Page 1 of Going Rogue (Tactical Operations & Protection (TOP))

Rogue

The metallic taste of blood coated Rogan “Rogue” Shaw’s tongue, mixing with salt from her sweat as she leaned her head back against the abrasive cell wall.

Jagged points made by uneven crevices worn into the sand-colored brick pulled at her light blonde hair, but she didn’t feel the sting.

Blood dripped down her chin from the split in her lower lip.

She swiped at it, and a white-hot determination flooded her system, reddening her tanned face in the dry summer heat.

None of it showed in her expression, though. There, she appeared defeated—ready to submit to whatever demands they made on her. But it was an act. One she hoped would make her captors let down their guard. At least enough for her to escape.

Because she would be getting out of here. The only question was when .

Shifting to find a more comfortable seat on the packed dirt floor, Rogue pulled her cargo-clad legs into her chest. She had a solid plan. She just needed events to fall into place; then, she’d be free. Preferably before another one of those ignorant fucks tried to have their way with her—again.

Rogue barely contained the growl rising up her throat. No matter that she’d have been happy to leave her V-card behind a long time ago, this wasn’t how she intended to lose it.

Nor did she intend to die in this prison cell.

The little family she had left might not understand why she’d put herself in a position to be captured in the first place, but if she didn’t make it home, they’d mourn her loss. Or, at least, she hoped they would.

She didn’t fight to stay alive for them. She did it for herself. For the life she’d barely had the chance to live yet .

Thinking about the attack, she gently touched a knuckle to her lip and had to hide a wince.

It came away red with her blood. The sight added fuel to the promise she’d already made.

The bastard who’d come at her would be the first to die.

She’d already bruised his balls, but he had a whole other level of pain coming for him when her hands were unbound.

Lowering them between her pulled-up knees, she tugged her wrists apart, but they barely moved. The asshole who’d tied them knew how to knot a fucking rope.

With brown eyes blazing, she glared down at it.

The knot wasn’t a complex Navy one. Those she knew from her time in the service and could’ve easily undone.

Bending her head, she tugged at the rope with her teeth, which only made the fibers cut into her skin.

The abrasive material rubbed across the slash in her lip, making her hiss.

Anger at her situation had her pulling against the binding until it carved blood-red marks around her wrists.

She’d left the military because she’d been tired of sitting on the sidelines while operators carried out the missions she’d planned.

Look where it got you.

The knot didn’t lessen; it held tight as fuck. Undoing it would take time. Time Rogan wasn’t sure she had.

A scuffle sounded in the hall as if to prove her point, and her whole body tensed for a fight. It had only been a half hour since the last man left. She’d hoped for a longer break before she had to defend herself again.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, pumping so fast her heart galloped like a prized filly about to cross the finish line. Despite her best efforts to appear docile and calm, she had to be visibly vibrating.

Dropping her head to her knees, she hoped it looked like she sobbed quietly, not like she chomped at the bit to bite one of those mother-fucking militants’ heads off. Because she did.

“Rogue?” Her gaze whipped up at the whispered word.

W hiskey- T ango- F oxtrot?

“Crane?” She knew the man who stood outside her cell from his voice alone. The richness of his tone never failed to strike a chord within her body, stirring something she’d rather not examine too closely.

Jumping to her feet, Rogue stared into the familiar caramel eyes attached to the baritone.

It didn’t matter that a tan balaclava covered his face.

Underneath it, his close-cropped hair would be black as night, and his cheekbones sharp.

The fabric outlined the square cut of his jaw but hid the cleft in his chin, where a small scar ran diagonally across it.

She took in his tan boots, desert camo cargo pants, and khaki t-shirt covered by his black tactical vest. He’d worn the same outfit the last time she saw him. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, his golden-brown eyes swept her face and went tight. “Step back,” he growled in a low manner which made her react without thinking.

From the far wall of her cell, Rogue watched him pack the lock on her door with C-4. Knowing it would make a hell of a noise and draw too much attention, she opened her mouth and hissed, “They’ll hear that all the way to Syria, dumbass.”

He merely grinned. “Nice to see your time here hasn’t sweetened you up.”

Before she could retort, a distant explosion rumbled through the cell walls.

“And that’s our cue, squirrel.”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname. It was short for ‘secret squirrel’ due to her background in intelligence. She hated it, and he knew it.

Crane lost the teasing expression, and she covered her ears.

With a nod, he blew open the door to her cage.

At the same time, a closer explosion shook their building.

Whatever he’d done, there was a good chance the noise from it covered the detonation on her door.

She could give him props for the distraction—later.

Through the haze of smoke and debris, Crane appeared. As he cut her hands free, the smell of diesel and a hint of burnt plastic filled her nose but layered within it; his distinct masculine scent penetrated—infuriating and comforting all at once.

Staring into the honey of his eyes, something in her wavered, desperate to lean into his woodsy smell and the broad chest it came from, but she walled off those thoughts before they became more dangerous.

Rogue shook her head as a shockwave from another explosion hit the cell. Then, distant yelling reached her ears.

Crane heard it, too, because he morphed into rescuer mode. “Time to go.”

Before she could stop him, he’d lifted and slung her over his shoulder like she weighed less than a feather.

“Hey!” She beat her fists against his back, and it felt like pounding on a rock. “I can walk, you know!” At a muscular five feet, eight inches, she topped out at 160 pounds, but she almost felt light, anchored on his six-five frame.

“No need, squirrel.” He slapped her ass with a playful smack. “We’re going to fly.”

◆◆◆

Crane

“This is what you call flying?”

Rogue’s question mocked him as he replaced the magazine in his Glock, but Miles “Crane” Burkhart didn’t mind the ribbing. He was just happy she remained alive to give it to him. When she’d been captured . . . he feared the worst.

“Not exactly.” He gave her a wink despite the snag in his rescue mission. The plane he’d been going to charter was late. A glance at his disposable phone showed what he already knew—radio silence. “But I have a Plan B.”

Always leave yourself an out. It was their team’s motto, and when Rogue had gotten captured, they’d taken it.

The fact they had twisted in Crane’s gut like sour meat as he secured his spent clip to his tactical vest. He and Rogue worked for Tactical Operations & Protection, or TOP, as it was known in the business.

They were modern-day soldiers for hire, so he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised the rest of the team had viewed her capture as an acceptable loss for the sake of the operation.

But Crane hadn’t been able to let Rogue go so easily. He’d tried the ‘every man for himself’ thing, but his years as a Marine were too ingrained. You don’ t leave your brothers—or sisters, in this case—behind.

Sister. Right. He had a lot of thoughts about Rogue but none of them were brotherly. As the middle child with an older brother and baby sister, he knew a thing or two about siblings. And that’s not how he viewed Rogue.

Crane glanced over at her, where she knelt behind a stack of packing crates.

Filled with assault rifles, no doubt.

He didn’t know this rag-tag group of militants, but it was clear to him they wanted to join the terrorists desolating the rest of Iraq.

He figured the cargo he and Rogue hid behind, plus the other crates he’d blown sky high, had been a buy-in.

Since the fuckers had kept her alive, he gathered she’d been meant as part of the bargain.

Even in her roughed-up state, she was gorgeous. Though he sweltered under the balaclava, she glowed with the early evening sun beating down on her. Her pale golden strands reminded him of the angel Christmas tree topper he’d grown up with.

The thought made him smile, which she caught when she glared at him. “What the hell is Plan B?”

Her hair might be angelic, but those eyes were all sin—like a deep, dark rum he wanted to taste. He’d been dying to kiss her since she’d walked into TOP headquarters two years ago. Of course, she’d shot down any advance he’d made. But he got it.

She didn’t want to shit where she ate.

Even if sex with her would be off the charts, she was right. Sex led to entanglements, and in their business, those could get you killed.

An uncommon frown pulled at the corners of Crane’s mouth. His coming back for her was an entanglement . . . and they hadn’t even experienced the good parts yet. Fuck.

He didn’t know what this meant for either of their positions on the team or if they’d even be allowed back in after he disobeyed orders to get the hell out of Dodge.

“Earth to Crane.” Rogue poked the center of his forehead, and he blinked to see she’d moved much closer.

Damn. Underneath the dirt and sweat, he could still smell her signature scent. It always made him think of cinnamon or spicy vanilla. The fragrance lingered in his thoughts and never failed to make him ache.

“If you’re not going to use that, I’ll take it.”

When she reached for his gun, he grabbed her arm. “Nice try, squir—” At her wince, he loosened his grip. It might be 100-plus degrees, but that heat had nothing to do with the blood boiling in his veins as he stared down at the raw skin of her wrists.

Something dark stirred in his gut. A scorpion roused from its slumber under the sand.

“Sorry.” His thumb barely brushed the rope burns, and he had the strangest urge to kiss each hurt.

At the same time, Crane wanted to pop each and every one of these fuckers for the burns alone. Cold-blooded instinct pulled his eyes to the split on her lip, and his jaw tightened. They were all dead men walking.

“It’s fine.” She tugged her arm away, and he released her. “Plan B?”

At her arched brow, he let it go. Not because she’d brushed it off but because he couldn’t think about what else Rogue might have gone through if he wanted to keep a clear enough head to get them both out of here alive. “Hide.”

“Hide? That’s your Plan B?” She growled the question at him, baring her teeth, and he admired the way her eyes fired with incredulity. “This isn’t a fucking game! I’m not waiting around for them to seek us out.”

Granted, she was right. He didn’t like the idea of waiting to be found either, but it would be dark in a couple of hours. They could use the darkness to their advantage. “Just ‘til the sun goes down. Then we egress.”

He watched her work through their situation in her head.

Her nose scrunched, highlighting the dusting of freckles across its bridge.

The expression looked cute on her, and Crane fought back another smile.

He couldn’t seem to stop now that he’d freed her.

They might be far from safe, but he had every confidence they’d make it out of this shithole country in one piece.

She blinked, her rum-colored eyes glinting. “Fine. I know the perfect place.”