Page 98 of Rogue Mission

Venom lacing my words, I stalk around him. “So he wants to get rid of anyone who knows what he’s after.”

“It’s just business,” Parson says, like that makes it okay. Like Rosalie’s life is a line item on a balance sheet.

Rage floods my system, hot and vicious. The knife twitches in my hold. I want to carve him apart, piece by piece, until he understands exactly what he’s saying.

But I force it down. Channel it.

“The specialist,” I say, voice colder than the steel in my hand. “Give me a name.”

“I told you, I don’t know—maybe um... Milton Reece or something?”

I press harder, the knife breaking skin. Blood wells, dark against his pants.

“Jesus! Stop!” He’s hyperventilating now, eyes wild. “There’s a file. In Westerly’s corporate office, at the headquarters. That’s all I know. I swear. He goes by some moniker—Crusher... Bone Crusher something.”

Bone Crusher. Fucking hell. Acid climbs up my throat.

Someone known as the Bone Crusher is hunting for the woman I love.

“Where exactly in his corporate office?” I snap, but we know he’s already moved his personal files at home to some undisclosed location.

“Safe. Behind the painting of the coastline. Code is... is his daughter’s birthday.”

This is a safe we didn’t know about.

I pull the knife back, wiping it on his sleeve. “What else?”

“That’s everything. I swear. I don’t know anything else.”

I study him, reading his tells. The rapid breathing. The dilated pupils. The tremors in his hands.

He’s giving me the truth. So far.

“Good.” I stand, sheathing the knife. “Now tell me about the island.”

His face goes blank. “W-what island?”

“The one Westerly’s using for his operations. The one where he’s holding someone we care about.”

“I don’t?—”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression.

Detecting lying is an art, and I’m done fucking around. I’ll beat it out of him or kill him trying.

I grab his throat, squeezing just enough to make his vision blur. “I’m out of patience. Talk.”

When I release him seconds later, he sucks in air, coughing.

“Okay! Okay! Private island. Off the coast of Oregon. Westerly uses it for... experiments. He keeps people there. Things he can’t do on the mainland but he does for his business.”

“So you didn’t know about it a minute ago?” My knife zings when I jerk it out of the holder, drawing it across his Achilles tendon. Swift. Concise.

His scream is loud enough for anyone on that fucking island to hear.

When it dies down and he’s left shuddering in pain, I stand up. “Lie to me again and I’m cutting off your dick.”

He wheezes, his eyes roll back, and he goes slack against the bindings.