Page 3 of Deadly Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #2)

Olivia’s office caught the mid-day sun, throwing golden light across her degrees and certifications. Through the north-facing window, Knight Tactical’s compound sprawled like its own miniature city, complete with training facilities that probably cost more than her entire building.

The ski slopes of Hope Mountain stood sentinel to the south, already dusted with early snow.

Photos from prized climbs, both granite routes and ice falls she’d conquered since moving to Hope Landing three years ago hung beside her diplomas—a reminder that life existed beyond these walls, though she saw less and less of it lately.

She walked her client—a veteran living in his car—to the back door of her office, the exit that allowed clients to leave without having to meet incoming clients in the waiting room.

Rick’s session had been tough. He’d finally opened up about Fallujah, and she’d recognized the thousand-yard stare that meant they were getting somewhere.

Progress, even if it felt glacially slow.

“Rick, I mean it. Call me anytime this week. The shelter has space opening up Friday.” She kept her voice steady, professional, though her heart ached at the way his shoulders curved inward against the world.

“And think about what we discussed—the VA job training program. You’ve got skills they need. ”

“Thanks, Doc.” He shuffled out, but she caught the slight straightening of his spine. Small victories.

Olivia watched him go, one hand absently touching the carved wooden box on her shelf—the last birthday gift from James before the damage done in Afghanistan claimed him.

Her brother would have understood Rick. Would have known exactly what to say to the former Marine. Would have noticed the pattern of disturbances long before she had.

Her office reflected that understanding. No motivational posters with soaring eagles. Instead, unit coins displayed in a simple case. A topographical map of the Hindu Kush. A worn copy of On Combat beside clinical textbooks. The room said: I may not have served, but I speak your language.

Her stomach growled. The sad turkey sandwich in her desk drawer could wait. Her phone buzzed—a text from her pal, Eileen:

Guessing girls’ night is a no-go again? Third time this month …

Olivia pushed her wild red curls back from her face, guilt twisting in her gut.

Eileen had been trying to get her out more, refusing to let her use work as an excuse to become a hermit.

But how could she explain that leaving the office after hours made her jumpy lately?

That she’d started checking her car’s back seat three times before getting in, ever since finding the driver’s seat adjusted last week?

And the tiny bit of evidence in her condo?

Before she could respond, her phone lit up.

Anne Kennedy, whose son had returned from his third tour with severe PTSD.

Olivia’s stomach clenched. She knew only too well how the man’s story could end.

Peter was one of her few remaining military clients who hadn’t mysteriously transferred to Knight Tactical’s “in-house” counseling program.

“Dr. Kane! Peter’s having another episode?—”

“Anne.” Olivia’s voice shifted instantly to the calm, steady tone that had guided countless ER patients through their worst moments. “I need you to take a deep breath and tell me exactly what you’re seeing. Is Peter oriented to where he is?”

Twenty minutes of careful questions and measured responses later, crisis averted, Olivia rolled her shoulders.

Her CrossFit-toned frame protested the hours of desk work.

The sandwich looked even less appetizing now, pale and squashed in its Ziploc bag.

She tossed it back in the drawer, remembering too many similar meals grabbed between crises in the ER.

The adrenaline had felt different then—immediate, actionable.

Now her battles were longer, slower, fought in quiet rooms with words instead of sirens.

And lately, fought with shadows that moved through her office after hours, rearranging her life piece by subtle piece.

“Liv?” Marisol Delgado appeared in her doorway, somehow managing to look elegant despite juggling her purse, phone, and car keys. “I’m heading out—Sophia’s orthodontist appointment, remember? Stuart and Janelle are both out until Monday ...”

“Go, go! Kiss that girl for me.” Olivia stretched her tall frame, envying Marisol’s ability to maintain normal routines. Her own life had become a series of security checks and second-guesses.

“You should eat something,” Marisol said, mother-hen mode activated. “You’ve been seeing clients since eight.” She paused, something flickering in her expression. “And that car is back.”

Olivia’s head snapped up. “What car? ”

“The white SUV. The one I mentioned last week? It’s across the street again.”

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.