Page 6 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)

Kenji's first breath of Orchid Isle air hit him like a warm, wet towel to the face.

After the crisp mountain oxygen of Hope Landing, the tropical humidity wrapped around him in layers of heat and sweetness. He'd gone from high-altitude autumn to full-on summer in less than twenty-four hours, leaving behind a world of pine and granite for one of palm trees and white sand.

Not that he was complaining. If salvation smelled like seaweed and coconut sunscreen, so be it.

The resort's private car service had met him at the airport—a sleek black Escalade with tinted windows and a driver who took his weathered duffel with the same white-gloved care he might handle Louis Vuitton.

Now, as they wound along the resort's private drive, Kenji catalogued details.

Three security checkpoints. Cameras disguised as landscaping fixtures.

Staff-to-guest ratio would be off-the-charts, one-to-three, or better.

But it was the security personnel that caught his attention. These weren't rental cops or hotel security. The men at the checkpoints had the bearing of former military, the kind of situational awareness that came from surviving combat zones. Their suits couldn't hide the bulge of shoulder holsters.

High-end security for a poker tournament?

The tremor in his hands wasn't withdrawal—it was anticipation. Twenty-six hours since his last game, but instead of his body protesting, it was singing with electric expectation. His neurons were already firing with the promise of what was coming.

The resort revealed itself like a magic trick—hedges parting to showcase a palace of white stone and glass rising from manicured perfection.

The main building's architecture blended colonial elegance with tropical flair.

Beyond it stretched the turquoise Pacific, impossibly blue against brilliant white sand.

The air carried hints of plumeria, suntan lotion, and money—lots of it.

"Paradise, sir," the driver commented, misreading Kenji's assessment for tourist awe.

"Something like that," he replied, eyes tracking two more security teams patrolling the grounds. Former Spetsnaz, maybe? That one's definitely Israeli military.

His phone buzzed. Spencer. Again.

Dude I'm 20 minutes behind you. Dad's pilot had to file a new flight plan. Can't WAIT to see this place. Did you check in yet? Should I request rooms near each other?

Kenji sighed. He’d managed to avoid flying with the guy, but the texts had been nonstop. Man, he hated in-flight WiFi.

What should I pack? Do they have a dress code? Should I bring my lucky cards? Is it true SEALs can kill someone with a playing card?

Now Spencer was almost here, and Kenji would have to manage an overeager civilian while fighting his own demons and trying to win enough money to save his life.

The car pulled up to the resort's grand entrance. Staff materialized to handle his single bag, their movements choreographed and efficient. As the bellhop reached for his duffel, Kenji noticed the man's hands—scarred knuckles, a faded tattoo peeking from under his cuff that looked Cyrillic.

Russian mob? Here?

"Your Ocean View King Suite has been prepared, Mr. Marshall. Pedro will escort you."

Kenji followed, but his mind was cataloging anomalies.

His gaze flicked past the reception desk to a small, steel-doored service elevator tucked in the corner.

The control panel inside had a lower-level button marked 'restricted'—a floor that didn’t appear on any of the guest maps.

He filed it away without comment, but the hairs along his neck prickled.

Why did a luxury resort need special-ops-level security and staff with criminal connections? What kind of poker tournament required this level of protection?

His suite was larger than his entire apartment—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing panoramic ocean views, a fully-stocked bar that he immediately ignored. As a Christian and someone in recovery, he'd never touched alcohol—one of the few lines he'd never crossed, even at his lowest.

He turned his back on the bar. At least he’d never crossed that boundary.

He checked his phone for distraction. Another text from Spencer:

Just landed. This place is INSANE. The guy at customs had a gun. An actual gun. Is that normal?

No, it wasn't normal. Nothing about this was normal.

Kenji stepped onto the balcony, ostensibly admiring the view while actually conducting surveillance. The resort's layout spread before him—main building, multiple restaurants, beach facilities, and there, connected by a covered walkway, the casino.

Even from a distance, it exerted a gravitational pull.

His palms began to sweat, heart rate accelerating—not from deprivation but from proximity to his drug of choice.

The tremor in his hands was excitement, pure and simple.

His body knew what was coming and craved it like a man in the desert seeing water.

The familiar electricity crawled beneath his skin, dopamine already flooding his system from being this close to action. He recognized the response: elevated heart rate, perspiration, hyperfocus—the same physiological response as someone about to use their drug of choice.

His phone rang. Spencer. He answered, but before he could finish “hello” the guy started in.

"Bro. I'm here. Just saw the most gorgeous woman at registration. Australian accent. Auburn hair. Total goddess. Think she's here for the tournament?"

"Spence—"

"Oh, and there's a blonde with her. Classically beautiful, you know? Like Grace Kelly beautiful. Very poker-player vibe. I might know her from somewhere. They seem close. We could totally double date."

"Spencer." Kenji pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need to concentrate on playing cards.”

"Right. I hear you, Sensei. Eyes on the prize, my SEAL mentor."

"I'm not your mentor."

"Yet. Growth mindset, my friend. Anyway, I'm checking in now. The security here is intense. Doesn’t seem normal."

Kenji watched another patrol pass below—two men whose synchronized movement screamed specialized training. "It's not normal."

"Oh. Well. That's... concerning?" Spencer's voice lost some of its enthusiasm. "Should we be worried?"

Absolutely , Kenji thought, watching a staff member report to someone who was clearly a handler, not a supervisor.

"Be careful," he said aloud. "And Spence? Try not to draw attention to yourself."

"I hear you. Blend in. Be invisible. I can do that." A pause. "Oh, the blonde lady dropped her passport. I should help?—"

"Spencer, no?—"

But the line had already gone dead.

Kenji closed his eyes, feeling the pre-game tension build.

His body was already preparing for what was coming—muscles tensing with anticipation, mind sharpening despite the chaos around him.

This was his drug working exactly as designed, flooding him with the promise of action, risk, the sweet possibility of victory.

One thing at a time. Register for the tournament. Excel at the satellite. Everything else is secondary.

But as he prepared to leave for the casino, one thought kept nagging at him: What kind of poker tournament needed this much security?

His phone buzzed one more time.

Spencer: Her name is Cassidy Reynolds. The blonde. She's a pro player.

The ANGEL OF THE FELT. Thought I recognized her. Also her assistant seems suspicious of me. Australian accent got stronger when I complimented her eyes. Is that a tell?

Kenji stared at the message. Cassidy Reynolds was here. The woman whose foundation had disrupted trafficking operations across the globe. The woman whose picture he'd seen in security briefings about civilian assets who'd inadvertently interfered with criminal networks.

The pieces clicked together with horrible clarity. This wasn't a poker tournament.

This was a hunting ground.

And they were all prey.