Page 3 of Deadly Hope
“There he is!” Christian Murphy’s voice carried across the snow.
The former sniper was Ronan’s half-brother, and a member of the original Knight Tactical operation. Christian and Ronan had only met face to face a couple months back, when Knight Tactical helped Ronan, and the rest of them, bring their fallen teammate’s killers to justice.
The rest, as they say, was history. Admiral Knight, the guiding force behind the small tactical protection business, offered them all jobs in the expanding operation. And so, after three years, he and Ronan and their friends were a team again, only this time, they only took the jobs they wanted to. And the Admiral and his team made certain they had only the best resources.
A win-win. If it weren’t for the dark storms that attacked him without mercy. Or warning.
Christian blew on his gloved hands, sending a cloud of fog into the air. “So, puppies, ready for some real winter training?”
The obstacle course looked brutal—ice-slicked walls, frozen rope climbs, precision shooting stations. Good. Physical challenge was better than lying in bed, drowning in memories.
“Born ready,” Axel called back, forcing confidence into his voice. The lie tasted bitter, but it was better than admitting the truth—that one of the best special operatives in the business was terrified of his own mind.
Zara caught his eye, her intel officer’s instincts too sharp to miss his tension. But she just tossed him a pair of tactical gloves. “Christian’s determined to prove Navy boys can handle mountain winters.”
“Please,” Ronan scoffed, “we invented winter warfare.”
“That’s not what I remember from BUD/S,” Kenji commented mildly. “Didn’t you complain about the pool being too cold?”
“The water was fifty-eight degrees!”
Christian made a face. “Maybe we should call you kids the Ice Princesses.”
Ronan’s half-brother was a decorated SEAL, as were the six of them, but the man had a strange sense of humor. Ever since Admiral Knight had offered them positions in his security outfit, there’d been a running gag between the original team, Christian, and his former special ops teammates, and Axel and Ronan’s squad. The original crew kept coming up with stupid names for Axel’s squad … and Axel’s peeps kept shooting them down.
Kenji flexed his slender surgeon’s fingers in his thick gloves. “Naming the team’s a serious thing. We’ll let you old dudes know when we’ve hit on the right thing.”
Christian grinned, a hard, scary expression if you didn’t know the man. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, pup.”
“For Tank!” Deke raised a fist, shouting the slogan that preceded every morning workout since the team had joined Knight Tactical.
“For Tank,” Axel and the others shouted back.
Losing their friend and teammate to murder three months ago had shaken them all to the core. But Tank’s sacrifice had brought them all back together and given them purpose again. And a home.
He’d forever miss the big man. And he’d be forever grateful.
“Let’s do this,” Ronan shouted, breath fogging in the bitter cold.
A white object whizzed toward Christian’s head. He ducked with an enviable grace. The snowball sailed straight past him, and hit Deke in the ear. The big man roared, tearing off after Ronan. “Come back here, little man.”
The rest of them laughed as they drifted toward the equipment.
The easy banter continued as they warmed up, but Axelfelt the weight of their concern. They’d seen him freeze up on that island. Seen what happened when his PTSD took control.
They’d also seen him push through it, finish the mission, get everyone home safe. But for how much longer?
The powerful beams of light caught the frost on the training equipment, turning everything to diamonds and steel. Just like this team—beautiful and brutal and absolutely necessary to his survival.
Now he just had to survive asking a stranger to help him put his head back together.
“Let’s fire this up,” Christian called out. “First round: two-man teams, full gear. Let’s see how you handle tactical problems in subzero conditions.”
Axel checked his watch. Eight hours until his appointment with Dr. Olivia Kane.
He’d done his research—of course he had. That’s what operatives did. Know your target. Know your terrain. But the woman’s website photo had caught him off guard. Dark red hair swept into a casual knot, intelligent green eyes that looked right through the camera, and a subtle half-smile that suggested she saw more than she let on. Not cute. Devastating. The kind of beautiful that made men stupid.
His sisters would’ve smacked him for even thinking like this. But it wasn’t about her being a woman. It was about those eyes. They looked like they could strip away pretense, see past his walls, read the truth he’d spent years burying.
