Page 1 of Rogue Hope
1
Apparently,patriotic glitter stuck to tactical gear like napalm.
Who knew?
Zara Khoury swiped at the sparkles coating her forearms, already knowing they’d turn up for weeks—in her vest, during briefings, probably lodged in her weapon’s maintenance kit. The CIA-trained security specialist surveyed the disaster zone masquerading as Knight Tactical’s award-winning float entry. Who knew a small-town parade would rival that arms dealer takedown in Bogotá for sheer complexity?
The hangar echoed with bickering as her team cobbled together what might become Hope Landing’s most elaborate pirate ship float—or its most spectacular safety hazard.
“Deke! Move that beam again and the mast crashes on DJ’s head.” Axel’s voice came muffled from beneath the skeleton of the ship’s bow, his massive frame wedged into a space meant for someone half his size. “Basic physics, man.”
Deke Williams—former NFL linebacker, retired SEAL, veteran of three wars—couldn’t hammer a straight nail. “Follow your ‘calculations’ and we’ll still be building this thing at Christmas.”
“Better slow than collapsed,” Axel fired back.
Zara hid her smile, applying another handful of silver glitter to the cardboard treasure chest. Morning sunlight sliced through the high windows, highlighting dust motes and the sparkly invasion overtaking their state-of-the-art facility. The hangar—usually home to their jet, helicopter, and gear—now hosted this patriotic monstrosity.
Griffin dropped a perfectly straight eight-foot length of wood next to Deke. “Problem solved,” he muttered, then retreated to the ship’s wheel before anyone could rope him into more drama.
“Show-off,” Deke grumbled, but grabbed the wood with clear relief.
Zara shifted position, ignoring the stiffness. The low-grade fever that greeted her this morning waved a red flag—her lupus threatening to flare. She stretched her fingers wide, then clenched them into fists, working through the morning stiffness while everyone focused elsewhere.
“Add more glitter to that chest and we‘ll need to register it as a WMD,” Ronan Quinn said, dropping down beside her. Silver sparkles dusted his dark hair, aging him thirty years overnight.
“Says the man who looks like he just face-planted at a fairy convention,” she fired back, flicking more glitter his way.
Ronan’s girlfriend, and the team’s newest recruit, Maya Chen, adjusted the not-quite-historically-accurate Jolly Roger she’d spent three hours painting. “Should’ve gone with authenticity—black flag, skeleton holding an hourglass.”
“And handle the crying children?” Ronan called back.
“Some kids appreciate authenticity,” Maya replied, chin lifted.
Olivia Drake, Axel’s psychologist girlfriend, laughed as she painted golden trim along the railings. “I can settle this with professional expertise,” she offered. “No charge.”
“No therapy during float building!” several voices chorused, a team rule established after Olivia accidentally transformed their last party into a group session about holiday stress.
Deke’s fifteen-year-old son, DJ, sat cross-legged on the concrete, surrounded by tangled LED lights he programmed to simulate water. “I’d pay serious cash to watch Dr. Drake psychoanalyze everyone’s pirate preferences,” he said without looking up from his laptop.
Zara’s phone buzzed on the workbench. She reached for it, expecting Izzy checking in from her California vacation.
“Tell Izzy we need an actual mechanic,” Deke said, straightening. “These instructions read like quantum physics.”
“I’m sure she’s devastated to miss this,” Zara said, checking her screen.
Not Izzy. Unknown number. The words froze her blood.
I know your secret, Zara. Your illness won’t stay hidden much longer.
Years of covert ops training kept her expression neutral as she angled the phone away from Ronan’s line of sight.
“All good?” Maya asked, sharp-eyed former detective missing nothing.
“Just spam,” Zara replied, voice deliberately casual. She pocketed the phone and stood, brushing glitter from her jeans. “Gotta check that encryption plan for Westland. Back in a few.”
“Abandoning ship?” Deke called. “That’s mutiny, Khoury!”
“I’ll bring actual coffee when I return,” she promised, already heading for the stairs. “Not that motor oil you’ve been brewing.”
