Page 9 of Rogue Mission

But fuckity. With every knock against metal, I get more freaked out that there's a terrified woman crawling blind through a pitch-black maze overhead.

She can't see. Probably can't tell which direction to go. Doesn't know if I'm friend or foe.

And I can't do a damn thing but follow the sound of her fear.

I stand up, adjust my ball cap and look up at the dark opening. "Alright, girl. Cat and mouse game on."

I mutter a curse under my breath, seating my Glock in the holster at the small of my back, and grab the shelving she used as a ladder.

Night of firsts. Now I get to play HVAC spelunker.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeek!”

Oh shit. I shoulder up into the vent, the sharp, raw sound of her scream knifing through the ductwork, freezing my blood.

Every protective instinct I've spent years burying under SEAL discipline detonates at once. My vision tunnels. My heart rate spikes. The professional distance I'm supposed to maintain incinerates.

This time she's not within reach. The danger is unknown.

I could fail her.

And that thought—that possibility—makes me want to tear this entire building apart with my bare hands.

"Falcon One. Do you have eyes on the package?" I choke out, praying there's no new heat signatures and that Truck or I are close enough to deal with whatever the fuck is going on.

Please let her be okay. Please let me get there in time.

"She's heading down." Command reports, "I've got a lock on her between the second and third floor. But she's not moving now. Over."

Bloody hell. No use climbing into the vent now.

She's between floors. Stuck, or hurt, or facing something that made her scream like that.

I take off toward the stairwell at a full sprint, praying I'm not already too late.

FOUR

This is so not good.

Kidnapped. Blackmailed. Sliding down the chute from hell.

All of that is bad.But this?This takes the damn cake.

I'm stuck.

Like… wedged.

My bare skin drags against the freezing metal with a squeak that vibrates through my entire pelvis. The cold bites into flesh that's already scraped raw, sending sharp needles of pain radiating up my spine.

Oh my god.

Seriously?

Wiggling violently, I curse my genetics. Stupid butt. Stupid hips. Stupid everything that makes me shaped like an actual human woman instead of a greased noodle.

"Hey! Can you hear me?" a male voice calls from somewhere that could be up, down, or sideways in this metal tomb.

My sweat turns to ice pellets. Not from the cold metal—from the sick certainty that whoever's down there heard me struggling. Heard every pathetic wheeze and squeak. He knows exactly how trapped I am.