Page 10 of Rogue Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #4)
The early evening light cast long shadows as Finn circled back to Zara’s condo complex, each step heavier than the last. Seven years of emotional detachment had crumbled in the span of a single moment—seeing her face—and now the wreckage of his carefully constructed walls left him exposed in ways more dangerous than his physical vulnerability.
Behind him, unknown pursuers. Ahead, the woman whose memory he’d carried like shrapnel embedded too close to the heart to remove.
His breath came shallow as he slipped between picnicking families and parade-goers, a ghost moving through the living, unseen but achingly present.
His photographic memory had preserved every detail of her smile today with perfect clarity, but no mental discipline could prepare him for the storm it had unleashed within him.
As he prepared to approach the building, movement slowed his steps. A familiar silhouette emerged—Zara, dressed casually, keys in hand as she headed toward the parking area. Finn flattened himself against a tree trunk, watching as her SUV pulled out of the lot and disappeared down the quiet street.
An uncomfortable thought surfaced—what if she shared her condo? The dossier indicated she lived alone, but seven years was ample time for significant life changes. And Zara would be discreet. Could she have a boyfriend? A partner?
The possibility hit him with surprising force, a physical discomfort tightening his chest.
“Focus,” he muttered, pushing the distracting thoughts aside. The mission remained unchanged. Warn her about Cipher, then disappear before his presence endangered her further.
The service entrance yielded to his expertise within minutes. Once inside, Finn moved through maintenance corridors, heading directly to the stairwell nearest Zara’s third-floor unit.
Her security measures proved more challenging—BioGuard X7 electronic keypad, conventional deadbolt, and magnetic contact alarm. Impressive but not unexpected for someone with her background.
Using specialized equipment, he detected residual heat signatures on the keypad buttons: 2, 4, 8, 9, and 0.
On the seventh combination attempt, the light flashed green.
The deadbolt surrendered to basic manipulation, and the alarm was neutralized with a conducting strip.
Finn eased the door open cautiously, listening for any indication of another presence before slipping inside.
The condo was dark and silent, illuminated only by ambient light. He closed the door quietly behind him, reengaging the deadbolt before allowing himself to truly observe her home.
The space was warm and inviting—stylish but comfortable. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with a diverse collection—spy novels alongside historical biographies, technical manuals, and theological works.
That last category surprised him. The Zara he’d known in Paris had been firmly agnostic.
These books—C.S. Lewis, Timothy Keller, Alister McGrath—suggested a significant shift in perspective, perhaps even a spiritual journey.
It was a side of her he hadn’t glimpsed during their brief Paris encounter.
Not that he would have. They’d had only two months together, most built on his careful deception. How much of the real Zara had he actually known?
The kitchen was immaculate, with high-end appliances and a professional-grade coffee maker. A single mug sat in the drying rack—no second cup, no paired dishes suggesting cohabitation. The relief he felt was immediate and embarrassingly intense.
A collection of framed photographs showed Zara with various members of the Knight Tactical team in casual settings—genuine smiles, arms around shoulders.
A particularly striking image showed her aboard what appeared to be a sailboat, laughing into the wind, more carefree than he’d ever seen her.
These people weren’t just colleagues; they were clearly family.
He moved to the living room couch, sitting heavily as the day’s exertions caught up with him. His bruised ribs ached from the earlier confrontation, and the adrenaline was finally ebbing, leaving bone-deep exhaustion. He sat, body sinking into the soft cushions.
The scent of her home—a faint trace of lavender and something spicy and distinctly Zara—triggered memories he’d kept carefully suppressed: her laughter in a Parisian café, the way she twisted her hair when concentrating, rare moments of vulnerability during their brief time together.
Had any of it been real? He’d asked himself that question countless times. He’d been playing a role, yet there had been moments when the lines between deception and genuine emotion had blurred beyond recognition.
He didn’t realize he was drifting until his head nodded forward, jerking him back to alertness. Five minutes, he promised himself. Five minutes of rest, then he would leave his warning and get out.
The transition from consciousness to sleep happened gradually. Dreams and reality blended seamlessly—he was in Paris again, then Hope Landing, then somewhere in between, always with Zara just beyond reach.
A subtle change in air pressure was his first indication that something had shifted.
Every instinct screamed danger, but he resisted the urge to move. Better to gather information first, to understand the threat before responding.
The soft click of metal against metal—unmistakable in its implications—made the decision for him.
Weapon being readied. Immediate threat.
He opened his eyes, his body remaining perfectly still as his vision adjusted to the dim light. The silhouette standing five feet away was immediately recognizable despite the years and circumstances.
Zara.
She stood in a perfect shooter’s stance, both hands wrapped around a Glock that aimed at his heart. Her expression was impossible to read in the shadows, but her posture communicated everything he needed to know—absolute control, deadly capability.
“Hello, Finn,” she said, her voice steady and cold. “You look remarkably alive for a dead man.”
The Glock never wavered, its barrel a black hole that promised swift judgment for the slightest wrong move.
“Give me one reason,” she continued, “why I shouldn’t put a bullet through your heart right now.”