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.
