Page 1 of Rogue Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #4)
Apparently, patriotic glitter stuck to tactical gear like napalm.
Who knew?
Zara Khoury swiped at the sparkles coating her forearms, already knowing they’d turn up for weeks—in her vest, during briefings, probably lodged in her weapon’s maintenance kit.
The CIA-trained security specialist surveyed the disaster zone masquerading as Knight Tactical’s award-winning float entry.
Who knew a small-town parade would rival that arms dealer takedown in Bogotá for sheer complexity?
The hangar echoed with bickering as her team cobbled together what might become Hope Landing’s most elaborate pirate ship float—or its most spectacular safety hazard.
“Deke! Move that beam again and the mast crashes on DJ’s head.” Axel’s voice came muffled from beneath the skeleton of the ship’s bow, his massive frame wedged into a space meant for someone half his size. “Basic physics, man.”
Deke Williams—former NFL linebacker, retired SEAL, veteran of three wars—couldn’t hammer a straight nail. “Follow your ‘calculations’ and we’ll still be building this thing at Christmas.”
“Better slow than collapsed,” Axel fired back.
Zara hid her smile, applying another handful of silver glitter to the cardboard treasure chest. Morning sunlight sliced through the high windows, highlighting dust motes and the sparkly invasion overtaking their state-of-the-art facility.
The hangar—usually home to their jet, helicopter, and gear—now hosted this patriotic monstrosity.
Griffin dropped a perfectly straight eight-foot length of wood next to Deke. “Problem solved,” he muttered, then retreated to the ship’s wheel before anyone could rope him into more drama.
“Show-off,” Deke grumbled, but grabbed the wood with clear relief.
Zara shifted position, ignoring the stiffness. The low-grade fever that greeted her this morning waved a red flag—her lupus threatening to flare. She stretched her fingers wide, then clenched them into fists, working through the morning stiffness while everyone focused elsewhere.
“Add more glitter to that chest and we‘ll need to register it as a WMD,” Ronan Quinn said, dropping down beside her. Silver sparkles dusted his dark hair, aging him thirty years overnight.
“Says the man who looks like he just face-planted at a fairy convention,” she fired back, flicking more glitter his way.
Ronan’s girlfriend, and the team’s newest recruit, Maya Chen, adjusted the not-quite-historically-accurate Jolly Roger she’d spent three hours painting. “Should’ve gone with authenticity—black flag, skeleton holding an hourglass.”
“And handle the crying children?” Ronan called back.
“Some kids appreciate authenticity,” Maya replied, chin lifted.
Olivia Drake, Axel’s psychologist girlfriend, laughed as she painted golden trim along the railings. “I can settle this with professional expertise,” she offered. “No charge.”
“No therapy during float building!” several voices chorused, a team rule established after Olivia accidentally transformed their last party into a group session about holiday stress.
Deke’s fifteen-year-old son, DJ, sat cross-legged on the concrete, surrounded by tangled LED lights he programmed to simulate water. “I’d pay serious cash to watch Dr. Drake psychoanalyze everyone’s pirate preferences,” he said without looking up from his laptop.
Zara’s phone buzzed on the workbench. She reached for it, expecting Izzy checking in from her California vacation.
“Tell Izzy we need an actual mechanic,” Deke said, straightening. “These instructions read like quantum physics.”
“I’m sure she’s devastated to miss this,” Zara said, checking her screen.
Not Izzy. Unknown number. The words froze her blood.
I know your secret, Zara. Your illness won’t stay hidden much longer.
Years of covert ops training kept her expression neutral as she angled the phone away from Ronan’s line of sight.
“All good?” Maya asked, sharp-eyed former detective missing nothing.
“Just spam,” Zara replied, voice deliberately casual. She pocketed the phone and stood, brushing glitter from her jeans. “Gotta check that encryption plan for Westland. Back in a few.”
“Abandoning ship?” Deke called. “That’s mutiny, Khoury!”
“I’ll bring actual coffee when I return,” she promised, already heading for the stairs. “Not that motor oil you’ve been brewing.”
Their laughter followed her up, clashing with the dread pooling in her stomach. Once out of sight, she accelerated, taking the remaining stairs two at a time.
The three-story hangar gleamed in the mountain sunlight, Knight Tactical’s success evident in every sleek line.
Nestled at the edge of Hope Landing, the converted hangar blended with the town’s rustic aesthetic while housing cutting-edge tech and a team of former operatives who’d found an unexpected home here.
She bypassed her second-floor office and headed straight for the secure workstation in the third-floor command center. The space echoed empty—everyone downstairs, blissfully unaware that someone had just threatened to expose her most closely guarded secret.
She punched in her credentials, fingers flying across the keyboard. Tracing anonymous texts was basic for someone with her background, but she took no chances, initiating searches through multiple encrypted networks.
The system hummed as it worked, normally a comforting sound. Today it heightened her sense of exposure. The text had specified her illness directly.
Only a handful of people knew about her diagnosis: her doctors, and Kenji Marshall, the team’s physician and the only teammate she’d trusted with the information. She loved these people, but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge what this diagnosis might mean—not to them, not even to herself.
Her phone buzzed again. Heart pounding, she checked the screen.
Don’t bother trying to get past that proxy node. You won’t find me there.
Her head snapped up. The message had arrived seconds after she’d hit a proxy wall. Someone was monitoring her in real-time.
The door to the command center opened. She minimized her screen.
Kenji slipped inside, his expression mixing concern with casual interest. The team’s backup cyber specialist and unofficial medical consultant had developed an uncanny ability to sense trouble.
“Saw you bolt from the glitter party,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Joint pain or fever?”
“Neither. Just checking something for Westland.”
Kenji’s dark eyes studied her face, clearly unconvinced. “Your heart rate’s elevated, and you’re favoring your right side. Barometric pressure dropped last night. Makes sense you’d feel it.”
The problem with having a trained physician on the team—especially one who knew her secret. “I’m fine, Kenji. Really.”
“Your definition of ‘fine’ needs recalibration,” he replied, but didn’t push further.
Instead, he crossed to the mini-fridge and pulled out a water bottle, placing it beside her.
“Hydrate at least. And take a break before heading back to the glitter apocalypse. Your immune system and arts-and-crafts don’t mix well. ”
“Yes, doctor,” she said with mock solemnity, grateful for his concern even as she kept the threatening texts to herself.
Kenji lingered a moment, clearly wanting to say more, before nodding. “I’ll tell them you’re buried in code. But if you don’t show in thirty minutes, I’m coming back with reinforcements.”
When the door closed behind him, Zara returned to her screen, determination sharpening her focus. Someone targeted her, using her illness as leverage. Someone who knew exactly where she was vulnerable.
Her fingers paused over the keyboard as a chilling thought struck.
The timing couldn’t be coincidence—four days before the town’s biggest celebration, when Knight Tactical would be at its most visible.
If someone wanted to cause maximum damage to her or the team, they couldn’t have chosen a better time.
Through the windows, the Sierra Nevada mountains stood sentinel against brilliant blue sky, a perfect backdrop for the idyllic town of Hope Landing.
From this height, she spotted Main Street already dressed in flags and bunting, tourists strolling between historic buildings housing artisan shops and farm-to-table restaurants.
It all looked so peaceful. So secure.
Zara knew better than most how deceptive appearances could be. Seven years in the CIA had taught her that threats often wore the most innocent faces. As her computer hit another dead end, she made her decision.
She would handle this alone. Whatever this person wanted, wherever this led, she would not endanger her team.
They’d all fought too hard for their peace—Deke and DJ rebuilding their relationship, Ronan and Maya growing closer by the day, Axel healing from his PTSD with Olivia’s help. They deserved their happiness.
The trace hit another encrypted wall, but Zara was already three steps ahead, launching a custom backdoor program she’d developed during her CIA days—one that skirted several federal laws and existed on no official record.
She cracked her knuckles and leaned forward, eyes narrowed at the screen. This wasn’t just a threat—it was a declaration of war.
And she’d never lost a war.
Time to hunt.