Page 42 of Deadly Hope
But the static was wrong this time, getting worse instead of better as they approached the entrance, and Jensen was saying something about the radio frequencies ...
“... running out of time.” Zara’s voice, tight with concern.
Zara. His friend.
Present day. Team still waiting.
But he couldn’t pull free of the cave, couldn’t stop hearing that last transmission, couldn’t stop smelling the stone and the water and the?—
A hand touched his forearm, warm and steady. Not grabbing, not restraining.Grounding.
The pressure was precise, clinical almost, except for the slight tremor in her fingertips that betrayed something more personal than professional protocol.
“Axel.” Olivia’s voice, pitched low and even. “Feel the table under your hands. The wood grain. Open your eyes. Count the knots in the pattern.”
He forced his focus to his fingertips. The polished surface was warm, nothing like cave walls. One knot. Two. Three. The last shaped like a crescent moon.
“Good.” Her voice stayed soft, meant for him alone despite the team watching. “Now the air. Garlic bread in the oven. Espresso. Tomatoes.”
The limestone walls receded.
Her other hand settled on his shoulder, and the cavememory splintered completely. The dripping faded. The static cleared.
Four knots in the wood. Five.
He looked up to find Olivia watching him, her expression a complex mix of professional assessment and something softer. Something way more dangerous.
She gave him a slight nod—acknowledgment, respect, maybe something more—before turning back to the mission at hand.
He jutted his chin at Zara. “Pull up the bank records again.” The tremors were gone, replaced by the familiar rhythm of tactical analysis. “When exactly was the box accessed?”
Zara’s fingers danced across her tablet. “Three years, four months and four days ago. 0600 hours local time.”
“Same day as the photo,” Zara noted, tapping the surveillance image of James with the Bing Driscoll. “He wasn’t just storing things. He was leaving breadcrumbs.”
The late afternoon sun slanted through the pizzeria’s windows, casting long shadows across their impromptu war room. The immediate tension had eased, replaced by the focused calm of experienced operators processing intel.
“Clean extraction, secure package, more clues.” Griff ticked off points on his fingers. “I’d call that a win. Italian espresso to celebrate?”
The team murmured assent. The familiar post-mission satisfaction settled over them—the quiet pride of professionals who’d executed flawlessly. And, like they always did, they moved straight on past his little “episode.”
Axel clenched his hands beneath the table, lifting a prayer of thanks to his Savior for guiding him out of the darkness yet again. And for surrounding him with the best team on the planet. A brotherhood that now included Olivia.
At least in his mind.
Griff returned with a tray of espressos, the rich aroma mixing with the pizzeria’s herbs and baking bread. For a moment, they were just a team sharing coffee after a successful operation. No cave memories. No shadows. No more ghosts.
Axel felt Olivia’s gaze and turned to meet it. Something passed between them, unspoken but undeniable. She’d seen him at his most vulnerable and responded not with judgment but with understanding. More than that—she’d known exactly what he needed, walking the line between professional distance and personal connection with remarkable precision.
She offered a small smile, both acknowledgment and question, and he found himself returning it before he could think better of it. For a heartbeat, the mission faded, and he was acutely aware of how close she sat, how her hand rested near his on the table, how her presence had become both comforting and unsettling in ways he couldn’t quite?—
The burner phone buzzed. The message was simple, elegant in its cruelty. “Now the real work begins.”
Somewhere in the back of Axel’s mind, water dripped in a cave, counting down to whatever came next.
22
Axel pacedthe villa’s living room, unable to shake the ghost of Bing Driscoll from his thoughts. Alpine sunlight slanted through bulletproof windows, painting golden stripes across state-of-the-art monitoring equipment that looked absurdly modern against century-old frescos. The safe house perfectly embodied their current situation—old secrets wrapped in new dangers.
