Page 8 of Deadly Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #2)

The third cop car in an hour crawled past Axel’s hiding spot, their spotlight sweeping the quiet suburban street.

Amateur hour. If they’d actually wanted to catch someone watching Olivia’s house, they would have noticed him tucked between the evergreens at the back of the vacant lot across the street, his blacked-out SUV maintaining a perfect sightline to her front door.

The team had taken it better than expected when he’d briefed them.

No jokes, no pushback—just that focused silence he recognized from mission prep.

Even Kenji had dropped his usual swagger.

“We’ll meet her tomorrow,” Deke had said, already pulling up building plans for her office. “Full security assessment, the works.”

Five degrees, and dropping. His breath fogged the windshield each time he exhaled.

Snow drifted in lazy spirals, catching moonlight before settling on the deserted suburban streets.

Low clouds scudded across the night sky, their shadows playing tricks with depth perception—something that had saved his life more than once in other dark places.

Here, the shifting patterns just made it harder to maintain his sight picture on Olivia’s front door.

He did another equipment check, more from ingrained habit than necessity.

Knight Tactical’s winter gear was top-of-the-line: thermal base layers designed for Arctic conditions, heavy-duty gloves with touchscreen capability, watch cap that wouldn’t compress his earpiece.

He’d rigged a portable heater to run off powerful auxiliary batteries.

No need to risk the engine noise or exhaust signature by keeping the truck running all night.

The small cab was starting to feel like a command post: thermos of coffee within easy reach, along with a handful of protein bars and a half-eaten turkey sandwich from the deli near the office.

Two bottles of electrolyte drink because dehydration was every bit as dangerous as hypothermia during long surveillance.

Everything arranged for maximum efficiency with minimum movement.

He double-checked his comms setup—earpiece synced to his phone, backup power bank, and the encrypted channel to his team, if needed.

Which it wouldn’t be. The team would not be happy if they knew he was here alone, on an unauthorized surveillance op.

Deke especially would call him out for playing white knight—right before offering to take the next shift.

Axel adjusted the small infrared sensor he’d mounted on the dash, angling it for a better view of Olivia’s side yard.

The feed displayed crisp and clear on his phone—no blind spots where someone could slip through.

He’d positioned three more around the perimeter of her property earlier.

The cops hadn’t noticed those either. Or the long sweeps through the snow where he’d dusted away his footprints.

The night vision monocular rested in its case on the passenger seat, along with his backup sidearm. His primary weapon stayed holstered, close but comfortable. Some habits you didn’t break, even on unofficial protection detail.

His phone dinged softly. He glanced at the ongoing group text.

Kenji: Guys we need a name.

Ronan: Not this again.

Deke: We already have a name. SEAL Team.

Zara: Hellooo? You’re literally all SEALs except me.

Deke: Fine. SEAL Team Plus One.

Zara: I will end you.

Kenji: STEAM Team! (Strategic Tactical Elite Asset Management)

Axel: Hard no.

Deke: Flipper Force.

Ronan: I’m leaving this chat.

Izzy: Chantal votes for Unicorn Candy Team, because, you know, she’s six.

Deke: Better than STEAM Team.

Kenji: Hey!

Axel rolled his eyes. Finding something to replace “puppies” wasn’t going to happen any time soon, clearly.

Flashing lights caught his eye—another patrol car making its useless loop.

He clenched his jaw, remembering the dismissive tone of the detective who’d taken Olivia’s statement.

“ Probably a disgruntled patient, or the boyfriend of one ,” one of the officers had said, completely missing the professional edge to the break-in.

His fingers drummed against the steering wheel.

The police didn’t understand that someone with that level of skill wouldn’t give up after one failed attempt.

And they definitely hadn’t noticed how the “intruder” had focused on Olivia’s patient files rather than the expensive equipment in plain sight.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” he muttered, but the words rang hollow.

He should be home, sleeping in preparation for another grueling pre-dawn workout.

Instead, he was parked in the bitter cold, watching over a woman who didn’t want his help.

A woman who was supposed to help him deal with his protective obsessions, not trigger new ones.

But he’d learned the hard way that “should” meant nothing when your instincts were screaming.

And every instinct he had said Dr. Olivia Kane was still in danger.

Movement at her window snapped his attention into sharp focus.

Just the woman doing her nightly routine—checking locks, drawing curtains.

The same methodical efficiency he’d learned in places where survival depended on attention to detail.

Except she was a civilian, a therapist who should never have needed these skills. Until today.

Her silhouette paused at each window, lingering too long, movements too precise.

He recognized the hypervigilance, had seen it in too many faces after their first brush with violence.

He still caught himself doing perimeter checks of his own apartment, years after leaving the service.

But watching Olivia perform the same ritual made his chest tight in a way combat never had.

The lights dimmed one by one—kitchen, living room, hallway.

Like a countdown in reverse, each darkened window amplifying the silence.

Only her bedroom light remained, casting a warm rectangle onto the snow-dusted lawn.

His thermal scanner showed no other heat signatures around the property.

No footprints in the fresh snow except for the mail carrier’s from hours ago.

He should have seen the signs earlier, in her office.

A therapist specializing in high-risk professionals, working alone, keeping paper files in an age of digital records—it made her vulnerable.

But he’d been too focused on his own issues, on maintaining the professional distance that was already crumbling like the snow against his windshield.

A shadow crossed her bedroom window, followed by darkness. Axel shifted in his seat, ignoring the familiar ache in his left shoulder—a souvenir from an old mission gone wrong. The smart play would be to call in backup, let Knight Tactical handle this officially.

But until Dr. Kane agreed, he was stuck on solo duty.

The bedroom light had been out for twenty minutes when his phone buzzed.

Deke: DJ skipped algebra again. Kid’s gonna give me gray hair before he hits graduation.

Axel’s thumbs hovered over the keys, but his mind drifted back to earlier that day—Olivia standing in her ransacked office, steel in her spine as she cataloged the damage.

Most people would have broken down. She’d methodically documented everything, then refused to leave until she’d gathered up an armload of patient files.

Another buzz.

Kenji: I’m laying down $50 on the Rockets. They’re due for a win. Anybody else in?

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.