Chapter 3
THREE
My sixth sense is crawling, every hair prickling along my arms as I move from the stairwell into the empty hallway.
A low rapping sound sharpens my attention.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
"JT here," I say into my comms gear, "closing in on the target and the unknown. Appears to be a supply closet. Breaching in 30 seconds. Over."
Try the door handle? Kick it? Or?
But before I can do anything, an electronic sound whirs and the door cracks open.
"You're welcome," Beast replies through my bone-conduction headset.
Shoving the door open an inch, I angle for a look inside.
Inside the room I'm expecting a terrified scientist huddled in a corner. But I'm wrong on all counts.
There's a man. One. The heat signature. Not the principal I'm here to rescue, for damned sure.
Fuck. Where is she?
Slamming the door wide open, I step inside the small room with my gun sights on the mountain-sized man taking up most of the space.
Oh Jesus, there she is!
What the fuck? Over.
All I can see are her legs.
The fact that her legs are hanging out of the ceiling shoulder propel me into motion, but for a beat, this unexpected discovery glues my feet down.
Writhing out of the vent, are two bare calves and a pair of dainty black shoes.
She's kicking like an Olympic swimmer.
The bastard's trying to drag her back out.
Not happening on my watch.
My grip on the Glock tightens. "Don't move a fucking hair."
The bastard doesn't even glance my way. I might as well be a speck of dust in the wind. His focus is so locked on her.
"Stop kicking," he grunts, grabbing for her again, straining to reach her legs. "Boss said not to damage the merchandise, but he didn't say I couldn't have a little fun first."
My vision tunnels. Jaw clenching hard enough to crack teeth.
"Step away from the woman!" My voice cracks like a whip.
He makes another swipe, a ham-fist wrapping around her ankle.
I snort like an angry bull. Killing him would be a complication this mission doesn't need.
With practiced precision, I flip my pistol, load up my arm and swing at his bulky head, intent on knocking him into next week.
Only she hits first and lands a direct face shot.
Little leather shoe meets one ugly ass nose with the precision of someone who understands physics.
His knees fold, a wet grunt rolls out of his slack mouth, and he falls hard as a rotten tree.
Well, damn.
"Got him," I call with a laugh. "Couldn't have done it better myself."
The team is going to freaking love this. This is going to be one of those stories they drag out for years.
But the sight of that bastard's hands on her ankle is going to be in my nightmares.
Not professional. Not detached. Definitely not following protocol to keep a degree of separation from emotions.
Fuck.
I'm still grinning when I call up to her. "He's out cold. That tiny foot packs a size thirteen punch, now come on, I'll help you down..."
Unfortunately my wish is not my command.
The opposite happens.
"Hey! Wait. Do. Not. Move."
The target doesn't listen. At freaking all. My impressed stupor vanishes as I stare at the vacant vent opening. She went up. All the way up.
Like a thief in a museum.
Bumps and groans rattle through the drop-ceiling above me signaling that the little hellcat is on the move. Inside the ductwork.
"This was supposed to be clean and easy," I mutter, stepping over the unconscious mound, not bothering to avoid his fingers as I go.
Unfortunately, I don't trust him to stay out. With a curse, I yank the vacuum's cord right out of the machine.
Flex cuffs would be better, but improvised restraints are a SEAL specialty. This'll hold him long enough.
He's snoring as I cue up my comms gear to report in.
"Male detained," I say as I lean over the ugly bastard, working his arms so I can tie them to his legs. "Package is on the move in HVAC system. Over."
The confused sound on the other end of the line comes from Truck. "Repeat. Over."
I can picture his expression—that what-the-fuck look he gets when missions go wrong in ways even we can't predict.
"Package is…in the ceiling. Over."
A beat of silence. Then Beast cuts in. "Falcon One to JT, we've got her on thermal, gotta admit this is a twist I didn't see coming. She's moving east. Over."
Truck snorts, commenting, "Maybe next time we rescue someone, we can ask them to use the stairs like a normal person. Over."
As I suspected. I might not have eyes on her, but I've got ears and she's about as stealthy as a raccoon in a metal garbage can.
"Copy," I reply, "going in after her. Over."
Figuring she's not going to make it far in the pitch dark, I plan on being right there when panic takes hold.
That and getting this under control means we're out of here as fast as possible.
That's the plan.
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.