Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Movement,” Viper said. “South side.”
Atlas shifted his focus in that direction, silently stepping over a gangly shrub and into the yard. His senses crackled now that they were outside of the shadows.
A figure moved toward a Hummer parked out front, fifty meters away.
“Mine,” Viper said, veering in that direction.
“Capture the target,” Rogue said. A reminder before anyone got trigger-happy.
They wouldn’t leave a single guard alive.
A sliding glass door on the east wall of the house came into view. Atlas pressed his back against the side of the house and waited a few seconds for Rogue to fall into the same position on the opposite side.
He peeked into the door. Vertical blinds blocked most of his view, but one broken slat allowed him to see into a bedroom.
The bed appeared empty. He pulled on the door handle, but it didn’t budge. “Ready?” he whispered into the mic.
Rogue held up his fist. “All in position?”
“I’ve got eyes south,” Havoc said.
“East ’n’ south’re in my scope,” said Wraith. “Move in.”
“Go.”
Atlas aimed at the door and fired. Glass shattered, the sound as loud as an explosion. He leapt through the opening, his boots crunching on the debris. Moving swiftly, he cleared the space. His NOD illuminated every dark corner of the empty room.
He strode with Rogue at his side. The bedroom spilled into a hallway. He paused at the door, the laser on his weapon pointing toward a living room. He stepped out of the room.
Crack, crack, crack!
Bullets smacked into drywall near his head. He spotted the shooter ducking behind a couch. He returned fire and was rewarded with a pained cry.
“Viper, what’s your status?” Rogue demanded.
“One guard outside is dead. Negative contact on target.”
“Nothing on my end,” said Havoc.
Atlas bounded across the living room, scanning the space that opened into a kitchen—both empty except for the injured fuck. He reached the back of the couch. A young dude in a bulletproof vest was bleeding from his shoulder. Not their target.
Atlas kicked the rifle from the man’s hand. “Where’s your leader?”
“F-Fuck you.”
“Not on my agenda,” he said wryly. “Where is he?”
The man spat. The bloody saliva missed Striker’s boot.
Rogue came around the sofa and put a bullet in the guy’s head. “Keep going,” he ordered.
Movement at the corner of his eye made Atlas duck. Rogue followed suit. Fire erupted.
“Hostiles, south!” Rogue shouted.
Atlas shrunk low. Their enemies were stationed down the hallway. He inched closer to the edge of the wall and peeked around the corner. “You got eyes?”
Rogue was crouched low behind the shelter of the couch. “Hostiles are guarding what looks like a bedroom. No clean shot.”
Atlas dug into the pack at his waist and pulled out a small device. “Incoming smoke grenade,” he told Rogue. He flipped off his NOD and clipped it to his belt before removing a half-face respirator and positioning it over his nose and mouth.
He pulled the pin on the grenade and hurled the bomb down the hallway.
Kaboom!
The men cried out. Smoke exploded through the space and his ears rang. Atlas leapt to his feet and barreled down the hall with his weapon pointed in front of him. A man ran toward him, coughing and flailing.
Atlas fired and hit the man in the chest. He went down.
The mask blocked the dark clouds from entering his lungs, but he had to squint and blink away the thick air.
“Halt,” Rogue ordered.
Atlas stopped just as he was about to pivot into the bedroom at the end of the hall.
Rogue reached his back. “Go.”
A figure swung at him, and he felt the butt of a rifle in his gut. Atlas grunted but slammed his head forward, smashing his hard-ass forehead against the other man’s. His attacker went limp.
Rogue was at his side, a gun pressed to the guy’s head. “Someone’s on the bed. Not moving.”
Atlas spun toward the single mattress on the floor against the wall. Sure enough, a figure lay on it. Long blond hair caught the outdoor light shining through the thin slats of the venetian blinds.
His senses prickled. Something in the air told him she wasn’t sleeping. “Miss. Show me your hands.”
She didn’t move.
“Check her pulse,” Rogue said.
Peeling his left hand off the gun but keeping his right finger on the trigger, he moved her hair to touch her neck. Her cold, clammy skin sent unease skittering through him. But a pulse beat steadily. She wasn’t dead.
A chain circled her raw, thin wrist.
“Miss?” He laid his hand on her shoulder.
She jolted forward, her hand flying toward his face.
“Striker!” Rogue bellowed.
He dodged backward, seizing her arm. Something sharp nearly connected with his throat. He wrenched the object from her fingers.
“No!” she screamed. Her fists swung, landing blows on his shoulders and rattling the chain securing her.
“Jesus, restrain her!” Rogue ordered.
Carefully, he caught her arms and anchored them to her side. He should be fucking pissed—the woman had just about sliced his jugular. But he wasn’t.
Her chest rose and fell. Her long blond strands were a tangled mess in front of her face. Trembles racked her body.
“Easy,” he whispered.
Some of the tension left her shoulders. He kept his grip tight, bracing her so she didn’t sink to the floor. If she weren’t so hyped up on adrenaline and hell-bent on attacking him, he doubted she’d be able to walk.
“Are you hurt?” He wanted to see her face better but didn’t dare let go of her arms to move her hair aside.
She sniffed. “W-Who are you?” She sounded tortured. Angry. Scared.
His chest constricted. He couldn’t fucking tell her he was with Phantom Ops, here to capture a dangerous drug trafficker and obtain his list of government officials who’d let drugs seep across US borders.
“I want to know why you’re here,” he said.
He was barely aware of Rogue approaching. The beam of a flashlight filled the space. The woman blinked, turning her head away from the glow but not before he caught a glimpse of her golden eyes. Their tawny hue struck him. So soft and beautiful he just wanted her to look at him again.
Every dirty inch of her body came into view. His stomach twisted. Horrific images of what this young woman had surely suffered filled his mind. Her swollen and bruised face and a cut at the corner of her mouth indicated she’d been hit.
Fury rolled over his skin in thick waves. Had she been drugged? Trafficked? What the hell was she doing here?
Bare, rail-thin legs were folded underneath where she sat. A once-white men’s T-shirt barely covered her. Stains marred the material. Her skin was layered with grime.
Rogue knelt next to him. He kept the light pointed down. “Where’s Rex?”
She lowered her chin and her shoulders rolled forward.
Atlas reached for the piece of ceramic he’d dropped to the floor. “Were you going to kill him with this?”
Seconds ticked by. The woman wasn’t here voluntarily. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t in some kind of fucked-up relationship with their target.
She didn’t respond.
“He’s not here,” Rogue said. “We need to move.”
Striker reached for her chains. Just as he feared, she slumped toward the mattress.
“Shit.”
He caught her and lowered her weightless body to the padding. “She passed out.”
“Free her. We don’t have time for this shit. Rex got away.” Rogue was already on his feet, spitting orders to Havoc and Wraith.
Atlas stared at the willowy, half-naked woman. Rage filled his blood. Gently, he positioned her wrist away from her body and fired a round at the shackle. The metal snapped open with a ping. She didn’t stir.
Shit, shit, shit.
He should be as focused as Rogue on their target, but he couldn’t get the sight of her bruises out of his head. He wanted—no, needed—answers. How had she gotten here? Why were they keeping her here?
And what the fuck had they done to her?
Dammit, he needed to get her to safety so he could think clearly.
“Striker, you got this?” Rogue was at his back.
“Yeah, man. But look at her.” He snatched a thin blanket from the bed and wrapped her lower body. It was hotter than hell outside and the last thing she needed was to overheat, but he also wouldn’t flash her ass to the guys if he could help it.
“We’ll worry about that later.”
He bundled her into his arms and carried her against his chest. She lay limp, her body too damn light.
He nodded at Rogue.
Looking at the woman, his friend appeared wary, and for a second, Atlas feared Rogue would tell him to leave her behind.
He didn’t. Which was a good fucking thing because he would’ve fought him on it.
They went through the bedroom’s sliding door. A dead guard lay on the ground off the cement patio. Without missing a beat, Atlas followed Rogue into the foliage.
Molly’s body rocked gently, and the motion almost lulled her back to sleep. She moaned, knowing she needed to fight the darkness but wishing she could cling to it.
Her senses sparked to life even though her eyes refused to open.
Pain pulsed from her temple to the back of her head.
A deep ache pulled at the muscles in her neck.
She curled closer to the solid man carrying her.
Tremors shook her arms and legs. She hadn’t been cold in a long time.
But even though her hands and feet felt almost numb, heat warmed her cheek and torso.
Not the sticky heat of the jungle but something else.
Awareness shot over her nerve endings, warning fast on its heels. Strong arms cradled her against a solid chest. The faint smell of sweat mixed with a heady masculine aroma and the earthy notes of the jungle filled her nostrils.
Memories rushed back. Gunshots. Shouts. A smoke bomb. Her nasal passage still burned from whatever chemicals had leaked into the air.
Then a face rushed forth in her mind. Gentle eyes. A gentler voice thick with authority and something she couldn’t place. She shifted her wrist. No heavy metal held her down. She tilted back her head and blinked open her eyes but only darkness met her vision.
Terror surged into her cells.