Page 2 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)
Kenji stepped out of Knight Tactical headquarters into the crisp mountain air, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time in hours.
Admiral Knight's physical had gone better than he'd dared hope—cardiac function optimal, reflexes sharp for a man half his age, blood pressure that would make a marathon runner jealous.
The old SEAL had even cracked a rare smile when Kenji had pronounced him fit for all aircraft operations.
"Not bad for a fossil, eh?" Knight had said, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a lesser man.
"Peak condition, sir."
The Admiral studied him with those eyes that missed nothing. "How’re you, son?”
Kanji readied the lie, his gaze on the blood pressure cuff in his hand. “Good. Great. Still trying to out-lift Axel on the chest press, but I’m getting there.”
The Admiral grunted. “How’s the spiritual health? Still getting to church?"
"When I can, sir," Kenji lied smoothly. His Sundays had been spent in underground poker games for months now.
"Hmm." Admiral Knight's expression suggested he wasn't buying it, but he let it pass. "Take care of all of yourself, Marshall. Body's just hardware without proper software, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, sir."
"Good man. Don't make me have to worry about you."
“Wouldn’t think of it, sir.”
“Right answer.” Knight strode away with the energy of a man half his age.
If he could fool Admiral Knight—a man whose interrogation techniques were literally classified—he could fool anyone.
Maybe he wasn't as far gone as he'd feared this morning.
Maybe he could still pull this off. The sunlight felt good on his face as he headed toward his SUV, keys twirling around his index finger, an unfamiliar lightness in his step.
Twenty-five thousand in a week.
Plenty of time for a man with his resources and training to devise a solution. He'd come through worse scenarios with less preparation. Afghanistan. Venezuela. That mess in Myanmar. This was another problem requiring the right strategy.
The Knight Tactical parking lot spread before him, vehicles arranged in neat rows—a reflection of the organization itself.
His black SUV waited at the far end, gleaming in the morning light.
Three rows of cars, forty-five seconds of walking time.
He calculated escape routes, threats, contingencies—habits that didn't turn off because he was stateside.
He was halfway there when movement between the vehicles caught his peripheral vision.
Two men emerged from behind a white service van, positioning themselves directly in his path.
His hand dropped to where his sidearm would be if he were on mission.
Keys shifted between his knuckles—an improvised weapon if needed.
The taller one—Marco—smiled with predatory ease. His partner, a stocky ex-boxer type Kenji knew only as Tomas, remained expressionless, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets.
"Dude," Marco said, with that distinctive rasp thanks to a few too many blows to the neck. "You're a difficult man to catch alone."
Not here. Not at headquarters.
Horror sliced through Kenji's newfound confidence like a combat knife—hot, sharp, and precise. His pulse skyrocketed as sweat beaded at his hairline despite the cool mountain air.
"Are you insane?" He stepped closer to keep his voice from carrying. "We can't talk here."
Marco's rusty laugh held no humor. "Not planning on talking. The boss wants to make sure you're aware the deadline is for real."
Kenji scanned his surroundings with practiced skill. Headquarters behind him—security cameras covering the entrance. Two hostiles ahead. Open parking spaces to his left offering an escape route. No visible weapons, but Tomas always carried. His team was inside—exactly where he needed them to stay.
"I'm aware. Vince knows I'll have his money by the deadline."
Tomas shifted his weight, opening his jacket enough to reveal a holstered Sig. The message couldn't be clearer if he'd painted it on a billboard.
"If he believed you, we wouldn't be here," Marco said, stepping close enough that Kenji could smell mint gum barely masking stale cigarettes. "One week. Or we tell your commando friends about their boy's extracurricular activities."
"I get it," Kenji insisted, willing the idiots to leave. "Next Wednesday."
"The Grand Casino. VIP room. Nine o'clock." Marco straightened Kenji's collar like a concerned friend, the false intimacy more threatening than a fist to the face. "Don't be late."
They melted back between the vehicles, leaving him standing alone in sunshine that now felt harsh and exposing.
The magnitude of the problem crashed over him, dragging him under. His hands were shaking again.
His phone chimed with a text from the team group chat:
Axel: Kenj-o still doing Knight's physical? I'm taking bets on who makes who cry first.
Maya: My money's on our guy cracking. The Admiral's not gonna like being told he can't fly upside down anymore.
Deke: I heard Admiral K gave his last doc hives.
The mundane normalcy of the conversation belonged to a different universe—one where he wasn't twenty-four hours from professional ruin and a serious beating. He forced himself to breathe normally, to walk steadily to his vehicle, to appear like the man they all believed him to be.
As he slid behind the wheel, he assessed his options. Local banks wouldn't lend that amount on short notice. His savings were depleted. Credit cards maxed.
He needed a game.
The kind of high-stakes play that had destroyed him in the first place.
Hands still shaking, he started the engine. Seventy-two hours to find a game, win big, and pay off Vince.
The odds of success were astronomical.
Exactly the way he liked them.