Page 57 of Rogue Mission
“Interrogated,” I choke, wrenching my arm away from his. “She didn’t do any fucking thing wrong.”
“I know,” he says evenly. “I’m taking care of everything, the charges are very obviously falsified. Now I need for whatever monster has taken over your body to give back the jokester we all know.”
I narrow my eyes, unmasking my fury, letting him see the man he’s never met before today.
“Guess that’s about as likely to happen as you giving me flowers,” he mutters.
“Funeral flowers,” I snark, then I drop my voice low.
“You can say whatever you want.” I clip, my pulse throbbing in my temples as I lean in. “But I’m dead serious, and don’t see that changing any time soon. Then there’s no reason for her to be here, and there’s no reason for her to be in there alone. So you need to take me to her right. Fucking. Now.”
He glances at the officer waiting to take my gun. “He’s had a rough thirty-six hours. I’ll make sure he stays on his best behavior.”
I eject the magazine from my sidearm, clear the chamber and shove the weapon toward the officer who collects personal items belonging to anyone admitted into the inner sanctum of the facility.
The man won’t look me in the eyes as he catalogs my gun.
Good fucking thing he’s nose to paper. He might really be worried if he saw how serious I was about getting to my girl.
“This way,” another officer says crisply, turning on her boot to lead me into the bowels of the small precinct.
The building is old. The tiles worn from millions of shoe treads. The air is cold and unforgiving and all I can think about is the fact that Rosalie does not belong here.
Every step down the corridor makes my muscles tighten more, until I start to crack like thin ice.
“How long has she been here?” I glare at the boss’s profile as he falls in step with me.
“Twelve hours.”
Razor blades lodge in my throat.
All the hours we chased our asses looking for Beast she was here. Alone. Scared.
After she’d gotten SWATTED.
“Where is everyone else?” I demand as we pass a bullpen. Several officers turn to stare as we stride through.
“Evan’s in a holding cell,” Marshall says, expression taut. Shaking his head, he adds, “I’m getting him out next, but he resisted arrest, so I’m having to pull some strings.”
I don’t reply because the woman stops in the hallway and pushes open a heavy wooden door. “This is the observation room. You can wait here until Detective Pacer is done.”
She wastes no time hustling off, heading back to the front of the building and someone calls Marshall’s name.
“Play it smart,” he says, giving me a hard look before heading into an office to join the man and closing the door.
Alone at last. Now I can get down to business.
The darkened room smells like old coffee. And as I anticipated, the far end of the narrow space holds several chairs facing a one-way mirror.
It’s what I find on the other side of the glass that slams into my heart, knocking me back.
Rosalie is ashen, shaking and tiny in the metal chair.
My fuse disintegrates when the man in the room with her grabs her arm in a brutal hold.
“Bastard,” I snarl as I rip open the door. Moving without thought, vision narrowed to a red fucking tunnel, I charge out of the observation room.
Easy,I tell myself, but fuck that.
