Page 51 of Rogue Hope
Finn craned his neck toward the windshield, staring at the sagging cabin in front of them. “Are you serious?”
Zara’s teammates had nothing but rave reviews—astonishment, really—for Christian Murphy’s legendary safehouses. Clearly, none of them had holed up in this place. The weathered cabin at the end of the sketchy dirt road looked like it had been abandoned.
A hundred years ago.
Peeling paint, a sagging front porch with missing boards, cobweb-draped windows—the perfect picture of rural neglect nestled among towering ponderosa pines just outside Flagstaff. He cut the engine of the nondescript sedan they’d acquired through one of his old contacts, letting silence settle around them like the fine layer of dust coating the vehicle.
Zara grinned. “Just wait. That’s Christian’s specialty—weaponized appearance on the outside. Luxury on the inside.”
After confirming they hadn’t been followed—a painstaking process involving multiple route changes, a vehicle swap, and two hours of additional driving—they approached the cabin cautiously. Zara located the hidden security panel camouflagedas peeling bark on a nearby tree trunk. The biometric scanner was virtually invisible until activated by the precise sequence of pressure points she pressed.
A soft click, barely audible, signaled their clearance. The scanner glowed momentarily green before fading back to perfect camouflage. The cabin door opened silently.
“I go.” Glock in hand, Finn moved past her, heading gingerly up the sagging steps, bracing himself to fall through a stair. Or meet up with a rattlesnake.
Stepping inside, he couldn’t suppress a small gasp of surprise.
Zara was right.
The interior bore no resemblance whatsoever to the decrepit exterior. Sleek, modern surfaces gleamed under recessed lighting. A spacious open-concept design featured state-of-the-art appliances in the kitchen area, luxurious but functional furniture in the living space, and cutting-edge security monitors discreetly embedded in what appeared to be abstract art pieces.
“Unbelievable,” he breathed, turning slowly to take in the full scope of the transformation. “This is ... incredible.”
“Christian never does anything halfway,” Zara observed with the casual familiarity of someone accustomed to such accommodations, securing the door behind them.
He pointed at the dust-streaked windows.
“SpectraVeil,” she announced proudly.
“That really exists?”
She grinned. “Apparently.”
He drifted closer. He’d heard about the tech. Actually, he had every detail of the proposed tech implanted in his brain from the journal article he’d scanned. Adaptive Light Refraction (ALR) technology purported to transform windows into hyper-realistic, dynamic projections of an expected interior environment—such as an abandoned cabin or empty warehouse—when viewed from outside, while allowing crystal-clear visibility from within.
He’d been skeptical. And clearly wrong.
Forcing himself to turn away from the window, he shook his head. “Knight Tactical operates on a whole ‘nother level.”
Zara shrugged, but he could tell his observation pleased her.
Which pleased him way more than he wanted to admit.
The safehouse was impeccably appointed—not with flashy luxuries but with the precise comforts that operatives on the run would appreciate most. Temperature-regulated to perfection. Lighting designed to minimize eye strain. Furniture that supported proper posture.
Zara moved to one wall, pressing her palm against an apparently solid surface. A panel slid open silently, revealing an impressive array of weapons and gear—all perfectly organized, cleaned, and ready for immediate use.
“Impressive,” Finn acknowledged, unable to hide his admiration as he conducted his own assessment of the space.
She closed the weapons panel. “Christian’s paranoia makes the rest of us look like carefree optimists. Plus, he has great taste.”
Finn wandered toward the kitchen area, marveling at the thoroughness. The refrigerator contained perfectly portioned meals clearly labeled with calorie counts and nutritional information. The pantry held vacuum-sealed packages of gourmet provisions with extended shelf lives. Even the coffee station featured multiple high-end options alongside precisely measured brewing instructions for optimal caffeine delivery.
“This makes CIA safe houses look like abandoned storage units,” Finn remarked, running his hand along the pristine countertop. “We were lucky to get working plumbing and packaged MREs.”
Despite its relatively small footprint, the safehouse felt spacious—until they both reached for the same protein bar in the kitchen at exactly the same moment. Their hands collided awkwardly, both pulling back as if burned by the contact.
“Sorry—go ahead,” Finn offered, stepping back to create distance.
