Page 38 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)

The storm howled against the ballroom’s windows, a banshee scream of wind and fury that shook the walls like a war drum. From his perch in the mezzanine shadows, Kenji crouched low, rifle steady, every nerve wound tight.

The humidity was oppressive, a thick, choking blanket amplified by the ballroom's lack of ventilation since the hurricane had begun its brutal assault.

Sweat pooled between Kenji's shoulder blades, tracing uncomfortable paths beneath his tactical vest. The salty tang of ocean spray mixed with the sharp scent of splintered wood and shattered plaster, making each breath a bitter cocktail of desperation.

This was the plan. He’d agreed to it.

But every protective instinct he possessed hated it with a white-hot fire.

Below, Cassidy lay still—half-buried in the debris they’d staged earlier, her silhouette just visible in the flickering red glow of emergency lights.

A torn evening wrap lay across her legs like a shroud, her elegant gown now marred by dirt and shredded fabric.

Her left hand was hidden beneath a cracked slab of plaster.

That was where her weapon waited, a hidden lifeline in this lethal charade.

Kenji’s chest tightened painfully as he watched her motionless form.

The sight of her vulnerable, exposed like this, struck deeper than he’d anticipated.

Cassidy was strong, composed, fearless in ways he admired.

But seeing her so dangerously still made his throat close up in an unexpected surge of protectiveness.

If he breathed wrong, Vega might see it was all sleight of hand.

He checked the visual signals again—one blink from Cassidy. All clear. Sophia’s feed on the comm tablet showed movement in the eastern hall. Kenji angled his weapon, heart thudding. He whispered to himself, “Come on. Walk into it.”

Lightning stuttered through the ballroom’s glass wall, momentarily bathing the ruined space in silver.

It revealed everything—the shattered chandeliers lying twisted and broken like fallen angels, glittering shards of crystal scattered across the marble floor like diamonds in the dark.

The storm-tossed foliage had blown in from the gardens, chaotic and wild, a stark contrast to the ballroom’s former elegance.

And at the center, Cassidy Reynolds lay still as death.

Beautiful and broken, like her dream of Haven House if they failed tonight.

A flicker on the feed. Movement.

Vega entered like he owned the place—casual, confident, his tailored coat pristine despite the storm. Webb trailed behind him, a little more wary, sweeping the corners with a sidearm at the ready.

Kenji’s breath hissed through his teeth. Too calm. Too easy. Vega moved like a man already certain of victory. Kenji despised that arrogance. His finger hovered on the trigger, muscles tensed, adrenaline sharpening every sense to a razor’s edge. “Just a little closer…” he urged silently.

They stopped ten feet from Cassidy. Webb scanned the room, then glanced at Vega for instruction. The crime boss gave a single, authoritative nod.

Kenji watched as Vega’s gaze settled on the figure in the debris. For a moment, the man didn’t move. Then—slowly, almost reverently—he stepped forward. The crunch of glass beneath his polished shoes echoed like bones breaking in the hollowed ballroom.

Kenji’s finger tightened incrementally on the trigger.

Vega paused beside Cassidy’s motionless form. He tilted his head slightly, as if studying a valuable, intriguing artifact. He crouched next to her, the soles of his polished shoes crunching the scattered debris.

Kenji’s pulse pounded fiercely in his ears.

Then Cassidy moved.

She rose from the rubble with quiet power, her sidearm already trained steadily on Vega’s chest.

“The house,” she said, voice steady and low, “doesn’t always win.”

Kenji exhaled shakily. For one breathless moment, the advantage was theirs.

Vega froze.

Webb jerked back a step, eyes wide with surprise.

Kenji’s sights locked on Vega’s head. He had the angle. He could end this now—but something stopped him.

Cassidy. Pale, yes—but composed. Terrified, perhaps, but unwavering. She stood like someone who believed she had something worth dying for.

His heart broke a little right then, even as it surged with fierce pride.

Vega lifted his hands slightly, not in surrender, but as a calculated gesture of amusement.

“Oh, Miss Reynolds,” he said, smiling like a professor humoring a failing student. “Did you really think I’d fall for such an amateur play?”

Kenji’s stomach plummeted.

Movement flickered in his periphery. Cassidy saw it too—her eyes flashed toward him in a silent, urgent warning.

Too late.

From the service doors to the east, from the storm-access hallway behind the bar, from the ruined balcony at Kenji’s six—they emerged.

Armed, armored, and lethally real.

Six—no, seven men. Tactical gear. Suppressed weapons. Muzzle lights sliced through the dust like blades of light.

Not resort security.

Mercenaries.

Kenji pivoted slowly, tracking targets. Not enough bullets. Not enough cover. Not enough time.

Cassidy stood her ground, weapon still raised, but he saw it—the realization in her eyes. No good moves left.

Webb stepped forward, rifle trained squarely on her chest.

Vega sighed dramatically. “Always so dramatic. You do make things interesting.”

Kenji felt his body coil with desperate need to act. He could take one, maybe two—but the rest would mow her down. His jaw ground tight, palms slick with sweat.

“God,” he breathed, low and fervent, “if You’ve got a miracle left, now would be the moment.”

Cassidy didn’t lower her weapon.

Kenji held his position, heart thundering, senses screaming in overdrive.

Across the wreckage, beneath the fractured ballroom ceiling and the pounding roar of judgment outside, Vega smiled.

“Let’s talk about leverage,” the man said.

Kenji’s finger tightened on the trigger, eyes scanning frantically for any opening, any weakness at all. Nothing.

Then, just as Vega stepped forward, a hurricane-drenched spotlight flickered to life from the ballroom’s failing rigging—one final gasp from the dying resort.

It cast Cassidy in a halo of wet, defiant light.

Alone. Outnumbered. Unarmed.

Except she wasn’t. Because he was still here. And he wasn’t done fighting yet.