“Rogue to Viper. What’s your location?”
“Quarter mile south. Kiddo’s fine. Wants her mom, though.”
“Copy.” He situated Laine on the ground. He needed to stay and help Striker take out their enemies before backup arrived.
He huddled near the car and took aim at one of the shooters. As he glanced at Laine’s unmoving form, fury blurred his vision. He refocused on his target and unloaded his clip.
He got one man in the head, immediately silencing him.
“How many left?” he asked Striker through their coms.
“Two.”
The enemy fire ceased as the remaining men took cover—or called for reinforcements. He shot to his feet.
“Rogue, hold!”
He didn’t hold. Didn’t fucking slow either. He went straight for the attackers’ vehicle. Movement on the driver’s side caught his attention. He aimed and fired, taking out the man in the neck.
“Rogue, eleven o’clock. Incoming!”
He looked left to see a flaming bottle hurtling through the air. He shielded his face as the glass smashed near his feet. Flames licked the grass and the stench of gasoline rushed into his nostrils. Fire danced around his legs. He stomped out what he could, then picked up the base of the firebomb. The hot glass burned his palm, but he didn’t give a shit.
“Rogue, fall back!” Striker bellowed.
He had no intention of following the order. He rushed to the far side of the vehicle, where the cheaply made bomb had been thrown from. A man leaned against an open door, blood streaking down the side of his head and a bullet hole in his left arm.
Sweat drenched the man’s skin, and his hate-filled eyes landed on Roarke. “The bitch is dead.”
Roarke smirked. “Tell Cameron he fucked with the wrong woman.” He jammed the jagged glass into the man’s neck.
His eyes went wide and blood exploded from his throat.
Roarke threw him to the ground, yanked away his weapon, and took his radio. Then he jumped in the driver’s seat of the jeep. A set of keys hung in the ignition. He started the engine and rolled the short distance to their overturned car.
Jumping out, he ran to Laine’s side.
Striker was kneeling beside her, his fingers to her neck. He lifted his gaze when Roarke approached.
His stomach dropped. Laine still hadn’t moved.
No.
“She’s all right, but we need to move before backup comes. I’ll drive.”
Roarke tossed him the keys and scooped up Laine. Holding her against his chest, he got in the front seat. He didn’t want Emmy to see her mom like this.
Striker spoke to Viper, announcing their route.
He stared down at Laine. Her skin was pale and streaked with dirt and grime. The bruise on her cheek, likely from Cameron, had become more pronounced. Anxiety filled his chest. “Lainie, you need to open your eyes.” He held his fingertips to the side of her neck.
Her pulse was there. Thready and a little weak, but there.
He stroked his knuckles over her cheek. Jesus, he’d fucked up. He should’ve searched her out back when she’d blown him off in London. But he’d thought her avoidance was a result of their kiss.
Had he known how abusive Cameron was, he could’ve done something.
The vehicle moved over the grass, its headlights coating the trees and foliage.
