer spoke the language. But something about this situation made his old training kick in, instincts he’d tried to bury surfacing like muscle memory.
Hell, even Coast Guard stations made him twitchy these days.
But Marcus? He’d always been the most dedicated of them all. The quintessential SEAL. One of the best operators Ronan had ever known.
He glanced at his friend’s white-knuckled grip on the armrests. “You gonna be okay? It’s a two-hour flight, minimum, and this old rust bucket doesn’t have autopilot. I can’t be letting go of the controls if you freak out.”
“No freaking out,” the big man responded, but the words sounded more like a plea than a reassurance as Axel’s murmured prayers filled the cockpit.
Once, Ronan would have joined him, back when he still believed someone was listening. Now he focused on the instruments instead, trusting in what he could see and touch.
The engines roared as they gathered speed down the runway. Every mile closer to San Diego would bring him that much nearer to everything he’d been running from, but beneath the dread, something else flickered to life. He’d built walls for a reason, constructed a life where no one could get close enough to matter. Where losing someone couldn’t break him again. But Marcus needed him, and some loyalties ran deeper than self-preservation.
The wheels left the ground, and they soared into the dark Arizona night, leaving the dust storm and his wasted years behind.
At least for now.