Last Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #7)

Prologue

The iPad screen cast the only light in the abandoned miner’s shack, painting shadows on walls Griff had memorized down to every crack and water stain. Four months in places like this—roach motels, abandoned offices, a shipping container once, becoming what he'd always been best at: a ghost.

The encrypted connection crackled to life, and suddenly the interior of the Hope Landing church filled his screen. His chest constricted.

Home, he thought, then immediately crushed the sentiment. A luxury he couldn't afford. Not with the men who ordered Tank's death still breathing.

"Testing, testing," Kenji's voice came through. "I hope you can see us, big guy."

Griff's fingers hovered over the keyboard. One typed response could reveal his location, his IP address carefully masked but still a breadcrumb. Even this—watching his best friend's wedding through stolen satellite feeds and encrypted connections—was a risk.

"Crystal clear," he finally murmured to the empty room, knowing Kenji couldn't hear him.

The camera panned across the lodge's great room, and Griff catalogued every detail with the obsession of a man studying proof of life. Mason jars filled with wildflowers.

Jade’s touch, probably. White lights strung between beams—definitely the mother of the groom’s insistence on "ambiance." The crackling fires, the laughter already starting to fill the space.

All of it felt like watching through bulletproof glass. Present but untouchable.

You chose this, he reminded himself. Every sleepless night, every cold meal, every time you didn't call. You chose this.

"Incoming chaos at two o'clock," Kenji muttered, and the camera swung toward the entrance.

Silver hair glinting in the light, Admiral Knight strode in with his wife, Minerva.

Griff's jaw clenched. The Admiral had sent three encrypted messages in the past months.

Three attempts to bring him home. Three messages Griff had deleted unread because reading them would've made him weak, and weak men didn't catch killers.

The original Knight Tactical team filed in behind them. Jack Reese with his kids—when had the twins gotten so big? Time moved differently in the shadows. You missed things. First steps. First words. First everythings.

Austin and Lauren arrived with their toddler, and Griff noticed Austin's slight favoring of his left side. Old injury acting up? New injury he didn't know about? Months of missed intelligence, missed moments, missed chances to have his team’s back.

"DJ! DJ! You're here!"

Little Chantal's voice pierced through his self-recrimination. Seven years old, purple unicorn dress, rainbow combat boots. The pure joy on her face as DJ caught her and spun her around. When was the last time Griff had felt anything close to that uncomplicated happiness?

The night before Tank died, his memory supplied helpfully. Poker. Tank bluffing with a pair of threes and that stupid grin.

"Will you save me a dance?" Chantal asked DJ, bouncing on her toes. "A real one, not a baby one?"

"You got it. But only if you show me those combat moves your mom's been teaching you."

"Where's the groom?" Christian Murphy's voice cut through, and Griff leaned closer to the screen involuntarily.

Watching Ronan and his half-brother knit together a true relationship had been what brought the two special forces teams together in the end.

The best thing that had ever happened to him.

The irony wasn't lost on him—while he was out here alone, the team was literally becoming family. Marriages, adoptions, bonds he could only observe through stolen pixels.

The camera found Ronan’s mom, Victoria, holding court with old friends. Everyone pairing off, building something, while Griff built nothing but a case file of dead ends and almost-leads.

This is the price, he told himself. The only way to keep his people safe and still bring Tank justice.

But watching Ronan appear in his dress uniform, looking vulnerable in a way Griff had never seen—that nearly broke him. Ronan, who'd taken the fall for all of them, had found his way home. Had found love, family, redemption.

And you? What have you found?

Blood. Bodies. Bank records that led nowhere. A conspiracy that grew tentacles every time he cut one off.

Christian moved to Ronan's side. "You good?"

"Terrified."

Christian punched his brother in the arm. “As it should be, bro.”

The music shifted to that age-old tune. Here Comes the Bride. The crowd hushed.

Maya appeared in the doorway, radiant in simple white, her father beaming in his own dress blues.

Ronan’s face transformed. Love. Pure, uncomplicated, transformative love. The kind that made you believe in something beyond the mission. Beyond the fight.

Once Lawrence escorted Maya to the dais and put her hand in Ronan’s, Pastor Dan stepped forward.

Griff didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Even hundreds of miles away, he didn’t want to break the spell.

"Dearly beloved," Pastor began, and Griff found himself mouthing the introduction along with him. How many weddings had he attended? How many times had he stood as best man, wingman, brother-in-arms?

Now he was a ghost watching through glass.

The ceremony unfolded with the beautiful chaos he'd expect of his found family. Chantal's stage-whispered commentary to DJ. Jade and Lauren and Kelli trying to maintain order while Deke grinned at the pandemonium.

They're happy. They're safe. That's what matters.

But were they?

Months of hunting, and he was no closer to the source. He’d found peripheral players. Hired guns. Middle management. The real architects of Sentinel remained shadows. Shadows that could reach out and destroy everything on that screen with a single order.

When Ronan and Maya kissed, the room erupted in joy, tears slid down his face.

Kenji’s face, three-day stubble and all, flooded the screen. “Well, dude, there you have it. Hope you’re watching. I think you are.” He turned serious. “We miss you. Let us in, bro. Soon.”

The screen went dark, only adding to the heartache. “Wish you well, guys.” He whispered a toast to the newlyweds.

You're the reason they're safe to be happy. Your absence is your gift.

He wanted to believe it.

"Lord," he whispered into the darkness, "I don't know if You're listening to someone like me anymore, but please... keep them safe. They're good people. Better than me. They deserve this happiness. And Tank..." His voice cracked. "Tell Tank I'm trying. I'm trying to make it right."

The notification hit his screen like a slap.

PRIORITY INTEL INTERCEPT: FBI Financial Crimes Division Status: ACTIVE INVESTIGATION - STILLWATER ACCOUNTS Current Location: FBI secondary research center, Arlington, VA 1437 hrs

Griff's heartbeat spiked. Someone else was following the money. Or trying to cover up a loose end. Just because whoever pinged his net had done it from inside a federal facility didn’t mean a thing. A rear admiral had ordered Tank’s killing. Griff didn’t trust anyone, official or not.

On the iPad, Chantal was standing on DJ's feet, her rainbow boots flashing as he carefully waltzed her around the floor. Pure innocence. The thing they all fought to protect.

On screen, Ronan pulled Maya close for another dance, whispering something that made her laugh. Behind them, Christian had his arm around his wife, Whitney, watching his brother with an expression of profound peace.

Peace. A foreign concept now.

He closed the iPad, cutting off the feed from paradise. The room plunged into darkness, only him and the shadows he'd made his home.

He stood, bones creaking from too many hours hunched over screens and files. His go-bag was already packed—it always was. Cash, weapons, clean documents. The tools of a man who'd chosen vengeance over peace.

One last look at the dark iPad. Behind that black screen, his family was dancing, laughing, living.

The ghost was about to become very real.

Whoever was buzzing around those Stillwater accounts was about to become either his greatest ally—or his last mistake.