Page 47 of Rogue Mission
We’re both breathing hard.
Piercing eyes almost as dark as mine scan me once from my head to my boot laces, then flick back to hold my own stare.
Gritting my molars, I jerk open the truck door and throw my frame behind the steering wheel. “Either get in or get out of the way.”
“Where are we going?”
“You know where,” I snap.
He shakes his head, face morphing into a familiar scowl. “You don’t know who ordered the hit on Rosalie. We need time.”
“Fuck time. I’m cutting all the heads off of this Medusa.”
He glances away for a beat, posting his fists on his hips. Finally, he relents. “We could shake one of their men down and get some fresh intel.”
“Now you’re speaking my language, but just so you know… all rules are out the window. She’s innocent as fuck. There’s no way I’m letting someone even think about assassinating her. They’ll have to do it over my dead-fucking body. I won’t stop until Westerly’s men all pay, either behind bars or?—”
He holds up a hand. “I get the picture.”
I move toward the truck, knowing he won’t stop me now, and if he does, I’ll pull the Camile card.
He nearly started a war to rescue his girl.
And I’m willing to do the same.
Huffing, he walks toward the passenger side. “We’re getting that fucking soil back while we’re at it.”
The next ten minutes include me driving too fast while Beast plots the plan of attack.
Then I realize he’s staring at me, wearing a weird expression. The kind of look you’d expect when you’re being debriefed by a military psychologist.
“Do I have something on the side of my face?” I mutter, cutting through traffic, using the truck like a surgical knife.
“It’s not what’s on your face; it’s what’s on your sleeve, asshole. I’ve known you for years, JT, and never, ever have I seen you lose your control.”
He’s still shaking his head when he bashes his knee on the dash. “Motherfuck. These damned trucks.”
Beast, like me, rarely fits in any vehicle. Guy is all legs and monstrous arms. That with his razor-sharp mind, it’s no wonder he’s an outstanding operator.
Lucas, AKA Beast, is the kind of man you want on your six. But not picking your brain.
“Glad you’ve got something else to bitch about besides me.”
“Oh, no. We’re not done. You need to start talking right now.”
“Don’t have anything else to say.”
He starts laughing, scrubs his jaw with his hand, and leans the seat back. “She ain’t blonde.”
“Fuck you.”
He’s such an asshole, because he goes on. “She ain’t the stay-at-home type like you said you like. She’s a scientist.With her own company.
When my hand flies out and latches around his windpipe, he snorts, his voice coming out as a wheeze as he says, “You, my friend, have entered an elite club.”
TheI’m about to break Beast’s nose’ club?If so, sign me up.
With a grunt, I mutter, “What damned club is that?”
