Hope Landing - 12 hours before Chapter 1
Finn eased out of the diner's glow and let the cool night wrap around him like an old friend. Main Street was half-lit—enough illumination for families hanging bunting with more enthusiasm than skill, not enough for cameras to pick out a face that preferred anonymity.
He couldn't help but smile at the chaos. Hope Landing took its Fourth of July seriously, apparently.
He drifted past a truck full of teenagers decorating a flatbed with red-white-and-blue surfboards that defied both physics and good taste. One kid balanced a boom box on his shoulder, crackling with country music and adolescent confidence. The kid caught Finn watching and threw him a salute.
"Nice moves," Finn called out, returning the gesture. The easy camaraderie made something twist in his chest. He'd almost forgotten what normal felt like.
Half a block up, he ducked into the alley where he'd stashed his rental SUV beneath a sagging cedar that looked like it had weathered more storms than Finn had ops. His brain noted the wrongness before his eyes did: condensation still marbled the windshield but the side mirror was dry—someone had wiped it to check sightlines.
Well, Lord, he thought wryly, guess You're testing my reflexes tonight.
He pivoted, hand already beneath his jacket. Too slow, but points for trying.
A figure stepped from the shadows, machete-thin and moving like smoke. The first punch drove air from Finn's lungs—professionally delivered, almost polite in its efficiency. The second split the scab on his cheekbone, making him see stars that definitely weren't part of Hope Landing's festive lighting.
"Really?" Finn grunted, rolling with the hit. "Couldn't wait until after the parade?"
His elbow found the man's kidney with satisfying accuracy. A grunt—male, disciplined, probably wondering why his target was critiquing his timing. Knife flashed; Finn caught the wrist, twisted, felt tendons protest. The blade clattered to concrete with a sound like dropped silverware at a fancy dinner.
The attacker switched tactics—short, brutal strikes meant to disable rather than kill. Vanguard style. Finn recognized the rhythm; he'd drilled the same pattern in Langley basements back when he thought the good guys wore suits and the bad guys wore... well, also suits, but different ones.
A car engine purred at the far end of the alley, headlights cutting through the dark like divine intervention. Both men froze—two professionals caught in an awkward dance.
The stranger jerked free, retrieved his knife with surprising grace for someone who'd just had his bell rung, and melted into the darkness just as the sedan rolled past. The driver was singing along to worship music, blissfully unaware of the interrupted mayhem.
Finn pressed a palm to his throbbing ribs and swallowed copper. At least it wasn't as bad as that truck stop in Nevada—now that had been a knife fight with commitment issues.
Vanguard operatives usually finished what they started. Tonight's hasty exit meant surveillance, not assassination. They were tracking his proximity to Zara, taking notes like overachieving students.
Cipher's getting nervous. Good.
Finn climbed into the SUV and keyed the ignition with fingers that only shook a little. A fresh text blinked on the burner phone wedged in his console:
You can't hide forever, Finn.
"Working on it," he muttered, deleting the message. "But thanks for the reminder."
Four Hours Later – Forest Service Overlook
He parked on a ridge above town, emergency brake complaining about the incline. Below, Hope Landing slept beneath coastal mist, its lighthouse beam slicing through darkness with reassuring constancy—God's own night-light for a town that believed in both faith and good outdoor lighting.
Finn powered down the SUV and opened his notebook—battered, coffee-stained, held together with duct tape and determination.
Objective: Protect Zara Khoury
Variables: Cipher strike window unknown. Parade = highest civilian density (also highest corn dog density—possible tactical advantage?). Knight Tactical HQ = high security, high risk of exposure, probably has good coffee. Her apartment = limited sight lines but she keeps that plant by the window—the one that somehow survives her black thumb.
He sketched crude diagrams, the pen digging trenches in paper already scarred by similar planning sessions. Every route to Zara ended with the same problem: him.
She'd believed him dead for seven years. Seeing him alive tomorrow—especially looking like he'd gone ten rounds with an alley—would be like watching her favorite movie reveal the hero was the villain all along. Which, to be fair, wasn't far from the truth.
But if Cipher got to her first...
Finn shut the notebook and bowed his head, still getting used to this whole prayer thing. "Lord," he said, the words coming easier now, like oil in an engine finally breaking in, "You've brought me this far. Through Paris, through the years of running, through that seriously questionable gas station coffee in Bakersfield. Lead me out of their traps tomorrow... and maybe help me find the words when she sees me. Because 'Sorry I faked my death and oh, by the way, there's a criminal organization trying to kill you' probably needs work."
Wind rattled pine needles against the SUV—nature's percussion section adding its own amen.
Dawn – Timberline Trailhead
He abandoned the SUV at first light, hiking the final mile on foot. His body protested—apparently alley fights weren't great for the joints—but the trail opened onto Hope Landing's south ridge like a revelation. Perfect reconnaissance, better than any satellite feed.
Through binoculars, he watched Zara's team wrestle with what had to be the world's most ambitious pirate ship float. Glitter exploded on the breeze like festive shrapnel, catching in her dark hair as she laughed at something Ronan said. The big man was gesturing wildly, probably explaining why pirates absolutely needed that many cannons.
The sight hit harder than any Vanguard operative could.
Seven years ago, he'd played her like a master violinist in Paris, earning her trust to steal Agency passwords—and somewhere between the lies and the mission, he'd lost his heart. The bitter irony wasn't lost on him: the best con he'd ever run had conned him worst of all.
Today he would guard her, unseen, a guardian angel with questionable credentials and excellent tactical training. He'd keep her safe until Cipher made its move... or until she spotted the ghost in the crowd.
Either way, the reckoning was coming. And Finn Novak—once the CIA's golden boy turned traitor, now just a man trying to make things right—intended to meet it with steady hands, clearer conscience, and faith sturdy enough to stand between the woman he'd wronged and the evil hunting them both.
Time to find out if redemption came in size Extra-Complicated.
He adjusted the binoculars, settling in for a long watch. At least the sunrise was beautiful—God painting the sky in shades of hope and second chances.
Finn was counting on both.
End of exclusive prequel. Catch the chaos, the chemistry, and the showdown with Cipher in Rogue Hope—on sale now!