Page 8 of Rogue Hope
“The kiddie pool is six inches deep,” Deke deadpanned.
“And yet somehow Kenji managed to nearly drown in it,” Axel called from behind a cardboard sail.
“That was ONE time!” Kenji protested from somewhere beneath the float. “I was demonstrating a rescue maneuver!”
“You tripped over your own shoelace and faceplanted,” Deke corrected. “While holding nachos.”
“Which you refused to share,” Axel added.
Zara laughed, the sound feeling foreign after her tense morning. “I’ll help, but only if I get to wear the captain’s hat. I have a strict ‘no walking planks without proper headgear’ policy.”
“Done,” Deke said, tossing her a plastic tricorn with a peacock feather that had seen better days. “Though fair warning—last person who wore that was Kenji, and we all know about his relationship with personal hygiene.”
“I’m literally right here,” came the muffled comment.
“And we can smell you,” Ronan and Deke replied in unison.
For the next hour, she lost herself in the creative chaos, laughing with her teammates as they put the finishing touches on their float. Outwardly, she matched their enthusiasm, but internally, she renewed her promise to protect them, no matter what personal cost she might face.
Three days. Whatever instructions arrived, whatever threat loomed, she would face it with the same determination that had carried her through the darkest moments of her life. Faith didn’t mean absence of fear—it meant finding courage despite it.
“Lord, give me strength,” she whispered almost inaudibly as she handed Griff a hammer. “And wisdom to know when to stand alone and when to ask for help.”
The answer might determine whether her life as she knew it truly ended, as the message had threatened. But more importantly, it might determine whether the people she loved remained safe from whatever storm was gathering on the horizon.
5
Finn sat alonein a corner booth at the Timberline Diner, absently rotating the icy soda glass between his palms. Outside the window, twilight settled over Hope Landing’s main street, where locals bustled about making final preparations for tomorrow’s parade. Inside, the diner hummed with conversation and laughter, families and friends sharing meals and stories in the warm, golden light.
The contrast between their camaraderie and his isolation wasn’t lost on him.
His right thumb unconsciously found the small wooden cross hanging from a leather cord around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt. A habit formed over the past five years, especially when wrestling with difficult decisions. The simple cross had been a gift from the hospital chaplain who’d sat with him through a fever-wracked night in a Bangkok clinic, when sepsis from a knife wound had nearly accomplished what the CIA extraction team couldn’t two years earlier.
“The Lord’s not finished with you yet, son,” the aging missionary had told him when Finn regained consciousness three days later.
That night had marked the beginning of his faith journey—a conversion that still felt raw and unfinished most days. How different his life might have been if he’d found faith sooner. Before Cipher had manipulated him into becoming the perfect operative. Before Paris. Before Zara.
Before he’d destroyed any future they might have had together.
He’d chosen this spot strategically—back to the wall, clear sightline to both the entrance and the kitchen exit, partially obscured by a large fern. Old habits. Seven years of operating in the shadows had ingrained certain precautions that he couldn’t shake even in this seemingly idyllic mountain town.
His bruised eye had drawn a few curious glances when he’d first entered, but the dinner rush had quickly diverted attention elsewhere. Small mercies.
He pulled out his notebook, pretending to review notes while mentally recalling every detail of the restaurant with perfect clarity: thirty-seven patrons, four staff members visible, two security cameras (one functional, one dummy), eight possible exit routes including the ceiling vent in the men’s restroom. His photographic memory had always been both gift and curse—endless mental snapshots filed away with perfect recall, accessible in an instant. The CIA had valued this ability almost as much as they’d resented it; a human who never forgot anything was both an asset and liability.
He mentally cycled through surveillance options. Knight Tactical’s headquarters, according to his research, was a state-of-the-art facility with comprehensive security systems—many likely designed by Zara herself. He’d memorized the building schematics, security patrol schedules, and network specifications from a single viewing. Still, direct observation there would be nearly impossible without detection.
Her apartment presented similar challenges. Located in a renovated historic building on Third Street, it offered limited vantage points and a security system that would undoubtedly flag any suspicious activity.
The parade, then, seemed his best opportunity. Public gatherings provided natural cover, allowing him to blend with the crowd while maintaining visual contact. But they also created unpredictable variables and limited his ability to intervene if a threat materialized.
He frowned, tapping his pen against the notebook. Each scenario he constructed contained fatal flaws. Too close, and he risked Zara recognizing him. Too distant, and he couldn’t provide effective protection if Cipher made a move against her.
And he was certain Cipher would make a move. The criminal mastermind hadn’t devoted resources to tracking and attacking Finn for casual reasons. Something significant had changed in their seven-year chess match, something that made eliminating him a priority.
The only question was whether Zara had been similarly targeted. After Paris, he’d kept tabs on her. Whether by choice or CIA orders, she’d joined up with Ronan Quinn’s SEAL team as agency liaison. Clearly, the relationship had stuck because she’d eventually left the CIA to join her team in the private security world.
She’d found a family. Good for her.
