Page 9 of Rogue Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #4)

Finn Novak was dead.

No way she’d just seen him in that crowd.

Zara closed her front door with a quiet click that felt like deliverance.

The absence of noise—no cheerful bands, no children squealing, no loudspeakers announcing events—created a silence so profound it seemed to have physical weight.

She leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed, absorbing the blessed coolness of her air-conditioned condo after hours in the relentless July heat.

The parade, the judging ceremony, the community picnic—each had demanded a performance of normalcy that had depleted her reserves completely. Now, in the sanctuary of her home, she could finally let the mask slip.

She pushed herself away from the door, wincing as her knees protested. She kicked off her shoes and padded across the hardwood floor in stocking feet. The familiar shapes of her furniture offered comfort in their solidity. Real. Present. Unlike hallucinations of dead men in parade crowds.

The thought brought her up short, hand freezing halfway to the refrigerator door.

Had she actually seen Finn Novak today, or had her mind fabricated him from stress and medication side effects?

Kenji had warned her that hydroxychloroquine occasionally caused visual disturbances. Could that explain what she’d seen?

She abandoned her quest for water and sank onto a kitchen stool instead, too weary to remain standing.

The memory of that moment replayed with disturbing clarity—the glimpse of a familiar profile, the shock of recognition that had ricocheted through her body before she’d even had time to process the image.

She made herself retrieve a bottle of water from the refrigerator, drinking deeply before pressing the cool container against her forehead.

The rational explanation was simple. The medication, combined with heat exhaustion and the stress of the anonymous threats, had caused her to project a face from her past onto a random stranger in the crowd.

Classic psychological displacement, assigning a concrete identity to an abstract threat.

She considered texting Izzy about the incident.

Her friend would provide a reality check, remind her of the psychological impact stress could have on perception.

But Izzy was enjoying a well-deserved vacation with her six-year-old, and Zara was reluctant to intrude with what was essentially an emotional crisis.

More than that, she hesitated to make herself that vulnerable, to admit she was still affected by a betrayal seven years in the past.

Her team knew about the “Paris Disaster,” of course.

It was documented in her official file, accessible to anyone with the appropriate security clearance.

The technical details, at least. What they didn’t know—what no one knew—was how thoroughly the experience had shattered her confidence.

How it had made her question her judgment about people, about relationships, about trust itself.

That was a conversation for another time.

Probably one she should have with her Savior, rather than colleagues.

Her spiritual journey since becoming the CIA liaison to Ronan’s SEAL team had been hesitant but meaningful, guided partly by the guys’ gentle examples and partly by her own growing recognition of a force greater than herself at work in her life.

Her phone buzzed, interrupting her introspection. Then buzzed again. And again, in rapid succession. The distinctive pattern indicated the team group chat rather than an individual message.

Relief flooded her. She hurried to retrieve the device from her pocket, grateful for the distraction. The screen displayed a series of messages, each more dramatically outraged than the last.

Izzy: I heard about the float competition. Bummer. Maybe next year.

Deke: BETRAYAL AND CORRUPTION AT THE HIGHEST LEVELS.

Griffin: I demand a congressional investigation.

Maya: I had FIVE 8-year-olds tell me our ship was “not as cool as the unicorn” WHO RAISED THESE CHILDREN?

Axel: Fifth place. FIFTH. Behind the senior center’s “Decades of Dance” float. Are they SERIOUS?

Deke: Technically we tied for fifth with Original Knight. So there’s that.

Ronan: Evidence that the head judge is on the Girl Scouts’ payroll.

This pronouncement was followed by a slightly blurry photo of the head judge, Gladys Perkins, accepting a box of what appeared to be Thin Mints from a triumphant troop leader.

Kenji: Forensic evidence confirms those are Thin Mints. Case closed.

Deke: Recount demanded. Justice for pirates.

Despite her exhaustion, Zara laughed and typed a quick response:

Zara: Next year we bribe Gladys with Samoas. Clearly superior cookie.

Maya: SHE SPEAKS TRUTH.

Griffin: Blasphemy. Tagalongs forever.

Deke: BBQ still on for 8 pm. Bring your grievances and appetites. Cookies, too.

Zara set the phone aside, her smile fading.

The team gathering at Deke’s cabin—normally something she would look forward to—now loomed as another performance to endure.

Another evening of pretending her body wasn’t betraying her, that she wasn’t being threatened by an unknown entity, that she hadn’t possibly hallucinated a dead man in a parade crowd.

Her phone buzzed again. Expecting more cookie debate, she glanced down casually—then froze, ice spreading through her veins.

Unknown Number: Rest well tonight. You’ll receive your assignment in the morning.

Zara set the phone down carefully, as if it might detonate. The brief reprieve provided by her team’s banter evaporated, replaced by renewed anxiety and a strange, clarifying certainty. She could no longer handle this alone.

Tomorrow, regardless of consequences, she would tell her team everything—the threats, her diagnosis, her concerns about her ability to perform her duties effectively. They deserved complete honesty about both her physical limitations and the potential danger they all might face because of her past.

The decision, once made, brought unexpected relief.

Secrets were burdens, and she had been carrying too many for too long.

Knight Tactical wasn’t just her employer; these people were her family.

They had earned her trust through years of shared struggle and unwavering support.

If anyone deserved her complete honesty, it was them.

She pushed herself up from the kitchen counter, determination easing some of her physical discomfort. She had an hour before she needed to leave for Deke’s cabin—enough time for a hot shower and a fresh dose of medication to manage the pain through the evening.

Tomorrow would bring whatever it would bring, including the necessary conversations she’d been avoiding. But tonight, she would enjoy the company of people she trusted, and the simple pleasures of food and friendship that had become so precious to her.

As she headed toward the bathroom, she caught sight of her reflection in the hallway mirror—pale, tired, but standing straight despite everything.

She’d survived betrayal before. She’d rebuilt her life after Paris.

She’d adapted to the diagnosis that had changed everything.

Whatever came next, she would face it with the same resilience.

But this time, she wouldn’t face it alone.

Tonight was for fireworks, friendship, and the temporary comfort of familiar routines.

Tomorrow was for courage.