Page 89 of Rogue Mission

She sticks a finger under my armored vest. “No teasing.”

There’s a pause, then Ryker says, “I know. Me too.”

He ends the call and sets the phone down with deliberate care, like it might shatter.

“She okay?” I ask.

“No.” He flexes his hands on the wheel. “But she will be.”

“You sure you’re good for this op? If you stay with Rosalie, I can handle him.”

His eyes meet mine in the mirror, hard as granite. “I’m good.”

Rosalie is pissed. “You’re not going in there by yourself.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve run many solo missions.”

She gives me a death glare that should probably make me want to argue. Instead, it makes my chest hurt.

“Two minutes out,” he says, all business again.

I ignore the gnawing in my gut and check my sidearm.

Ryker pulls to the curb three houses down from the target. Lights are on inside Parson’s place—living room and what looks like a home office upstairs.

“Mako’s killing the exterior cameras in thirty seconds,” Ryker says, checking his watch. “We go in through the garage. Side door’s got a standard deadbolt. I can pick it in under ten seconds.”

“And if he runs?” Rosalie asks, leaning forward.

“He won’t make it past the kitchen.” Ryker’s smile is all teeth. “Mako’s got every exit covered on thermal. He moves, we know.”

I look at Rosalie. “You stay behind us. Always. If shooting starts?—”

“I get down and stay down. I know.”

“And if I tell you to run?—”

“We’ve been over this.” She won’t run. Dammit.

My chest tightens to the point of extreme pain. Stubborn, brave, impossible woman.

“Time,” Ryker announces.

We move, silently closing the doors as we leave the truck.

The neighborhood is quiet. Motion lights flick on as we approach, but Mako’s already looping the feed. To anyone watching, the yard is empty.

There’s a clock counting down in my head. We have to be fast.

Ryker drops to his haunches at the side door, lock picks out. I count in my head. Six seconds. Seven. Eight.

Click.

He turns the knob slowly and the door swings inward.

The scent of oil and laundry detergent make a nauseating mix. A black Audi sits in the bay, pristine. Parson’s a man who likes control, order. That’ll work in our favor.

The door to the house is unlocked. Who knows if it’s arrogance or carelessness—doesn’t matter. It works in our favor.