Page 2 of Deadly Hope
Olivia froze, hand still on the doorknob. Slowly, she shifted her weight and looked down.
A paperclip lay on her pristine hardwood floor, bent almost beyond recognition.
She never used paperclips.
1
The cave mouthexhaled sulfur and death.
Axel’s boots slipped on volcanic rock as he raced up the narrow trail, heart thundering in time with distant explosions. The island’s thick air pressed against him like a living thing, heavy with the stink of poison gas … and fear.
“Status.” Ronan’s voice crackled through his earpiece.
Axel tried to respond, but his throat closed. Red spots danced at the edges of his vision.Not now. Please, Lord. Not. Now.
“Axe! Report!”
The jungle blurred. His chest seized. He knew this trail led to the extraction point, knew the team was waiting, but his mind ... his mind was somewhere else. Somewhenelse. Back outside that cave in Kandahar, with the walls closing in and?—
“On your six.” Deke’s warning cut through the static.
Gunfire erupted behind him. The sound should have sent him diving for cover. Instead, his body locked up. He was useless, trapped in his own head while his team?—
Axel jolted awake with a ragged gasp, sheets twistedaround him like restraints. For endless seconds he couldn’t place himself in time or space. His bedroom slowly came into focus—the gun safe in the corner, tactical gear hung on pegs by the door, late Autumn moonlight painting silver stripes across his cabin’s pine walls.
Hope Landing. His new home.
The bedside clock read 0430. His shirt was soaked with sweat despite the December chill seeping through poorly insulated windows. Perfect. Just enough time to do a quick five miles through the snow before the team’s morning workout. Running helped. Until it didn’t.
But this time, the nightmare clung like the tiny island’s humidity. Two days since they’d returned, and he still couldn’t shake it. The mission had been textbook until his brain betrayed him—a simple extraction of a corporate executive’s daughter from an eco-resort turned hostage situation. The team had adapted, covered his momentary freeze, gotten everyone out alive.
This time.
His phone buzzed—a text from his buddy:
Ronan: You up? Extra fun workout this morning. Christian’s idea.
Axel managed a grim smile. His best friend had changed since they’d joined Knight Tactical, found something like peace working with his half-brother’s team. Even learned to ice skate, sort of, helping Christian coach those high school hockey players. The man, who’d once lived for nothing but the next mission, now had roots. Community. Purpose beyond the next objective.
And a budding relationship with their newest recruit—the gorgeous, brainy detective, Maya Chen.
Meanwhile, he still couldn’t handle a simple extraction without his PTSD turning him inside out.
The team was right. He needed help. The appointmentcard on his nightstand mocked him—Dr. Olivia Kane, 1400 hours. Specialist in military trauma.
Whatever.
Like anyone could really understand what happened in his head during missions. Much less a shrink who’d never seen combat herself. But he’d run out of options. And excuses. The team, and the larger Knight Tactical Organization, had no intention of letting him escape this.
His phone buzzed again. This time Izzy, their vehicle and equipment expert.
Izzy: Fair warning—Christian’s got something evil planned. Bring spare gloves.
At 0500, the Sierra night was still pitch black, the world outside his window cloaked in an inky shroud. Time to move. To push through. To pretend he wasn’t slowly coming apart at the seams.
Twenty minutes later, his lifted truck’s headlights swept across Knight Tactical’s lot. The compound’s floodlights punched holes in the December darkness, their stark beams pointing straight down like accusing fingers. His team gathered in these pools of harsh light, their breath clouding in the pre-dawn chill. Sunrise was still hours away.
Ronan and Christian were setting up what looked like a hybrid obstacle course and combat drill, while Izzy argued with their psyops expert, Zara Khoury about proper cold-weather gear. Deke Williams, former NFL linebacker, SEAL sniper and hand-to-hand combat specialist, towered over them, calmly drinking coffee while Kenji Marshall, team medic and their backup cyber-expert, stretched nearby. Griffin Hawkins, sniper, scout, and general man of mystery, stood just outside a pool of light, facing outward, as usual, watching for a threat that wasn’t there.
