Page 10 of Rogue Mission

"Stop. Do not go any farther," he orders, his tone bordering on pissed.

My first reaction? Snort.

As if I'm going to just skedaddle away. I'm a human wine cork in a square metal pipe.

No. Wait. Not square.Rectangle.Jesus, Rosalie, your brain is cataloging vent shapes while you're about to die.

This is why you don't have friends. This is exactly why— "God. Stop with the calculations," I growl at myself.

I've got bigger problems. Unconscious men don't talk. Or issue orders. And I don't know who was in that room when I kicked the sucker's nose into tomorrow.

Maybe I should have kicked harder. Or kicked them both…

I'm going to go to the gym if I live. Surviving being the imperative here.

The fuel of frustration turns up my internal Bunsen burner. Wiggling commences again. Must get out of here.

I desperately want to live. I have things to do. Places to go. People to…

Well. I don't really have people to see. But that doesn't count.

Between my squeaking rear, my ragged breathing, I'm not sure I could hear anyone even if they were pursuing me.

But that's before a new sound slices through everything—a fresh icepick to my eardrums.

The sound punches into my skull—a pulsing screech that makes my eyeballs feel like they're being squeezed in a vise.

I can feel it in my teeth. In my molars. God, is my filling vibrating?

What is that?

It's not the man. Not me. It's some kind of alarm.

A mechanical voice breaks into the sound. "Fire. Fire. Exit the building. Fire."

Oh… no.

OH NO.

"Help!" I wheeze, voice shrill as the alarm, echoing off sheet-metal. "Help me!"

I've never known true, blood-freezing panic before now.

I've presented research to rooms full of Nobel Prize winners. I've dated a man who collected knives. I've eaten gas station sushi. But this—this metal coffin with my ass wedged like a cork—this is what breaks me.

My legs flail. My butt shimmies. My everything sweats. Buckets and buckets of water.

"Why?! Why can't I be one of those stick-figures?" I cry, pushing. Squirming.

Every muscle is aching, shaking, threatening to quit.

Those kinds of girls would've slid through this duct like greased noodles. I've got hips and boobs and this vent is not made for southern curves.

"Come on, Rose,think!You're a scientist for heaven's sake. Figure. It. Out."

Sweat rolls between my boobs, soaking into the thick strap of my utilitarian bra—the one I bought specifically because the saleswoman promised it would never ride up.

Well, joke's on both of us because it's currently cutting into my ribs like a medieval torture device, and I can't even reach it to adjust.