Page 8 of Rogue Mission
Little leather shoe meets one ugly ass nose with the precision of someone who understands physics.
His knees fold, a wet grunt rolls out of his slack mouth, and he falls hard as a rotten tree.
Well, damn.
"Got him," I call with a laugh. "Couldn't have done it better myself."
The team is going to freaking love this. This is going to be one of those stories they drag out for years.
But the sight of that bastard's hands on her ankle is going to be in my nightmares.
Not professional. Not detached. Definitely not following protocol to keep a degree of separation from emotions.
Fuck.
I'm still grinning when I call up to her. "He's out cold. That tiny foot packs a size thirteen punch, now come on, I'll help you down..."
Unfortunately my wish is not my command.
The opposite happens.
"Hey! Wait. Do. Not. Move."
The target doesn't listen. At freaking all. My impressed stupor vanishes as I stare at the vacant vent opening. She went up. All the way up.
Like a thief in a museum.
Bumps and groans rattle through the drop-ceiling above me signaling that the little hellcat is on the move.Insidethe ductwork.
"This was supposed to be clean and easy," I mutter, stepping over the unconscious mound, not bothering to avoid his fingers as I go.
Unfortunately, I don't trust him to stay out. With a curse, I yank the vacuum's cord right out of the machine.
Flex cuffs would be better, but improvised restraints are a SEAL specialty. This'll hold him long enough.
He's snoring as I cue up my comms gear to report in.
"Male detained," I say as I lean over the ugly bastard, working his arms so I can tie them to his legs. "Package is on the move in HVAC system. Over."
The confused sound on the other end of the line comes from Truck. "Repeat. Over."
I can picture his expression—that what-the-fuck look he gets when missions go wrong in ways even we can't predict.
"Package is…in the ceiling. Over."
A beat of silence. Then Beast cuts in. "Falcon One to JT, we've got her on thermal, gotta admit this is a twist I didn't see coming. She's moving east. Over."
Truck snorts, commenting, "Maybe next time we rescue someone, we can ask them to use the stairs like a normal person. Over."
As I suspected. I might not have eyes on her, but I've got ears and she's about as stealthy as a raccoon in a metal garbage can.
"Copy," I reply, "going in after her. Over."
Figuring she's not going to make it far in the pitch dark, I plan on being right there when panic takes hold.
That and getting this under control means we're out of here as fast as possible.
That's the plan.
