Page 6 of Deadly Hope
Just. Sit. Down. Just?—
A crash. Unmistakable this time.
He pivoted toward the door. He’d rather be paranoid than sorry.
His hand was already reaching for the weapon that wasn’t there—civilian clothes, civilian building, civilian rules. Fine. He could work with that.
Three quick steps to the door. The sounds were clearer now: a struggle, the dull impact of something heavy hitting carpet, harsh breathing. A man’s voice, low and threatening. Words he couldn’t make out.
The door was solid core, probably soundproofed. Smart for therapy. Bad for rescue ops. The handle turned easily under his grip—unlocked. Amateur move if this was a hit. More likely someone having a psychotic break. Either way, someone was about to have a very bad day.
He eased the door open just enough to assess. The office beyond was bright with afternoon sun, everything in disarray. A potted plant knocked over, dirt scattered. Papers strewn across a heavy oak desk. And there—by the window—a manin dark tactical gear had a woman—Dr. Kane—pinned against the wall, forearm pressed against her throat.
She wasn’t struggling. Just standing there, calm as winter, jade eyes locked on her attacker. Like she was analyzing him. Like this was just another session.
The guy’s back was to the door. Sloppy. No weapon visible, but that didn’t mean much. His stance was military, maybe special forces. The way he balanced his weight, the controlled precision of his movements—this wasn’t some random nutjob. This was someone trained. Someone dangerous.
Axel was moving before his brain finished processing. Pure instinct, muscle memory, that familiar calm settling over him like a second skin. Three long strides across soft carpet, silent as a shadow?—
The world narrowed to angles and vectors, threat assessment on autopilot. Right arm around the throat, leverage point at the jaw. Left hand gripping the attacker’s right wrist, twisting up and back. Simple, efficient, quiet. No time for the bastard to?—
The guy moved like a viper.
Somehow he sensed Axel coming—must have caught his reflection in the window. He released Kane and spun, turning into the chokehold instead of fighting it. Amateur mistake on Axel’s part, letting him get that rotation.
Close quarters now, too close, the guy’s elbow coming up hard toward his face?—
Axel dropped his center of gravity, let the momentum carry them both. They hit the carpet in a controlled fall, scattering more papers, knocking over a chair. The guy was good—already getting his legs under him, trying to establish dominant position. But Axel had gravity and surprise on his side, and he’d done this dance too many times to count.
Lock the arm. Hook the leg. Roll?—
Something sharp bit into his ribs. Not a knife—too dull. The guy had pulled a pen from somewhere, trying to jam it between Axel’s floating ribs. Creative. But desperation meant openings.
The pen drove deeper, searching for purchase between his ribs. Axel twisted, but the guy had leverage now. Amateur hour was definitely over.
A flash of motion—Kane launching herself across her own desk. She hit the attacker from behind, her momentum breaking his grip on the pen. The three of them rolled in a violent tangle of limbs. The guy was trying to get to his feet, but Kane moved like water, flowing around his defenses. Her hands found his shoulder joint—a precise, brutal manipulation and that sickening pop of dislocation.
The howl of pain turned into a feral snarl. He drove an elbow back, catching Kane in the stomach. She fell back, but it had given Axel the opening he needed. He surged forward, ready to end this.
The guy’s head snapped back, catching Axel square in the nose. Stars exploded behind his eyes. In that split second of disorientation, the attacker broke free. He vaulted over the desk one-armed, his other arm hanging useless. Before either of them could recover, he was through the window in a shower of glass and out onto the fire escape.
Axel staggered to his feet, blood streaming from his nose. Kane was already at the window, her composed facade cracked just enough to show steel underneath. Their eyes met in the broken glass, both reading the same thing in the empty fire escape below. This wasn’t over.
“So,” she said, straightening her jacket with clinical precision. “Not quite the first session I had planned.”
4
Her office felt smaller now,the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the broken window. Glass crunched under her boots as she moved to her desk, automatically cataloging the damage. Patient files scattered across the floor. Her degrees hanging crooked on the wall. James’s carved box knocked over, its contents spilled.
She forced herself to breathe. Focus on the tangible. Just like triaging in the ER. Assess. Prioritize. Act. Her hands were steady as she gathered confidential papers, muscle memory from countless crisis situations taking over. The familiar motions helped quiet the voice screaming that she’d almost died in her own office.
Axel eyed her as he thumbed his phone. The police, she realized from his side of the conversation. “On their way,” he told her, shoving the phone back in his pocket.
Details delivered, he moved with controlled precision around the room’s perimeter, checking corners, sightlines, exits. His nose had stopped bleeding, but dried blood still marked his shirt. The transformation from reluctant therapy patient to lethal operative had been instantaneous. Sherecognized that laser focus—had seen it in James, in countless other soldiers. The ability to shut everything else out and simply act.
A siren blared from down the block. A perk of working right up the street from the station.
“Security system?” he asked.
