Page 33 of Rogue Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #4)

Sweat trickled down Zara’s spine as she adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses.

Singapore’s business district shimmered in the late afternoon heat, the sun casting knife-edge shadows between gleaming skyscrapers.

Four countries and endless hours of travel had led to this moment—perched at an outdoor café, pretending to sketch architectural details while monitoring the entrance to Lau Pak Financial Center.

Commercial travel had been pure torture.

Seattle to Tokyo to Bangkok to Kuala Lumpur before finally reaching Singapore.

Economy seats with her knees jammed against the seat in front.

Security lines that went on for hours. Her joints burned with every movement, payback for hours crammed in budget airline seats followed by that final four-hour delay in Kuala Lumpur.

The molded plastic airport chairs might as well have been medieval torture devices.

Still, she maintained her slouch as Margaret Worthington, botanical illustrator extraordinaire, despite the heavy cotton clothing plastered to her skin. Beside her, Finn buried his nose in a guidebook, occasionally pointing at random “architectural features” with academic enthusiasm.

“Target,” he murmured, not looking up.

Zara shifted her sketchpad, angling for a better view. Shen Feng strode purposefully toward the café, a ghost of his former self. Thinner. Haggard. Gray temples that hadn’t been in his file photos. Deep lines etched into his face like battlefield trenches.

“I’ll take lead,” she said, gathering her sketching materials.

Perfect timing—she rose as Shen passed, her bag bumping his arm with calculated clumsiness.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” Her voice carried the flat vowels of the American Midwest. “Totally wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Irritation flashed across his face, then recognition—not of her, but of the code phrase embedded in her apology.

“No problem at all,” he replied smoothly, his own accent a careful blend of US English with subtle Singaporean inflections. “Those architectural details can be quite distracting, can’t they?”

Counter-phrase delivered. Identity confirmed.

Zara beamed apologetically. “My husband’s the architecture nut. I’m just sketching plants for my dissertation. You know how it is—got to document everything.”

“If you’re interested in botanical elements, there’s a remarkable rooftop garden just inside.” Shen’s offer came naturally. “Perfect for your research.”

Finn snapped his guidebook shut, rising with the unhurried movements of a man who had nowhere important to be. “That would be awesome. Margaret’s been trying to convince me to include more greenery in my monograph.” His Midwestern pronunciation of “mon-o-graph” was textbook perfect.

They maintained meaningless chatter through the lobby and elevator ride.

Finn even pulled out his phone to take several touristy photos, complete with enthusiastic commentary about “phenomenal post-colonial influences” that made Shen visibly wince.

Only when they reached the executive lounge on the thirty-second floor did Shen drop the act.

“You’re taking an extraordinary risk,” he snapped, scanning the empty room. His voice had shed its careful modulation. “Cipher has eyes everywhere since Phoenix.”

Zara removed her glasses but kept the rest of her disguise intact. Old habits. “We need information about Harrison Reynolds.”

Shen’s jaw tightened. “Why me? Harrison and I haven’t worked together in years.”

“Because it looks like someone’s framing him as Cipher’s inside man,” Finn said, his tone matter-of-fact. “And you know his operations better than almost anyone.”

Shen stalked to the window, checking the street below. “What makes you think he’s being framed?”

“The evidence is too perfect.” Zara perched on the arm of a leather chair. “Too convenient.”

“Or perhaps it’s perfect because it’s accurate.” Shen turned, eyebrows raised. “Considered that?”

Heat flashed through Zara’s chest. She tamped it down, keeping her expression neutral. “That’s why we’re here.”

Shen studied her, calculation written in every line of his face before he sighed.

“Reynolds has been involved in some ... questionable operations lately. Off-books intelligence. Meeting former assets who’ve gone dark.

” He lowered his voice. “He seems particularly interested in something called ‘Winterfell Protocol.’”

The name meant nothing to Zara, but she filed it away. “When did this start?”

“Eight months ago. After the Odessa extraction failure.”

Zara caught Finn’s glance. The timeline aligned perfectly with Cipher’s emergence. Either Harrison was guilty as sin, or someone had constructed an airtight frame.

“Financial transactions?” Finn asked. “Property? Offshore accounts?”

“Nothing I’ve seen,” Shen admitted. “But his digital footprint’s unusually heavy for an operative of his experience. Almost as if?—”

He froze, gaze shifting over Zara’s shoulder. His expression flickered—alarm suppressed but not fast enough.

“Company,” he said quietly. “Two men at the bar.”

Zara resisted the urge to turn. Instead, she angled herself to catch their reflection in the window glass. Two men in business attire—seemingly casual, but with the perfect posture and environmental awareness that screamed professional.

“Vanguard?” she murmured.

“Likely.” Shen’s voice dropped further. “They’ve been all over Singapore lately. Intelligence suggests a major operation in final prep.”

Finn positioned himself to observe without being obvious. Two fingers tapped his leg twice—immediate threat.

Zara’s mind raced through exit strategies. Thirty-two floors up meant limited options if the stairwells were compromised. She caught Finn’s eye, reading his thoughts as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud.

We’re blown.