26. Knight’s Defense
26
KNIGHT’S DEFENSE
Maya’s lungs burned as she rounded the corner onto Speedway, Ronan and Christian hard on her heels, the taste of salt and adrenaline sharp on her tongue. The drone’s whine sliced through the tourist chatter behind them, getting closer. When Ronan grabbed her arm and yanked her into the narrow gap between buildings, she didn’t resist. The brick walls radiated August heat, making the already tight space feel like an oven.
“We could try the tunnels under the old canals,” Ronan suggested, his voice low and urgent.
Christian shook his head. “They’ll have those covered. Those tunnels are in every tourist guide now.”
“Then we fight our way out.” Ronan’s jaw clenched. “Together.”
The look he gave her made her stomach flip, despite the danger. Or maybe because of it.
“That’s exactly what they want,” Christian snapped. He moved closer to Ronan, dropping his voice. “Think. They’re looking for a team. Three people moving together? Might as well paint targets on our backs.”
“We’re not splitting up.” Ronan’s voice held that familiar steel, the tone that had commanded SEAL teams through impossible situations.
“He’s right.” The words hurt coming out, but Maya forced herself to continue. “I can blend in with the shopping crowd on Abbot Kinney. You two?—”
“No.” Ronan stepped toward her, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his body, smell the salt on his skin. “Maya?—”
“You’re painting a target on her if she stays with us,” Christian growled, getting in Ronan’s face. “But alone? She’s just another tourist.”
Maya touched Ronan’s arm, felt the tension thrumming through his muscles. “He’s right. I’ve got this.”
The conflict in Ronan’s eyes made her chest tighten. She wanted to say something more, something to ease that look. But another drone buzzed closer, and their time was up.
She watched her teammates disappear in opposite directions, Ronan’s reluctance visible in every line of his body until he vanished into the crowd. Focus. Move. Eyes alert for the drone, she slipped out of the alley and joined a cluster of women leaving a wine bar, mimicking their loose-limbed strut and carefree laughter.
Her phone buzzed. An unfamiliar number: Chess masters moved inside. King’s gambit in play.
Had to be Griffin Hawkins. She’d have to ask him later how he’d gotten this number—the phone was brand new, supplied by Knight Tactical less than forty-eight hours ago. Then again, this was Ghost. He probably had the number before she did.
The chess masters moving inside—that had to mean the players had left their usual outdoor tables. Thanks to her father’s drill-sergeant training, she could hold her own at a chess board. A king’s gambit was an aggressive opening move, sacrificing a pawn to gain position.
Message received. You want me to make an obvious move to draw attention.
She forced herself not to tense as two men in tactical pants and too-new tourist shirts passed by. Feds. FBI. NCIS. Did it really matter?
The women she’d joined turned into a boutique. Maya kept walking, every sense straining. Another buzz: Knight to queen’s bishop 4. Clock running.
A knight’s move—an indirect approach. Queen’s bishop meant the left side of the playing field. Maya counted the cross streets. Four blocks left would put her behind the famous shopping street’s main stores.
She slipped into the next alley, pressing her back against sun-warmed brick as an LAPD cruiser crawled past. The smell of coffee from the hipster café next door mingled with rotting sweetness from nearby dumpsters. Sweat trickled down her neck, but she didn’t dare move to wipe it away.
Her gaze caught on a barista clearing tables outside the café. The servers wore shirts with chess pieces printed on them, part of some brand identity. Of course. Chess masters moved inside—he’s literally telling me which café.
Her phone buzzed again: Rook takes pawn. Service entrance clear.
A direct assault on an exposed piece—Griffin was warning her the service entrance would only be clear momentarily.
The café’s back door was still propped open from the barista’s trash run. Maya counted to three, then moved. But as she reached for the handle, a new sound froze her in place—the distinctive scrape of uniform shoes on asphalt.
Christian’s voice crackled in her earpiece. “Creating a distraction near Muscle Beach. Local talent’s about to get rowdy.” In the distance, she heard raised voices, the sound of an impromptu strength competition drawing crowds.
But her attention was locked on the shadow moving at the far end of the alley. The figure stepped forward?—
“Hold up, ma’am.” A female officer moved into view, hand on her holstered weapon. “I need to see some ID.”
Her heart thundered, but Maya let her shoulders slump in fake relief. “Oh wonderful! An actual officer. Some creep’s been following me since Pacific Avenue.” She fumbled in her purse, hands shaking—not entirely an act. “I ducked back here to call my boyfriend ...”
Ronan’s voice, tight with tension, came through her earpiece. “I’ve got two operatives in sight. One in a pink golf shirt. The other’s wearing striped board shorts and a white tee. They haven’t spotted me yet, but probably just a matter of time.”
“I got you,” Christian responded.
The officer studied Maya’s offered ID—a quick Knight Tactical creation that would hold up to basic scrutiny. “There have been some incidents in the area. Maybe you should?—”
A crash of weights hitting concrete echoed from Muscle Beach, followed by angry shouts. The officer’s radio crackled to life. “All units, disturbance at Muscle Beach recreation area ...”
Maya watched indecision war on the woman’s face.
Come on, Christian. Make it good.
“Dispatch, I’ve got a civilian complaint to check ...” The officer keyed her radio, then turned back to Maya. “Ma’am, I suggest you move to a more public?—”
The radio erupted again. “Officers needed, situation escalating?—”
Ronan’s voice cut through her earpiece: “Golf Shirt is moving your way, Maya. Get clear.”
The officer’s radio crackled again with demands for backup. She thrust Maya’s ID back at her. “Stay in public areas,” she ordered, already moving toward the growing chaos at Muscle Beach.
Maya waited three heartbeats before slipping through the café’s service entrance. The blast of air conditioning raised goosebumps on her sun-heated skin. Through her earpiece, she heard Christian’s satisfied grunt. “That’s right, brother, show them how much you can lift. No, no—form’s all wrong. Here, let me ...”
“Golf Shirt just badged the local cops on the corner.” Ronan’s voice was barely a whisper. “Looks like they’re setting up a checkpoint on Rose Avenue.”
Maya moved through the kitchen, nodding to a startled prep cook as she passed.
Her phone vibrated: Bishop to king’s level. Time check.
Griffin was directing her upstairs, warning her to hurry.
“They’re searching phones at the checkpoint,” Christian reported between shouted encouragement to his impromptu weightlifting competition. “Looking for specific numbers.”
Maya found the stairs, taking them two at a time. Below, she heard Ronan’s sharp intake of breath. “Board Shorts just made me. Moving to secondary exit.”
She paused to delete Griffin’s texts. The upper floor was dim after the bright alley, scattered chess tables occupied by serious-faced players. No Griffin. But there, on a table near the fire escape: a knight piece lying on its side. Queen’s bishop 4—fourth table from the left wall.
“Checkpoint’s got dogs now,” Christian’s voice was tight. “Time to bail.”
She heard boots on the stairs behind her. Think. The café’s windows overlooked Abbot Kinney, police vehicles visible at both ends of the block. The fire escape would be watched. Which meant ...
Her phone buzzed one last time: Queen takes knight’s pawn.
Maya deleted the final message just as heavy footsteps hit the top landing. She moved toward the chess table, blood rushing in her ears, mind racing through her options. The bailout point was eight blocks away, through a maze of police checkpoints and agency surveillance. She had no backup, no clear route, and?—
A hand gripped her elbow. She nearly struck out before a familiar voice, barely a whisper, reached her. “Queen to king’s side.” Griffin Hawkins, dressed as a busboy, baseball cap pulled low. The slightest traces of silver paint rimmed his light blue eyes. Her relief lasted exactly one second before she registered the tension in his grip. Whatever was happening, this wasn’t the clean extraction they’d planned.
“Golf Shirt is on the stairs,” she murmured, tilting her head like she was checking her phone.
“Copy that. His partner has the alley covered.” Griffin’s casual pose belied the urgency in his voice. “We’re about to make a very noisy exit. When I move, stay on my six.”
“Wait.” She fumbled in the pocket of her shorts, pulling out the extra set of earbuds they each carried in case they met up with Griffin.
He palmed the tiny devices before fitting them in his ears. “Nice. I’m a go on comms,” he said.
Through her earpiece, she heard Ronan gulping for air, clearly running hard. “Welcome to the party, Ghost.”
“Sitrep?” Griffin asked.
Christian answered. “Bailout position’s blown. You got a plan B, Hawkins?”
“Copy that.” Griffin’s eyes scanned the rooftop. “How do you feel about Thai food, Agent Chen?”
Maya followed his gaze to the adjacent rooftop, where steam billowed from industrial exhaust fans. The smell of basil and ginger wafted up from below. “I hate Thai food,” she muttered, but she was already moving. Behind them, the roof access door burst open.
Griffin shoved her hard toward the building’s edge just as the first shots cracked against the concrete. “Move now, complain later!”