Page 13 of Deadly Hope
Before he could respond, his phone lit up again.
Izzy: Chantal’s got a fever brewing. I’m out for workout in the morning.
The team’s usual evening check-ins, their private struggles wrapped in casual texts. They all carried weights they couldn’t fully share. Even with each other.
He typed back to Izzy:
Message received. Hang in there.
Then to Kenji:
Not touching that bet.
To Deke:
Kids survive high school. Parents survive kids. From what I’ve been told.
Movement caught his eye—a shadow passing behind Olivia’s kitchen curtain. He tensed, then recognized her gait. Another security check. The professional in him approved. The rest of him ...
He squinted at the window. The kitchen had gone dark, but something about the shadow’s movement hadn’t sat right. He reached for the thermal scanner, conscious of how quickly professional concern was becoming something more complicated.
The device still showed only one heat signature—Olivia moving through her nightly routine, nothing more. He was getting jumpy. Combat instincts didn’t fade; they just got louder in the quiet moments.
Finally, her house settled into darkness except for the soft amber glow of a bedside lamp.
“Good night, Doc,” he murmured, the words fogging in the cold air. The familiar guilt crept in—he was definitely crossing professional boundaries, probably ethical ones too. But he’d learned the hard way that sometimes the right call didn’t fit neatly into rulebooks.
He closed his eyes briefly, head bowed over the steering wheel. “Please, Jesus, keep her safe,” he whispered, the prayer as natural as breathing. “I’ll handle the tangible threats, but ...” He let the rest fade into silence. His Savior knew the rest.
His phone had gone quiet. The team’s texts trailing off as they settled into their own evening routines, their own private battles. He adjusted his seat, leaning it back just enough to maintain visibility while easing the strain on his shoulder. The heater hummed steadily, barely keeping pace with the December chill.
Snow danced in the beam of a distant street light,individual flakes catching in the beam as they spiraled down. He pulled his coat collar higher, settling in for the long hours until dawn.
The cops would make their periodic patrols. The neighbor’s cat would prowl its territory. And he would watch, because that’s what he did. What he was trained for. What he needed to do, even if he couldn’t quite separate the professional imperative from the growing warmth he felt seeing her bedroom light finally go dark.
Some lines weren’t meant to be crossed. But sometimes, in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, they blurred just enough to let you do what needed to be done.
8
Dawn creptthrough Olivia’s bedroom window, pale and wintry, casting thin fingers of light across her duvet. She’d been awake for hours, watching shadows stretch and contract across her textured ceiling, trying to convince herself that every creak was just the house settling, every whisper of wind against the eaves just December’s bitter breath.
Her throat ached where rough hands had grabbed her. When she finally dragged herself to the mirror, purple bruises mapped the attack in vivid detail—thumbprints blooming dark against her skin. She gripped the edge of her vanity, suddenly light-headed.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the prayer catching in her bruised throat. “Thank you for sending him.” Her hands trembled as she traced the edge of one bruise. If Axel hadn’t been there, hadn’t moved so fast, with such contained violence ... Bile rose in her throat at the thought of what might have happened.
She sank onto the edge of her bed, wrapping her arms around herself as tremors worked their way through herbody. Strange, how the human mind processed trauma. In the moment, she’d been clear-headed, almost calm. Now, in the safety of morning light, her body finally allowed itself to shake apart.
The gun safe in her home office held more than her grandfather’s old service weapon now. She’d brought home the most sensitive client files last night, tucking them behind the heavy steel door with trembling fingers. Not just the active cases, but the ones she’d flagged as potentially volatile. Files on patients with military backgrounds, histories of violence, or connections that made her uneasy. Overkill, maybe, but these people had trusted her with their darkest moments, their raw confessions. She would die before betraying that trust.
Her phone buzzed making her jump.
Marisol: Schedule cleared for today. Are you sure you don’t want me to come over? I can bring that honey lavender tea you like.
Olivia typed back a quick reassurance, guilt twisting in her stomach. Her clients needed her, but she couldn’t counsel anyone like this. Not when every shadow made her flinch, when her own anxiety thrummed so close to the surface. She’d be worse than useless—she’d be dangerous, projecting her fears onto people who came to her for stability.
Standing before her closet, fingers trailing over sweaters, she forced herself to focus on the mundane task of getting dressed. The black turtleneck would hide the worst of the bruising. Professional, but not too formal for a meeting with ... what exactly was Knight Tactical? Security consultants? Private military contractors? Their website was purposefully vague.
But she’d seen their aircraft coming and going from heroffice windows. New-looking and pristine. Whatever they did, they made enough money to own a big chunk of an airport in a resort community. And invest multiple millions in state-of-the-art transportation. She had a feeling their clients were, what was the new term? “High net worth individuals.”
