Page 88 of Rogue Mission
“You good, Ryker?” I ask, knowing he likely won’t tell me if he isn’t.
“Set,” he replies.
See. That’s what I expected.
The man hasn’t blinked in miles.
Loose grip on the wheel, frown locked tight. He’s not thinking about breaching the house. He’s somewhere darker. Whatever’s chewing on him is personal.
I’ve been there. Hell, I’m there right now. Only the woman I’m thinking about is close enough to touch, and getting ready to be in danger again.
Fuck. We need a vacation.
“Ever been to Costa Rica?” I ask, brushing a kiss over her temple.
“No, but I hear it’s nice. The geology and ecology there sounds amazing.”
I chuckle. “So does a hammock for two and a couple of palm trees.”
Rosalie presses in closer. “I could be persuaded,” she says with a laugh even though she’s concerned.
She’s finding her balance in the chaos and it impresses the fuck out of me.
My heart thuds when she finds my hand without looking, fingers sliding between mine and locking down like she’s anchoring herself. Or anchoring me.
Either way, I hold on.
“Talk to me about the target,” she says, voice steadier than it should be.
I pull up the file on my phone, angling it so she can see. “Name’s Vincent Parson. VP of Operations at West Mountain Scientific. On paper, he manages logistics and supply chain.”
“And off paper?”
“He’s Westerly’s unknown. We suspect he makes problems disappear.” I swipe to the next image—surveillance photos of Parson entering buildings that don’t exist in any corporate directory. “We need three things from him. First, who put the hit out on you. Who they hired. And third, everything he knows about Westerly’s operation.”
Her breath catches. As she looks at the photos, the tension in her face making me want to kiss all the worry away.
“You think he’ll talk?”
“He will.” My tone leaves no room for doubt.
Ryker glances in the rearview. “House is a two-story colonial. Attached garage. Security system’s decent but not military grade. Mako’s already mapped the vulnerabilities.”
“Does he have family?” Rosalie asks.
“Divorced. No kids. Lives alone.” Ryker’s voice is flat, professional as he changes lanes, using his blinker like he’s some good citizen and not about to extract intel out of someone using force. “Makes it cleaner.”
His phone buzzes in the cupholder. He glances at the screen, and something shifts in his expression—a crack in the armor, has him scrubbing his hand over his mouth.
“Take it,” I tell him.
He hesitates, then swipes to answer, tucking the phone against his ear. “Yeah.”
I can’t hear the other end, but I watch his face. The way his shoulders drop half an inch. The way his free hand rubs his brow.
“It won’t be long,” he says quietly. “Try to sleep some more. That bunker is stocked, but if you want something specific just tell me, I’ll grab it on the way back.”
Rosalie looks at me, her brows going up. When I find her ear with my mouth, I say, “He’s being awfully cozy.”
