Page 90 of Rogue Mission

Less time.

It eases open, on well-oiled hinges. Another win for Team Falcon, luck continues to be on our side.

Weapon up, I step in, clearing the entry, and move on. Every step raising the hair on the back of my neck more.

I want this done. Rosalie’s close enough. I can feel her heat at my back, reminding me of the danger to her.

Ryker motions to the left and I pivot into the kitchen.

Coffee maker still warm, hazelnut in the air. He must have made a cup the minute he got home.

Voices drift from upstairs. Parson’s on a call, tone clipped and irritated.

“I don’t care what the timeline was. I need it done by Friday or—” A pause. “Then make it happen. That’s what I pay you for.”

Ryker and I exchange a look. We move toward the stairs, Rosalie a shadow at my six o’clock.

Every step is calculated, silent. I’m hyper-aware of her presence—the soft rustle of her clothes, the faint scent of the shampoo I used on her hair still clinging despite everything we’ve been through tonight.

Focus.

The office door is cracked open, light spilling into the hallway.

Parson is visible through the gap—late fifties, expensive suit even at home, phone pressed to his ear as he paces in front of a massive desk.

“No, I don’t want excuses,” he snaps. “Westerly doesn’t accept excuses, and neither do I.”

Ryker moves into position on the opposite side of the door. I give him a three-count with my fingers.

Three.

Two.

One.

We breach.

Parson spins, mouth open, phone clattering to the desk. “What the?—”

I’m on him before he can finish, driving him back against the wall, forearm across his throat. “Hands where I can see them. Now.”

He complies, beady blue eyes wide, face going red. “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

“Vincent Parson. VP of Operations. Westerly’s pet thug.” I lean in close as venom rises in my throat. “Yeah, we know exactly who you are.”

Ryker’s already sweeping the room, checking for weapons, securing the space. Rosalie stays in the doorway, bear spray in hand, eyes locked on Parson like he’s a lab specimen she’s analyzing.

“What do you want?” Parson chokes out.

“Information.” I ease the pressure just enough to let him breathe. “And you’re going to give it to us. One way or another.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wrong answer.

I slam him harder against the wall, and he grunts.

“Let’s try again. Who put the hit out on Dr. Rosalie Baxter?”