Page 3 of Rogue Mission
I move again, weapon raised in low ready position. The feeling is familiar—that razor's edge between chaos and control. But tonight is very different. I'm not detached. Not clinical. Tonight I'm bordering on terrified.
Because somewhere in that building, a woman I've never met but somehow can't shake, is about to face whatever that heat signature represents.
And I'm too far away to stop it.
"Falcon One to JT. Your call. Proceed or scrub the mission? Over." Beast's voice is calm, professional, giving me the out if I need it.
We can halt the mission. Regroup. Come back with more intel and a better plan.
"We're going in.” My voice comes out harder than I intended. "Male on premises with unknown intent. My gut just says go. I don't ignore that. Over."
Go time. Can't hesitate. Kicking into motion, muscles coiling and releasing with powerful precision, I say, "She needs us. Moving to breach. Over."
"Game on," Truck replies, his shadow detaching from the tree line and moving through the parking lot like smoke. "Approaching west door now."
Focused, I round the corner of the building in a crouch, every sense dialed to maximum. Feet are silent on the pavement, but my heart is tapping out a very loud Morse code warning.
She's in danger. Move faster. Don't fail her.
The east entrance hangs in shadow. “I’m at door one. Over.”
The lock clicks, controlled by Beast’s magic touch. A second later, I’m in, weapon up, clearing corners with the efficiency I’ve drilled into my cells.
Every fiber of my being is screaming one thing as I hit the stairwell and start climbing:I'm coming, Rosalie. Hold on. I'm coming.
And God help anyone who tries to stop me.
TWO
The smell hits me before I even see him.
Cigarettes. Stale sweat. Something sour and rotten that makes my stomach squeeze against my ribs.
I've learned to catalog the guards by scent now—a survival skill I never thought I'd need. This one is the worst. The one whose eyes linger too long. Whose laugh sounds like breaking glass.
I knew he’d come when the building was empty. The reason making my skin crawl.
Metal scrapes against metal as the door swings open. Fluorescent light spears into my makeshift cell, and I have to bite down on my tongue to stop the whimper.
"Wakey wakey! Scaredy cat."
My fingers close around the microscope's cold base.
Seven seconds. That's all I need.
But my body betrays me the way it always does. Fight or flight or freeze—and I land firmly in freeze. Every. Single. Time.
Trembling. Stomach clenching. Clammy hands wrapped around my only weapon. Dry throat working uselessly as I try to force words past the terror.
When he shifts, that beam of fluorescent light catches on his unibrow, on the too-wide grin that shows square, stained teeth.
Breathe, Rose. Breathe.
My only hope is getting him to move closer. Close enough that when I swing, I won't miss.
Making myself small, I scoot back against the wall, putting on a show I've perfected over five days of captivity.
"You afraid of me, little thing?" he taunts.
