Page 93 of Rogue Mission

Justice’s mouth twitches. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“Too late,” I shoot back, adrenaline making me bold.

Ryker’s moved ahead, crouched behind a BMW in someone’s driveway. “We need wheels. Something fast.”

“Grand theft auto?” I can’t quite keep the disbelief from my voice. “That won’t be obvious.”

“You have a better idea?”

Before I can answer, headlights sweep across the street.

We drop, pressing ourselves against the side of the BMW. Justice crowds against me as my pulse hammers in my throat. A black SUV cruises past, moving slow. Searching.

The vehicle stops two houses down.

Doors open. Four men emerge, all carrying weapons that definitely aren’t legal in this zip code. I almost pee my pants.

Justice whispers, “Through that yard. Now.”

We move like shadows—or at least they do. I’m more like a shadow that keeps tripping over its own feet.

The next yard backs up to a golf course. Manicured greens stretch into darkness, punctuated by the occasional flag marker.

“There she is.” Ryker points. “Our ride.”

At first I don’t see what he’s looking at. Then I spot them—a row of golf carts parked beside a maintenance shed.

“You’re joking,” I say.

“Dead serious.” He’s already sprinting toward them.

Justice follows, Parson bouncing against his shoulder with each stride, and I’m in complete awe at how long he’s been carrying the man. God, I can barely carry my own butt.

I bring up the rear, legs burning, vest chafing, wondering how my life went from analyzing silicate compounds to stealing golf carts.

Ryker reaches the first cart, fishing something from his pocket. Some kind of tool I don’t recognize, but somehow I’m not surprised he carries it.

The cart hums to life. “Ride or die,” he says with a dark laugh.

“Combat humor is a thing, huh?” I ask, throwing myself into the seat.

Justice dumps Parson into the back—not gently—and swings in with him.

We’re moving before I’ve even grabbed the safety bar.

The electric motor is nearly silent, which is probably good for stealth but terrible for my nerves. I keep expecting us to stall out, to get caught, to?—

A sharp crack splits the air, and it takes me a few seconds to realize... that was a gun.

Justice grunts and hisses at the exact second I realize what’s happened.

“No,” the word tears from my throat, too loud, before I can stop it.

“They hit Parson,” Justice mutters, frowning. “Nothing fatal, but he’s out cold. Saw his own blood.”

Another shot whistles past, so close I feel the air displacement. Oh my god. We might all die.

Ryker yanks the wheel, sending us careening around a sand trap. The cart’s not built for this. We’re maxing out at maybe fifteen miles per hour. Any second we might flip over.