Page 23 of Deadly Hope
No. She was a trauma therapist. She knew better than to let fear spiral.Ground yourself in the present.Name what you know is real.
The leather under her fingers. The fading sunlight. Izzy’s steady presence. Axel’s breathing in her ear as he ran to reach her.
She could do this. She had to.
Izzy moved through the office with predator’s grace, checking each potential entry point. Her movements were precise, professional—but Olivia caught the subtle tension inher shoulders that suggested this was more than routine caution.
“Stay away from the windows,” Izzy murmured, gesturing Olivia toward the inner wall. “And keep breathing. You’re doing great.”
Olivia almost laughed at that. Here she was, supposedly an expert in managing crisis situations, using every grounding technique she’d ever taught her clients.Focus on your senses, she reminded herself.Name five things you can see. The boxes. Izzy’s gun. The painting. The door. The?—
A sound from the stairwell cut through her thoughts. Footsteps, trying to be quiet but echoing in the enclosed space.
Izzy was already moving, positioning herself between Olivia and the door. But Olivia’s legs carried her forward before she could think better of it. She was done being a victim, done watching other people risk themselves for her.
“Get back,” Izzy hissed.
Through her earpiece, she could hear Axel’s breathing getting heavier as he pushed himself faster.
The stairwell door creaked.
Izzy moved like liquid shadow, handgun raised.
Olivia’s heart hammered against her ribs as the door slowly opened, time stretching like taffy in that moment of pure tension?—
“Dude!”
A gangly teenager stumbled backward, cigarettes scattering across the floor as his hands shot up. His name tag identified him as being from the rental car agency downstairs, though it was currently hanging sideways from his wrinkled polo shirt.
“Don’t shoot!” His voice cracked. “I was just—I mean—the roof?—”
“You’re not supposed to be up here,” Izzy said, her tone professional but weapon still trained on him. “ID. Slowly.”
“Jake Mitchell,” he stammered, using two fingers to extract his wallet. “I work the counter for the car rental outfit downstairs. I was gonna have a smoke break on the roof. Please don’t tell my manager.”
Olivia watched Izzy verify his identity, noting how she kept both of them in her peripheral vision while maintaining sightlines to the stairwell.
“Clear,” she reported into her comlink. “Just a kid looking for a smoke break.” Izzy escorted Jake toward the stairs with a stern warning to stay at his post.
Through her earpiece, Olivia heard Axel’s quiet exhale of relief, though his footsteps didn’t slow. “Get her back in the inner office,” he ordered.
“Copy that.” Izzy motioned Olivia back into the suite and into her own office, shutting the door behind them.
“We’re here,” Axel announced over the comlink.
Not two seconds later, the office door burst open again, making Olivia jump despite knowing who it would be. Axel filled the doorway in full tactical gear, breathing hard, weapon at the ready. Behind him, the rest of the team spread out with practiced efficiency—Ronan taking the window, Deke and Griffin securing the hallway, Kenji already pulling out equipment to scan for surveillance devices.
“Clear,” Izzy reported again, but Axel’s eyes were locked on Olivia, scanning for any sign of harm. The intensity of his gaze made her throat tighten.
“I’m okay,” she said softly, watching his face. Then she saw it—the slight glazing of his eyes, the too-rigid set of his shoulders, the way his breathing had shifted from exertion to something more restricted. She recognized the signs of an impending PTSD episode, had seen them countless times in her practice.
Moving slowly, deliberately, she stepped closer to him. “Axel,” she murmured, pitching her voice low enough that only he could hear. “Focus on my voice. You’re here, in my office. Everyone’s safe. Can you name five things you can touch right now?”
His jaw clenched, but she saw him fighting to follow her guidance. “Weapon,” he ground out. “Vest. Floor. Door frame.” His free hand flexed at his side. “Wall.”
“Good. Now four things you can see.”
“You,” he said immediately, then his breathing began to even out. “The boxes. Ronan’s ugly face. That weird painting.”
