Page 5 of Deadly Hope
Olivia forced herself to breathe normally. “Probably someone from Knight Tactical. They’re always around.”
“Mmm.” Marisol’s tone suggested she wasn’t convinced. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?”
“I’m fine,” Olivia said automatically. “Just busy. Now go, before you’re late.”
The office fell quiet after Marisol left. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that magnified every creak, every murmur from the rental agency downstairs. Olivia gathered her unruly curls into a messy knot, pulling up her two o’clock’s file: former spec ops, currently with Knight Tactical. Axel Reinhardt.
His intake forms were fascinating, if sparse on details. Classification levels, probably. She’d come to learn that the smaller the file, the more intriguing the soldier. And the more complicated.
She knew his type—had seen it a hundred times. He’d come in radiating reluctance, probably ordered here by his superiors. He’d sit quietly, answer her questions with minimal words and a hard stare, expecting her to be either scared of him or impressed by him. These operatives were all the same at first: walls up, emotion locked down, viewing therapy as a weakness.
Her eyes returned to Reinhardt’s photo—Nordic-blond hair cropped ruthlessly short, jaw set like granite. Handsome in a way that probably turned heads, but it was his eyes that held her attention. Deep-set blue, carrying shadows that spoke of more than just physical exhaustion. Most of her spec ops clients had that thousand-yard stare, but there was something different here. Something raw and genuine beneath the guard-dog alertness.
Heavy footsteps in the waiting room made her glance at her watch. Too early for Reinhardt ...
“Hello?” she called out, rising from her desk. “I’m Dr. Kane?—”
The man who appeared in her doorway wasn’t Axel Reinhardt. Her training told her to stay calm, to reason with him, but her instincts—the ones that had never failed her—screamed that this man wasn’t here to talk.
When he closed the heavy soundproofed door behind him—the door she’d had installed to ensure client confidentiality—she knew it for a fact.
3
Axel stoodin the parking lot, staring up at the wood-clad building like it might bite him. Two stories of carefully crafted “mountain modern” architecture—all clean lines and warm timber—designed to put people at ease. Yeah, right. Like architecture could fix whatever broke inside a person’s head.
Only one other vehicle occupied the small parking lot—a late model Range Rover that had clearly seen its share of adventure. The rear window was plastered with stickers from every mountain town in the West, like a roadmap of powder days and vertical feet. Climbing gear filled the back and an ice axe hung from a custom mount. Sweet backcountry ski setup on the roof too—no lift lines or chairs for this driver. He could respect that. Whoever Dr. Kane was seeing now apparently shared his opinion that the best runs were earned.
The location made tactical sense, at least. One block from Knight Tactical’s compound, close enough to the airport that the occasional roar of jets probably helped mask whatever secrets got spilled in these rooms. Private enough for thepoor folks who needed their heads shrunk, convenient enough for the contractors who got ordered here.
Like him.
He did a quick sweep of the layout—professional habit he couldn’t shake. Two street-facing exits, probably a back door. Second floor meant multiple escape routes, assuming you didn’t mind a jump.
The stairs creaked under his boots as he jogged up, each step making him question his life choices. At the top, a small sign directed him left: “Olivia Kane, PhD—Suite 204.”
The entrance opened into one of those waiting rooms clearly designed by someone with a PhD in “soothing.” Earthy colors, abstract art that looked like freshman fingerpainting, chairs arranged in a conversation-friendly circle. Even the air felt calculated—some kind of essential oil blend meant to calm the crazies. He wondered if it worked on the other broken toys who ended up here, the ones who couldn’t handle the job anymore.
No receptionist. Just three closed doors and a clipboard waiting with his name on it, like the universe’s most passive-aggressive reminder that he couldn’t just walk out.
The forms were standard enough. Name, date of birth, contact information. He filled them out on autopilot until he hit the last page. The question sat there like a landmine.
Why are you here today?
His pencil hovered over the blank space. Because Knight Tactical’s higher-ups required it? Because Jack Reese and the Admiral wouldn’t clear him for field work until he got his head checked? Because sometimes he still heard echoes of gunfire in empty rooms?
No. Just ... no.
He set the clipboard down, suddenly needing to move. He paced the small waiting area. This was a no-go. He didn’t need some head-shrinker telling him what he already knew—that he’d seen too much, done too much. That maybe he shouldn’t be so good at what he did.
A muffled thud from behind Kane’s door stopped him cold.
His head snapped toward the sound. Could have been anything. A dropped book. A chair scraping. His brain playing tricks—wouldn’t be the first time.
And then another sound. Softer. Like something falling.
Every instinct screamed danger. But those same instincts had him diving for cover at backfiring cars and scanning rooftops during his morning run. That’s why he was here, wasn’t it? To stop jumping at shadows?
He fisted his hands and stalked toward the closest chair.
