Page 3 of Fierce Hope
Kenji: No. This is way more serious. Izzy just asked me to help with Chantal’s birthday party.
Ronan: LOL. You? Around sugar-hyped six-year-olds? This I gotta see.
Kenji: Exactly. I need backup. It’s a tactical nightmare.
Axel: Have you considered saying no?
Kenji: I tried. She gave me the look. You know the one. Like if you say no, your soul shrivels up and dies.
Zara: That’s just your guilt complex. You’ll live.
Kenji: I CAN’T FACE THIS ALONE!
Deke: It’s a birthday party. Not a hostage situation.
Kenji: Could be both. There will be glitter. You think that stuff ever really goes away? It follows you. FOREVER.
Maya: He’s not wrong. Glitter is basically the beach sand of craft supplies.
Deke shook his head, fighting a smile as he shoved the phone into his pocket and grabbed his gear. The exchange was bittersweet. He and his team were tight, woven together through years of trust and camaraderie. But he and his own son? Strangers sharing the same roof, separated by mine fields worse than any he’d ever faced.
Fifteen minutes later, Deke pulled into the secured perimeter of Knight Tactical Protection, a sprawling, high-tech compound tucked against the snowy expanse of Hope Landing’s airport. A cluster of sleek, three-story hangars stood sentinel, housing Knight Tactical’s fleet of jets and helicopters. Beyond the security gates lay the headquarters—a fortress of reinforced glass and steel, brimming with cutting-edge surveillance tech,an armory stocked with specialized gear, and a state-of-the-art gym where workouts bordered on brutal.
He stepped into the familiar hum of activity—voices blending with the click of keyboards, the occasional thud from the training room where someone was working off tension with fists against a bag.
The blast of warm, filtered air hit him as the heavy security doors hissed shut behind, carrying the faint scent of industrial cleaner, freshly brewed coffee, and the subtle tang of gun oil. Boots scuffed against polished concrete floors.
The chaos of Knight Tactical was a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence in his house that morning. The gourmet kitchen was already buzzing with the scent of fresh coffee and something warm baking, courtesy of whoever had drawn breakfast duty. Upstairs, luxury guest suites sat ready for clients needing protective custody, designed with the same precision as their tactical plans.
Ronan leaned against a desk, flipping a pen between his fingers in a casual, steady rhythm. Maya stood nearby, arms crossed, her sharp eyes tracking everything, missing nothing. Axel sat at a corner table, deep in conversation with Izzy, their petite, tattooed team mechanic, whose easy smile softened Axel’s usual stoicism while her sharp wit kept everyone else on their toes.
Kenji lounged on a chair, feet propped up on a desk, scrolling through something on his phone with a grin that suggested trouble. Zara, as usual, hovered near the espresso machine, her quiet presence grounding amidst the controlled chaos.
Ronan squinted at him, pulling a face. “You look like you got hit by the entire Eagles’ front line.”
An apt description. He felt like it, too. “Rough morning.”
“Aren’t they all with a teenager?” Axel clapped him on the back. “Surprised you’re still standing, dude.”
“But am I really?” Deke managed a smirk, though he knew it didn’t reach his eyes.
“They say it gets easier,” the usually quiet Griff added, sympathy clear in his expression.
Deke rubbed the knot at the base of his skull. “I keep waiting.”
The team laughed, their voices filling the space easily, light and unforced. Deke managed a grin, but it felt like wearing someone else’s face.
Because no matter how good he was at this job, he couldn’t figure out how to protect the one thing that mattered above all else.
The one mission he couldn’t afford to blow.
3
Jade burstthrough Andreassen-Canning’s glass doors at 8:40 a.m., breathless and frazzled. Late. Not catastrophically so, but enough to set her teeth on edge. Her phone buzzed—conference call in ten minutes. Perfect.
Last night’s restless hours had left their mark. Every detail from the parking lot played on repeat, each possibility gnawing deeper. Being off her game rankled worse than anything. Whatever message that anonymous note meant to send had landed with precise accuracy.
Fresh coffee and expensive cologne wafted through the modern, minimalist lobby. Business hummed—keyboards tapping, voices murmuring—but her focus locked onto reaching her office and pulling herself together before the call.
