Page 3 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)

Kenji's dark, one bedroom apartment was a minor step up from a prison cell. And not a nice one.

How had he never noticed that?

Four walls closing in, the silence punctuated only by the relentless ticking of the wall clock—a sound that normally faded into background noise but now counted down to his personal apocalypse.

The scent of day-old coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the antiseptic tang of medical-grade hand sanitizer he used compulsively after the ER shifts he picked up a couple times a month when the team wasn't on an offsite mission.

The only reliable way he had to keep his financial head above water until he started winning again.

Six months of escalating online bets. Six months of telling himself he had it under control. Six months of lies that had led to this moment.

He paced the length of his living room, five steps one way, five steps back, the worn hardwood cool beneath his bare feet. His fingers traced the rough fabric of the bargain couch as he passed—a purchase chosen for durability rather than comfort, like most things in his life.

The place was neat—no personal photos, minimal furniture, everything in its assigned location.

The only hint of disorder was the stack of medical journals on his coffee table, their edges not quite aligned, the slick, glossy covers reflecting the blue light from his laptop, the small imperfection speaking volumes about his current state of mind.

His phone buzzed. Spencer again:

Dude. Just read about a tournament in Fiji. Orchid Isle Championship. You going? We should TOTALLY go together.

My dad knows the organizer. I could get us invites.

Hello??? You there? This is fate, bro.

Kenji stared at the texts, a plan beginning to form. He'd been ignoring the guy for weeks, but maybe...

The leather of his couch creaked as he sank into it, the smell of gun oil from his cleaning kit still detectable from his weekend maintenance ritual.

His laptop glowed blue-white in the darkness, the heat from its underside warming his thighs through worn sweatpants.

He'd killed the overhead lights hours ago, as if the shadows might somehow hide him from the reality of his situation.

The digital clock on his microwave blinked 0012, and sleep wasn't even a distant possibility.

His throat burned from the third cup of black coffee, the bitter aftertaste coating his tongue as he pulled the computer onto his lap and began a systematic assessment of options, the way he'd been trained to triage battlefield casualties.

The mechanical clicking of keyboard keys filled the silent apartment.

Identify all possibilities. Evaluate feasibility. Execute with precision.

Horse racing? Too unpredictable, and the payouts wouldn't be high enough even if he picked five winners in a row.

Sports betting? Same problem, plus the time factor—no major championships with appropriate stakes were scheduled before his deadline.

Day trading? He'd tried that route six months ago and lost eight thousand in forty minutes.

Underground fight clubs? He had the combat skills but not the connections, and the purses were too small anyway.

It always came back to poker.

The one arena where skill, strategy, and calculated risk could translate to significant payouts in a short timeframe. The one addiction he couldn't shake, no matter how many promises he made to himself.

His browser history betrayed him—bookmarked poker sites, tournament calendars, strategy forums. He sorted through upcoming events within driving distance, dismissing each for various reasons. Buy-ins too small. Player pool too skilled. Timeline too long.

That's when he saw it. The Orchid Isle International Championship.

"Two million dollar prize pool," he whispered into the darkness, the words hanging in the air like a prayer or a curse—maybe both.

The tournament details made his pulse quicken.

Hosted at an exclusive resort on a private Fijian island.

Satellite qualifiers starting Friday, Fiji time, with $5,000 buy-ins.

The main event beginning the next day. The timing was perfect.

He could place high enough in the satellite to advance to the main event, then place high enough there to earn a share of the prize money.

He wouldn't be able to make it back to Hope Landing, but he could easily wire Vince his money by the deadline.

Maybe even get a few days on the beach after as celebration.

Easy peasy.

Winning the whole thing would be outstanding, but not necessary. He scanned the payout sheet. Yup. All he had to do was place in the top 25% and he'd have enough to get clear of his debt and get out of this shoddy apartment into a condo. Maybe even lake view.

His heart thundered against his ribs, pumping heat through his veins until his cheeks flushed and his fingertips tingled.

The electricity crawled beneath his skin, starting at the base of his spine and racing upward until his entire body hummed with an energy that made his hands tremble against the keyboard.

The sensation was intoxicating—a rush of alertness, of possibility, of power that made the dim apartment snap into hyper-focus, every detail crystalline in his vision.

Dopamine flood.

His medical training supplied the term for what was happening in his brain. The mere possibility of winning triggered the same neurochemical response that had hooked him in the first place.

And it didn't matter.

He could taste victory, could feel the weight of chips in his hand, could see himself walking away with enough money to clear his debt and start fresh.

The website showcased the luxury accommodations: white sand beaches, and high-end casino. Yadda yadda.

What caught his eye was the player roster from previous years. Celebrities. Business tycoons. Trust fund kids. A target-rich environment of wealthy amateurs with more money than skill—exactly the kind of field where his calculated aggression would have the highest advantage.

Then he saw the disclaimer: By invitation only .

His shoulders sagged. So close to a solution, only to hit another wall.

Unless...

Kenji scrolled back to Spencer's messages. Spencer had said his dad knew the organizer. Could get invitations. Kenji had been avoiding him precisely because Spencer's hero worship made him feel like a fraud. But desperate times...

The prayer that rose to his lips wasn't new—he'd been bargaining with God for months, each plea more desperate than the last.

Lord, I know I've been avoiding You. Haven't been to church since Easter.

Haven't opened my Bible except to move it when I'm looking for my passport.

But I need this. Just this one tournament.

Help me win enough to clear this debt. I'll get my money situation squared away, then I'll come back.

Back to church. Back to You. I'll tell the team everything.

Get their support. Their prayers. Just let me clear this debt first.

Please.

Shame washed over him—the same feeling he got when praying only when desperate. He was like those soldiers who found religion in foxholes, except his battlefield was of his own making.

"Only one way out," he whispered, picking up his phone.

His thumb hesitated over Spencer's contact. He'd be ecstatic. Would probably want to talk for an hour about SEAL training and poker strategies. But it was past midnight, and even Spencer had to sleep sometime...

He typed out a text instead:

Hey Spencer. About that Orchid Isle tournament. Still able to get an invitation?

The response came before he could even set the phone down:

Spencer: DUDE YES!!! I knew you'd come around. Consider it done. This is going to be EPIC. When do we leave??

Kenji stared at the "we" in that message. Of course Spencer would assume they were going together. Of course this would become infinitely more complicated than just obtaining an invitation.

Let me check some things first. But yeah, get the invites. I owe you.

Spencer: You don't owe me anything! This is what friends do!

Friends.

The word hit harder than it should have. Spencer barely knew him, had no idea what kind of man he really was, and still threw that word around like it meant something.

Kenji closed the laptop and stood, stretching muscles grown stiff from hours of tension. His duffel was already in the closet—packed and ready like always, a habit from years of middle-of-the-night deployments. He'd need to swap out tactical gear for civilian clothes.

As he lay down on his bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, he ran the calculations one more time. Five thousand to enter the satellite. Top 25% advance to the main event. Top 25% of the main event walk away with sizable cash.

If the field was as soft as he suspected, his odds were outstanding.

One last tournament.

One final score.

The mantra followed him into uneasy dreams, where he stood at a poker table surrounded by faceless opponents, cards falling from the ceiling like rain.