17. Hidden in Plain Sight
17
HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT
One a.m. in Culver City hit Ronan like a fist to the gut. His body remembered this hour, even if three years of civilian life had softened his edges. The witching hour, they’d called it in spec ops. When fatigue made you stupid. Made you slow. Made you dead.
The stale taste of too many energy drinks coated his tongue as he braced one shoulder against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the safe house, using the cold glass to keep himself alert. Below, Los Angeles sprawled like a circuit board gone wrong, all scattered lights and dark spaces where anything could hide. The city that never slept was lying—everything slept eventually. Everything except people running for their lives.
Behind him, Knight Tactical’s team fought their own battles with exhaustion. Ethan worked his laptop, but his usual steady rhythm had developed hitches. The familiar scents of gun oil and coffee drifted from across the room where Christian cleaned his weapons for the third time, the repetitive motion as much about staying awake as maintenance. Austin’s perimeter checks had grown more frequent—a veteran’s response to fatigue-dulled senses. Jack, the guy with twin babies at home, flat out gave in, stretching out on the floor, eyes closed, snoring softly.
Only Maya seemed immune, her nervous energy carrying her back and forth across the modern space like a caged tiger. But Ronan caught the slight tremor in her hands, the way she blinked too hard, too often. The crash would come soon. He just hoped they found her father before it did.
His chest tightened as he watched Maya pace the length of the open-plan living room, arms wrapped around herself like she was keeping something vital from spilling out. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been a rising star at NCIS. Now her partner was dead, her father hiding, and she was on the run with a guy whose service record screamed traitor.
“Stop it,” Axel murmured, appearing at his shoulder. “This isn’t on you. Whatever Tank was mixed up in, whatever conspiracy he stumbled into—not your fault. All we can do now is fix it.”
Ronan’s laugh was bitter. “Right. Because trouble doesn’t follow me everywhere I go.”
“Got a signal,” Ethan announced. “Star’s accessing traffic cams from the marina area.”
Maya turned sharply, and the streetlight caught her face. Ronan moved without thinking, closing the distance between them. “You’re bleeding.”
She touched her cheek, looking surprised at the smear of red on her fingers. “Must have caught something during the chase.”
His callused fingers caught slightly on the zipper of the med kit in his thigh pocket.
The antiseptic’s sharp bite cut through the room’s coffee-tinged air as he cleaned the small cut.
Her skin was warm under his touch, and she held perfectly still, eyes locked on his. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The empty feeling in his gut intensified. He wanted to pull her close, tell her everything would be okay. Promise her they’d find her father. Make it right.
But they barely knew each other. And what she did know—his General Discharge, the classified reports, the whispers of betrayal—none of it inspired confidence. On paper, he looked like the last person she should trust.
Yeah. On paper, he didn’t look good at all.
Maya suddenly stiffened. “Wait. Show me that video sweep again. The security camera from the stairwell.”
Everyone crowded around Ethan’s laptop. The footage showed the emergency stairwell, grainy but clear enough. Maya jabbed a finger at the screen. “There. That Snickers wrapper.”
“Could be anyone’s trash,” Blair said gently.
“No.” Maya leaned closer. “Look how it’s placed. Perfectly flat, wrapper facing up. Right in the camera’s line of sight.” Her voice gained strength. “My father eats Snickers all the time. Has since I was a kid. He says sugar helps him think.”
Ronan studied the image. The wrapper wasn’t crumpled or torn. It had been deliberately positioned. “Nice.” The excitement in his voice matched Maya’s expression.
“Hold on,” Christian cautioned. “Star, can you access any other cameras from the area? Before the system went down?”
“Already on it.” Star acknowledged. “Got something. Four tangos approaching the complex two hours before we arrived. Two front, two back. Full tactical gear.”
“Russian-made AS Val rifles,” Axel noted, studying the grainy figures. “Suppressed. High-end stuff.”
“Wait.” Ethan zoomed in on footage from a boutique’s security camera half a block away. “There. In the window reflection.”
The image was brief—just a flash of movement caught in plate glass—but unmistakable. Lawrence Chen, moving fast but controlled, disappeared into the shadows. “He caught sight of them in time to leave you clues and get out. How’d he have time to respond so quickly?”
Maya’s eyes were glued to the image. “After the BOLOs went out, he would have anticipated this. Go, Dad.” Her whisper held equal parts relief and fear. “Now where’s our next clue?”
The room fell silent as they all considered the impossible task ahead: tracking a highly trained LAPD detective who didn’t want to be found, while staying ahead of professional hunters who clearly had significant resources.
Ronan watched Maya pace the length of the safe house, the soft whisper of her boots against hardwood matching his own restless energy. The recycled air from the building’s ventilation system raised goosebumps on his arms as he studied her movements.
Then she stopped, like a bloodhound catching a scent. She turned to face them, something like hope lighting her face. “Seven years ago, missing girl case. Dad had this whole system worked out.” The words tumbled out faster now. “He was famous in the department for his gas station coffee addiction—used to say fancy coffee was for people who’d forgotten how to be real cops. He worked out this entire communication network with his CIs using coffee cups and newspaper stands.”
Ronan watched her expression shift as she explained—the mix of exasperation and admiration in her voice painting a picture of her father that no personnel file could capture.
“The position of the cup, the brand, whether it was empty or full—it all meant something different.” She shook her head. “I gave him such grief about it. Told him it was terrible tradecraft, that he needed to follow proper CI protocols. He just laughed and said sometimes the best hiding place was in plain sight.”
Ronan stepped closer to the screen, studying the Snickers wrapper with new eyes. “So this is what—a marker?”
“More like the start of a trail.” Maya’s eyes were bright now, that sharp intelligence he’d noticed from their first meeting focused like a laser. “Star, can you pull footage from any newspaper stands within a six-block radius of the condo?”
“On it,” Star responded. “Sending feeds now.”
“There.” Maya jabbed a finger at the screen. “Seven-Eleven coffee cup, left corner. That was his signal for ‘follow me’ to his CIs.”
“Got another,” Ethan announced. “Three blocks east. Different cup, right side of the stand.”
“‘Danger, go to ground,’” Maya translated, and Ronan could hear the years of experience behind her understanding—how many times had she watched her father work his unorthodox system? “He’s leaving us directions.”
She straightened, certainty replacing her earlier fear. “I know where this trail ends. The old Morton’s Coffee Shop on Sixth. It’s where he first showed me this system. Said if I ever needed to find him ...” She swallowed hard. “It’s been closed for years, but the building’s still there.”
“Could be a trap,” Christian warned.
“No.” Maya’s voice held the kind of conviction that came from bone-deep knowledge of another person. “This is pure Dad. He’s thinking like a street cop, not a tactical operator. The people after him will be watching official channels, looking for high-tech communication. They’d never expect ...” She trailed off, staring at the screen.
“He’s brilliant,” Ronan said softly, studying Maya’s face. Admiration twisted with something darker in his gut—here was a man who’d built his career on pure instinct and street smarts, while Ronan had thrown away years of elite training with one catastrophic judgment call.
“And buying time,” Christian added. “Star, how many cameras have eyes on Morton’s?”
“Two traffic cams, one ATM. All clear so far. No tactical vehicles, no suspicious movement.”
“What if we’re wrong?” Maya’s voice caught, and Ronan fought the urge to reach for her. “What if they figured it out, what if?—”
“They didn’t,” he cut in, certainty hardening his voice. “Men with Russian weapons and high-tech gear? They’re looking for digital trails, electronic signals. Not coffee cups and candy wrappers.” Like him, they’d be expecting military precision, not street cop ingenuity.
“He’s right,” Axel said. “These guys are pros, but they’re thinking like pros. Your dad’s thinking like a cop.”
Christian was already moving. “Blair, you and Austin take up positions here and here.” He marked points on Ethan’s street map. “Jack, coordinate with Star on surveillance. Ronan?—”
“I go with Maya.” The words came out before he could stop them. She might only know him as the disgraced operator with a file full of redactions, but he’d be damned if he’d let her face this alone.
Christian studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Stay on comms. First sign of trouble?—”
“We’re gone,” Maya promised. She reached for her jacket, then hesitated. “The coffee shop ... there’s a back entrance through the kitchen. Dad used to joke it was the best escape route in LA. It connects to the old service tunnels. Prohibition-era smuggling routes. He used to say only old beat cops remember they exist.” A ghost of a smile touched Maya’s lips. “He’s really doing this. Playing their own assumptions against them.”
“Your father,” Ronan said as they headed for the door, “is going to be an interesting man to meet.” If the man lived up to even half of what he’d seen so far, Lawrence Chen would take one look at Ronan’s record and want him nowhere near his daughter.
The thought shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.