Page 4 of Deadly Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #2)

Axel stood in the parking lot, staring up at the wood-clad building like it might bite him. Two stories of carefully crafted “mountain modern” architecture—all clean lines and warm timber—designed to put people at ease. Yeah, right. Like architecture could fix whatever broke inside a person’s head.

Only one other vehicle occupied the small parking lot—a late model Range Rover that had clearly seen its share of adventure.

The rear window was plastered with stickers from every mountain town in the West, like a roadmap of powder days and vertical feet.

Climbing gear filled the back and an ice axe hung from a custom mount.

Sweet backcountry ski setup on the roof too—no lift lines or chairs for this driver.

He could respect that. Whoever Dr. Kane was seeing now apparently shared his opinion that the best runs were earned.

The location made tactical sense, at least. One block from Knight Tactical’s compound, close enough to the airport that the occasional roar of jets probably helped mask whatever secrets got spilled in these rooms. Private enough for the poor folks who needed their heads shrunk, convenient enough for the contractors who got ordered here.

Like him.

He did a quick sweep of the layout—professional habit he couldn’t shake. Two street-facing exits, probably a back door. Second floor meant multiple escape routes, assuming you didn’t mind a jump.

The stairs creaked under his boots as he jogged up, each step making him question his life choices. At the top, a small sign directed him left: “Olivia Kane, PhD—Suite 204.”

The entrance opened into one of those waiting rooms clearly designed by someone with a PhD in “soothing.” Earthy colors, abstract art that looked like freshman fingerpainting, chairs arranged in a conversation-friendly circle.

Even the air felt calculated—some kind of essential oil blend meant to calm the crazies.

He wondered if it worked on the other broken toys who ended up here, the ones who couldn’t handle the job anymore.

No receptionist. Just three closed doors and a clipboard waiting with his name on it, like the universe’s most passive-aggressive reminder that he couldn’t just walk out.

The forms were standard enough. Name, date of birth, contact information. He filled them out on autopilot until he hit the last page. The question sat there like a landmine.

Why are you here today?

His pencil hovered over the blank space. Because Knight Tactical’s higher-ups required it? Because Jack Reese and the Admiral wouldn’t clear him for field work until he got his head checked? Because sometimes he still heard echoes of gunfire in empty rooms?

No. Just ... no .

He set the clipboard down, suddenly needing to move. He paced the small waiting area. This was a no-go. He didn’t need some head-shrinker telling him what he already knew— that he’d seen too much, done too much. That maybe he shouldn’t be so good at what he did.

A muffled thud from behind Kane’s door stopped him cold.

His head snapped toward the sound. Could have been anything. A dropped book. A chair scraping. His brain playing tricks—wouldn’t be the first time.

And then another sound. Softer. Like something falling.

Every instinct screamed danger. But those same instincts had him diving for cover at backfiring cars and scanning rooftops during his morning run. That’s why he was here, wasn’t it? To stop jumping at shadows?

He fisted his hands and stalked toward the closest chair.

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 man in 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.”