Page 102 of Rogue Mission

I want to ask more about what happened in his past, but he eases off the gas, pulling onto a gravel lane.

“Are we here?”

There are no road markings, no signs of life at all.

“Down this road a good ways.” He’s still husky, and there’s deep pain showing in his usually bright eyes. “It’s not easy for me to talk about my sister.”

Oh my god, did she die?

I stifle an agonized sound.

“Don’t then. I don’t want to talk about anything that hurts you.”

When he lifts my hand to his cheek and rubs the back of my hand over his stubble, he sighs.

He lifts his chin toward the windshield. “Look up there, it’s not Costa Rica, but it looks like there will be a hot shower and a bed. We’ll stay here while I work with Walton on the intel.”

The cabin materializes out of the mist like something from a ghost story—rough-hewn logs, tin roof slick with rain, smoke curling from a stone chimney.

No driveway, just a dirt track that ends in a clearing surrounded by pines.

Justice kills the engine. The sudden silence is disorienting after hours of road noise.

My bones are even vibrating.

“Stay close,” he says, already moving, weapon drawn as he comes around to open my door.

With his free hand, he loops around my waist and lifts me to the ground.

My instinct is to cling to him, but the land feels like it has eyes. Unfriendly ones.

“I thought this was a friendly place.”

“Call me overprotective, get used to it.” He pulls me into motion.

I follow, bear spray in one hand, the other on the back of his vest as my boots sink into mud.

The air up here is thin and cold, carrying the sharp bite of pine resin and wet earth. Everything is muted, colors washed out by the overcast sky.

The cabin door opens before we reach it.

The man standing in the threshold is older than I expected—maybe mid-fifties, gray threading through dark hair.

His eyes are the color of flint. His left hand is missing the ring and pinkie fingers, the scars old and white.

“Justice.” His voice is rough, like he doesn’t use it often. “Been a while.”

“Walton.” Justice holsters his weapon. “We need to talk.”

Walton’s gaze shifts to me, assessing. “That the scientist?”

My spine stiffens and I shift closer to Justice. “How do you know who I?—”

“I know everything.” A faint smile follows that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what people pay me for.”

“Then you know why we’re here,” Justice says, face devoid of emotion.

He’s in SEAL mode again.