Rogue Mission (Team Falcon: Agile Security & Rescue Team 2, #5)

Chapter 1

ONE

I shouldn’t be thinking about her lips.

Or the way her mouth curves in that photo I’ve stared at too many times.

Or how I already know what her smile would feel like if it were pressed to mine.

Too bad that’s what is happening. All of it.

"Two mikes to breach," I relay through my comms, forcing myself back into operator mode. One eye on the thermal screen, the other on the monstrous corporate headquarters looming ahead of us. "Let's go get…m—our girl."

Shitttttt. I said it out loud.

Truck's low chuckle crackles through my bone conduction headset. “Sure you weren’t going to say ‘my girl’?”

"The missing scientist," I correct quickly, too quickly. "You know what I mean."

Why is my pulse pounding like I’m seventeen? Specifically just like it did the night Brianna Marsh let me slide my hand under her shirt at the drive in theater.

"Sure, brother. Whatever you say, I saw her photo too,” my teammate replies from his hide.

“You know I don’t date,” I grind out.

“I also know how fast that can change,” he remarks as his boots crunch quietly over terrain.

He would be the expert on that. The former SEAL fell for Allison in four seconds flat, even if she was determined to hate him.

“Can we just fucking work?” I ask, annoyed.

I am not thinking about the twenty-nine years old geochemistry specialist who lost her last living relative three years ago. Or the fact that she volunteers at the science museum on Saturdays when she's not buried in research.

No. I’m thinking about my job.

Rescuing her. And I don't have time for my teammate’s knowing tone.

Extract her. Recover the missing lab sample. Period. That’s it.

Through the darkness, three heat signatures glow on my oversized watch.

Two of them are unmoving on ground level—the guards enjoying their sedative-induced nap, courtesy of the delivery guy we paid off.

One other heat signature is unmoving on the fourth floor. Crouched small in a corner.

Where she’s been for hours, and that fact makes me sick.

But I know it’s her.

Christ. I've got it bad and I haven't even heard her voice.

"Guards are still down," Truck updates quietly, pulling me back to the mission. "We're clear for approach."

I slap myself mentally.

"Gotta love a little laced curry," I mutter, checking my magazine and securing my rig, falling into the familiar rhythm of pre-breach protocol. "Night-night, motherfuckers. But damn, talking about food makes me hungry. We should hit that donut shack after this."

Truck laughs, the sound low through my bone conduction headset. "I've driven Humvees with smaller gas tanks than you. Always thinking about food."

"Who isn't? 'Cause you're the one who wanted to stop on the way to the morgue that day, after we just left that luncheon."

He mutters something garbled as I slip into shadow behind a eucalyptus tree, the rough bark catching on my tactical vest.

The building looms ahead like a sleeping giant.

Five stories of glass and steel, housing who knows what kind of corruption.

Patrick Westerly the CEO—also the father of Truck’s woman—has been using this place for criminal activity. Including kidnapping Rosalie because she analyzed a soil sample that revealed something he wants kept secret.

I crack my neck, call up a vision of her adorable smile and let the anger simmer hotly.

“JT to Falcon One," I rasp, keeping my volume low enough that it won't carry. "Radio check. Still got two bodies on ground level. One on four. Over."

"Falcon One," Beast replies from headquarters, his voice steady in my head, "All interior and exterior cams are offline. Proceed to breach. Over."

I flip my ball cap backward, moving on autopilot. Old habit. Keeps my peripheral vision clear.

"Moving in now. Over."

Cake. This is gonna be so damned easy. We'll be eating donuts in—

My boots halt mid-stride, brain clicking into high gear as I track movement on my heat detection gear that's not supposed to be there.

A mass of moving color—orange, red, and blue glides along on the fifth floor. Movement that was not there a second ago is very much there now.

My blood thickens, my hands going cold. Someone's heading toward her floor.

“Truck, hold. Over.”

As I watch the image play in realtime, adrenaline punches through me, sharp and familiar. But this time it’s edged with something I don't usually feel on ops: fear.

Not fear for myself. I stopped being afraid of dying a long time ago. Fear for her, and it’s so stark, I’m knocked breathless.

“We have a situation.”

"Holding. What've you got?" His voice shifts immediately from casual to tactical. He knows that tone.

I adjust to another vantage point, squinting into the dark toward the building, my enhanced optical binoculars cutting through shadow.

“There’s an unknown mover, fifth floor. Must've been in the elevator during the last thermal sweep. Big one, too. Either he's a Clydesdale or Yeti. Moving fast."

Toward Rosalie.

Night air presses in, humid and tight around me. Everything else fades. Nothing matters except the heat signature moving with purpose through that building.

"JT, we still green?" Truck's tone carries an edge now. He knows I'm locked on.

I scan again, hoping I'm wrong, knowing I'm not. No mistake. The signature is real. And he's heading down the stairwell.

Right toward where my girl is being held. Fuck protocol. Fuck the careful timeline we planned.

This needs to happen fast. Leaving my hide, I advance to the next copse of trees. “Falcon One, confirm. Any additional intel? Over."

Please have something. A janitor. Anyone but what my gut is screaming it is.

"Negative. All surveillance was killed seven minutes ago. We're blind."

Fuck. Not good.

My heart rate kicks up another notch, but my hands stay steady. SEAL training kicking in when I need it most. Breathe. Assess. Act.

I move again, weapon raised in low ready position. The feeling is familiar—that razor's edge between chaos and control. But tonight is very different. I'm not detached. Not clinical. Tonight I'm bordering on terrified.

Because somewhere in that building, a woman I've never met but somehow can't shake, is about to face whatever that heat signature represents.

And I'm too far away to stop it.

"Falcon One to JT. Your call. Proceed or scrub the mission? Over." Beast's voice is calm, professional, giving me the out if I need it.

We can halt the mission. Regroup. Come back with more intel and a better plan.

"We're going in.” My voice comes out harder than I intended. "Male on premises with unknown intent. My gut just says go. I don't ignore that. Over."

Go time. Can't hesitate. Kicking into motion, muscles coiling and releasing with powerful precision, I say, "She needs us. Moving to breach. Over."

"Game on," Truck replies, his shadow detaching from the tree line and moving through the parking lot like smoke. "Approaching west door now."

Focused, I round the corner of the building in a crouch, every sense dialed to maximum. Feet are silent on the pavement, but my heart is tapping out a very loud Morse code warning.

She's in danger. Move faster. Don't fail her.

The east entrance hangs in shadow. “I’m at door one. Over.”

The lock clicks, controlled by Beast’s magic touch. A second later, I’m in, weapon up, clearing corners with the efficiency I’ve drilled into my cells.

Every fiber of my being is screaming one thing as I hit the stairwell and start climbing: I'm coming, Rosalie. Hold on. I'm coming.

And God help anyone who tries to stop me.