Debris pelted the dirt. The boulders shielded the men from the bigger objects, and their helmets deflected the small particles.
“Move, move, move!” Roarke ordered. He led his team forward. Dust rushed into his nose and stung his throat andlungs. He kept his chin low, allowing his helmet to shield his eyes.
Enraged voices shouted from inside the compound. Roarke reached the cement wall enclosing the fortress, parts of which were rubble now. He leapt over a fallen slab of concrete, and his boots landed hard on the dirt.
Shots fired.
Before Roarke could lock and load, Twist fired back, taking out the shooter.
Appreciation flooded through him. “Thanks, Twist.”
“Don’t mention it, brother. Always got your back. Me and my tobacco, that is.”
“Still gonna make you choke on that shit if you keep spitting,” Roarke said, chortling. “Spread out!” he called to his team through the radio.
Bruce and Viper went in opposite directions.
Roarke made a beeline for the steel front door hanging off its hinges. Twist flanked him as they entered. The sleek marble floor was covered in dust and chunks of stone.
“Second floor,” Twist murmured, as he hustled toward the stairs.
Roarke slipped into the room off the entrance. Three computers were stationed on makeshift tables. The monitor of one was cracked. Another computer was knocked over. Hopefully still useful.
Gunfire drew him out of the room.
Twist stood on the stairs, hunched close to the railing, while a bloodied and battered man shot at him from the second story.
Roarke caught the man between his crosshairs and fired. The bullet went through the side of his head. Blood splattered as he went down.
Twist smirked. “Show-off.” He sent another wad of spit to the ground.
Roarke grunted. “If you’d get that shit out of your mouth?—”
Boom
The detonation shook the walls and split the floor. Roarke threw himself to the ground. “Twist!”
Roarke cried out as the stairs buckled. Concrete folded over Twist, and a cloud of smoke rose to the ceiling.
A high-pitched ring vibrated Roarke’s eardrum. He staggered to his feet. Pain radiated down his back and legs. A scream bellowed from his lips, but no sound came out. He dropped to his knees at the pile of rock that was a set of stairs only seconds ago.
Bruce and Viper were at his side, digging. Twist’s limp hand appeared. Dread clogged Roarke’s arteries.
He seized a heavy stone positioned above Twist’s arm. His muscles screamed, his tendons resisted, but he hurled the rock to the side.
A large gash split open the top of his best friend’s head. Twist’s hazy, unfocused eyes found Roarke. All the joy and humor drained from them. “T-Take c-care of Lainie ...” Twist’s gaze turned distant, and his lips parted as life left his body.
“No!” The shout ravaged Roarke’s lungs and chest, and his heart split in two. He yelled to the radio operator, calling for help, but it was too late.
Laine boltedout of bed at the sound of her doorbell. Instinct told her to run toward it—as if reaching the door at record speed would somehow dispel the news waiting for her.
It was after midnight. Good news didn’t come at this hour.
Her mind ripped through possibilities. Two stuck out: Her brother, Ollie, had terrible news about a friend. Or ...
She skidded to the front door, flicked on the outside light, and checked the peephole. Her pulse slowed to a deafening roar. Without thought, control, or coherency, she opened the door.
Roarke “Rogue” Logan stood on her front porch wearing cammies and a grim expression. He was here. In Pittsburgh. His brow was folded low, his hands balled firmly at his sides. Emotion was raw in his hazel eyes.
