Kicking the oven closed, he glanced out Sarah-Jane’s side windows. Nothing moved except the ocean, the soft laps against boat hulls the only sound in the shipyard. But with dawn an hour off, it wouldn’t be long before workers clocked in and ruined the serenity. Not good on any level. He needed a place to bring Ange if—no, not if…when—he found her, and the traffic from boat to boat might prove a problem.
So…
That left plan B. The cabin on his small, but private, island.
And wasn’t that a kicker?
He never took anyone there. Ange didn’t even know about it, but today was a new day. A shitload had changed in the last few hours, so what did it matter that his secret hideout was about to become not so secret anymore? He couldn’t take her home. Not if he was right about the thing that had taken her.
Jesus. Dragons. Who would’ve guessed and…why wasn’t he more surprised? The question was an excellent one. And the fact he couldn’t answer it should’ve freaked him out. Instead, all he found was acceptance…and a crapload of subtext and mental flashbacks.
He’d been dreaming about dragons lately. A lot. And one in particular. A blue-gray dragon with webbed claws, smooth scales, and sharp fangs. One who loved the ocean and swimming as much as he did.
Weird. But maybe it explained why seeing one hadn’t come as such a shock. His brain had already downloaded the file. Now he was just sifting through the rubble, looking for clues, acting on his ability to perceive things other people couldn’t, all while operating on an instinctive level that wasn’t ruled by intellect. Or logic, apparently.
With a sigh, Mac shook his head and, moving slowly to avoid the toss-n-tumble in his gut, made for the stairs. He needed to get out of the shipyard before the sun rose. His captain would send a patrol unit looking for him. Probably try to haul his ass back to the hospital, but as he cleared the stairway and came up on deck, he got hit with a wave of…
Mac blinked to clear his vision. All he got was static buzzing in his ears, the sound hissing like a radio with its wires crossed. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades, then ran down his spine as another wave slammed into him. He backed up a step. Then another. God, something wasn’t right. The clawing sickness was shifting, becoming more…something else entirely.
White light flashed behind his eyes. Pain hit him like a body shot, cracking him wide open, twisting until his vision went dark. A scream lodged in his throat, his muscles twisted, knotting up so hard he felt one snap. With a “fuck me,” he stumbled sideways toward the side of the boat. Just as his hand connected with the handrail, agony took him over. He hit the water with a splash and, as cold, salty liquid filled his mouth and nose, he pictured his partner.
Angela.
His baby sister was in trouble, and there was nothing he could do to help her. He was already drowning, the pain tearing him apart.
The steel bars barely made a sound as Angela slid them closed behind her. Crouching low, she listened, straining to hear beyond her hammering heartbeat, and twisted her hands to get a better grip on the box cutter. A shiver rolled through her as the flex-cuffs bit into her wrists. She wanted to cut through the plastic and free her hands, but time wasn’t on her side. If she took the minute she needed, she might get caught. So as much as it killed her, she would wait. When she was safe in the elevator, she’d slice through the cuffs. For now, she needed to swallow the fear and keep a hold of her impromptu weapon.
But, man, the metal handle wasn’t cooperating.
Slick with Lothair’s blood, it kept sliding between her palms, defying her will to control it. Angela tightened her grip on the cutter and scanned the hallway stretched out in front of her. Empty. Nothing but peeling paint and uneven floors. Her luck was holding. For how much longer? She didn’t know.
“No sense sticking around to find out,” she murmured to herself.
As crazy as it seemed, talking to herself helped. Hearing each word kept her straight and moving, instead of scared and paralyzed. ’Cause, yeah, inaction wasn’t an option. Later, when she found a way out of the madhouse, she would rant, rave…cry, scream…whatever. But she couldn’t give in to the pressure threatening to geyser inside her. Not right now. Not when she still had a chance.
Glancing over her shoulder, she stared through the bars and listened hard. Nothing. No shout of alarm. No moans of pain. No sound at all.
Pushing to her feet, Angela sprinted down the corridor, each of her footfalls light. Fluorescents flashed overhead, the long tubes buzzing, pointing the way to the elevator. Breathing hard, she paused at the mouth of the corridor. Bingo. One Otis, dead ahead, waiting with tarnished steel doors to take her to freedom.
Her heart thumped a little harder as she closed the distance, reached forward and—
Oh, God…no. The miserable sons of bitches.
There wasn’t a button. Just a blank cement wall. Nothing she could push to bring the elevator down to her level.
“Shit,” she said, mind whirling as she tried to think. Where to go? What to do? How much time did she have left before Lothair came to and found her gone? “Double shit.”
Panic clogged her throat for a second. The cop in her shoved it aside. She didn’t have time for BS. There must be another way out…a rear entrance or something. No way the Razorbacks would build a bunker without a backup plan. The bastards weren’t that stupid.
Pivoting on her bare feet, she looked left, then right. The corridor stretched in both directions. Yeah, the Otis might be the center of the underground complex, but something else lay deep in the maze. So now, the million-dollar question…which way should she go?
Instinct told her to head right.
Angela listened without hesitation. Intuition was a tool, one that always needed to be heeded. Her partner had taught her that and—as much as it sometimes annoyed her—Mac was rarely, if ever, wrong.
Sending another silent prayer his way, she ran hard, searching for a door, another elevator, anything that might lead her out of the underground warren. Another intersection. Another decision. She kept to the right and—
“Thank God.”
Her chest so tight she could hardly breathe, she stared at her salvation. Doors. At least a dozen of them marching down the double-wide corridor. Six to a side, the same color as the walls, each blended into its surroundings, as though the Razorbacks hoped to hide them with a coat of paint.
Grasping the cutter with her teeth, Angela freed up her hands and checked the first one.
Locked.
Crap.
By the fifth, desperation took hold. Tears in her eyes, she moved onto the next. The knob chilled her palms as she grabbed hold. Praying hard, she twisted and…
The lock disengaged with a snick.
Her heart went loose inside her chest as she cracked the door and peeked inside. A solitary light flickered, casting eerie shadows across pale walls. She scanned the room. An old table with mismatched chairs. A bank of cabinets with a sink and stove. A fridge. But other than that? Not a soul in sight. Thank you, God. With one last look in either direction, she checked to make sure the corridor was still empty, then slipped inside the small kitchen.
Working fast, she grabbed the box cutter and attacked the flex-cuffs binding her wrists. She nicked herself once, twice, a third time while she looked around. Her gaze locked onto the ventilation shaft. Up near the ceiling, it sat just above the top of the fridge.
And wasn’t that a blessing? Escape route complete with a makeshift ladder and launching platform.
All right, so climbing up a steel tube wasn’t her first choice. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. She wanted out and a cramped ventilation shaft was better than nothing.
Grabbing the tea towel hanging on the stove, Angela wrapped it around her cut wrist. She didn’t want to leave any trace behind—not a single clue—for the bastards to find. If they saw any of her blood, they’d know exactly where she’d gone. And how to find her.
After hiding the mangled flex-cuff under the s
ink with the cleaning supplies, she hopped onto the counter, then climbed on top of the fridge. On her knees, one eye on the door, both ears wide open, she attacked the vent screws with the tip of the box cutter. Around and around. One screw then the next. The last bolt dropped into her hand, and her bottom lip trembled. Her hands took up the cause, shaking so hard she struggled to get the grille off the wall.
“Steady,” she whispered.
Taking a deep breath, she tried again. Jackpot. The vent cap came away in her grip.
Not wasting a second, she turned her back to the wall, lifted her legs into the hole, and walked backward on her palms. When her elbow connected with the lip of the shaft, she reached out and grabbed the metal grille from its perch on top of the fridge. Flat on her stomach, she backed all the way in, set the vent cap back in place, and put herself in reverse.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She’d done it. Had made it inside. Now she needed to find her way out. Must locate a vertical shaft and climb to freedom before Lothair and the Razorbacks came looking for her.
Chapter Five
Bastian’s chokehold was more effective than a WWE wrestler’s. A lethal combination of hard male hands and amped-up aggression. Rikar struggled anyway, muscles straining as he got dragged away from his target.
With a snarl, he stayed locked on, face forward, all his attention on the Razorback. The bright blue of his gaze lit the rogue up, painting a bull’s-eye on the back of his skull. Not that the fucker noticed. Nah, not Forge. The bastard was too busy rolling to his feet, trying to get his balance on the slippery floor.
Thank Christ for small favors.
No way he wanted to make it easy for the male. Bastian was doing a great job of that already: getting in his way, pulling him off, denying him the satisfaction of eviscerating the rogue.
All he needed was one more go-around. Just one more.
Another fist to the head. A couple more shots to the kidneys, and Forge would buckle. And if the male didn’t, all the better. Rikar craved a fight. Wanted the knuckle-grinding, body-bruising brawl that would make him hurt on the outside as much as he did on the inside.
Maybe if the pain was bad enough, he’d forget. Would be able to close his eyes and not picture Angela’s face.
With another roar, Rikar rotated into a body-torquing twist.
“Rikar—”
“Get out of my way!”
“Listen, brother…just listen to me.”
No time for that.
He didn’t want to hear a thing his commander had to say. Not now. Not ten minutes from now. But man, the male was strong…and clingy as hell, like an octopus wrapped around its prey. Switching up his strategy, Rikar unleashed his magic and lost his muscle shirt. As the cotton disappeared, B cursed, hands sliding on Rikar’s icy skin, struggling to hang on. Fucking A. He was almost free. His best friend wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer and—
Bastian lost his grip.
Baring his teeth, Rikar lunged forward, boots getting traction on concrete, his gaze locked on the bastard across the cell.
“Rikar…don’t!” B’s voice came from far away, through a tunnel filled with blind rage and pinpoint focus. He understood the command, but couldn’t stop, not until the rogue lay broken, nothing but a bloody mess on the floor. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Rikar ignored the warning. Big mistake. B wasn’t a lightweight in a fight or anywhere else. He was commander of their pack for a reason. A growl rolled in behind him. The scramble came next: the scrape of heavy footfalls, the rush of oncoming air.
Rikar didn’t slow. He had one shot. One chance to wrap his hands around the rogue’s throat and—
He grunted as Bastian tackled him from behind. Strong arms cranked down hard, wrapped him up tight, body slamming him off balance. His feet left the floor.
Oh, shit. He was airborne and headed for a hard landing.
Twisting midfall, protecting his head, he collided with the floor shoulder-first. Pain knocked the air from his lungs as Bastian landed on top. Without mercy, his best friend sat on him, knees digging into his ribs, hands pressing him down as they slid toward the opposite wall. Rearing, Rikar let his elbow fly. A sick crack echoed as he connected, nailing Bastian in the side of the head. B hammered him back, making his cheek throb and his conscience sting.
Good Christ. What the hell was he doing…hitting his best friend?
The question made him hesitate. The split second was all his commander needed. Shifting right, B flipped him onto his stomach, pulling a quick grab-and-wind on his arm.
“Get off me!” Pinned with his elbow folded back almost ninety degrees, Rikar bucked the hold. “Get the fuck—”
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry, my brother, but I need him.” His chest pumping, each exhale coming on short bursts of frosty air, Bastian said, “Rikar, man, I need him.”
Like a bomb detonating inside his head, the plea in B’s tone shredded him. Fuck. It wasn’t fair. None of it. Not the fact Forge would get a free pass for Angela’s abduction. Nor that his friend was right.
His commander’s female would die if Forge didn’t explain Dragonkind’s ability to energy-fuse with a female. The rare bond B shared with Myst was sacred, so rare all knowledge of it had been lost over time. And like it or not, the SOB hailed from the Scottish pack—the only one who knew how the energy exchange worked…how it saw a female safely through pregnancy and birthing one of their kind.
Rikar’s throat clogged, tightening with tears he refused to shed.
He couldn’t stand it. Ivar. Lothair. It didn’t matter. Neither would show Angela any mercy and, as he planted his free hand, trying to dislodge Bastian, desperation went nuclear. The detonation stripped him bare, laid him low…made his chest ache and his heart hurt.
Closing his eyes, Rikar stopped fighting. His bruised cheekbone throbbed as it touched down on the cold floor, and he rasped, “He’s hurting her, B. He’s hurting her and I can’t…Christ help me…but I can’t…”
“Jesus…I’m sorry.” His voice rough with regret, Bastian eased his grip, then released him. Hitting his haunches beside him, Rikar accepted the warm, heavy weight of his best friend’s hand as it landed on his shoulder. The touch didn’t help or bring comfort. He was off the reservation, out in dangerous territory…the hell of the situation too much to bear. “Rikar…you’re the best tracker we have. You’ll find her. We’ll get her back, I promise, but—”
Movement flashed, light glinting off the steel walls of the prison cell.
“I wouldn’t advise it, Forge.” B’s hand stilled on the back of Rikar’s head. A heartbeat passed before his best friend glanced up, nailing the rogue with a glare. “Stay put. Or I’ll blow the collar and your head off.”
The threat stopped Forge cold. Upper lip curled off his teeth, he paced away, putting the width of the room between them.
“Ven?” Soft and low, Bastian’s tone said it all. He wanted backup, was through with the bullshit.
“Here.” Like a giant watchdog, Venom moved into view, ready to help: to hurt, to give whatever B needed.
Wrung out, still belly-down on the floor, Rikar huffed, grateful for his buddy. Despite their commander’s wishes, Venom had stepped off and stayed out of the way, giving him a shot at the Razorback. Now, the male would catch hell…be on B’s shit list for a while. And man, how upstanding was that? Very. Big in a way Rikar appreciated. So, yeah. Venom would be getting his fair share of “you’re the best, buddy” from here on out.
With a gentle squeeze, Bastian let him go and pushed to his feet. “Get our boy out of here, Ven.”
The command made Rikar cringe. Terrific. He’d just had his wings clipped.
Not that he blamed Bastian. His behavior didn’t warrant inclusion, and his commander had every right to be pissed off. As executive officer of the Nightfuries, B expected more from him. Control was valued by their pack; the lack of which couldn’t be overlooked. He’d crossed the line. Defied a direct order with deliberate int
ent when he attacked Forge, but…hell. He’d hoped for more on the back end: information mixed with a mitt full of satisfaction.
Now he had less than nothing.
Rikar shook his head. Stupid. He was an idiot, plain and simple. One that deserved exactly what B was giving him…exile from the interrogation center.
Pushing himself upright, he settled into a crouch and tossed a Hail Mary pass in a losing game. No way Bastian would change his mind, but he tried anyway. “I’m good, B…in control. Just give me another—”
“I dinnae know where they took her.” The thick brogue rolled, Forge’s quiet tone moving like a steamroller through the room.
Rikar wasn’t immune. The admission flattened him, along with his fellow warriors. The proof? Bastian stood unmoving, his gaze locked on Forge, astonishment on his face. Shitkickers rooted to the floor, Venom didn’t look much better. And him? His jaw had come unhinged, hanging open like a freaking Venus flytrap.
And still, they stood there, frozen in time. Silence rising to meet their incredulity.
Twitching under the scrutiny, Forge stared at the floor. “If I knew…I would tell you.”
Rikar shook his head, trying to wrap his brain around that one. Christ. What the hell did he mean? Forge was a Razorback. How could he not know where he lived…where Ivar and the others slept every day and flew away from each night?
It defied reason.
Which naturally set off every internal alarm he owned.
As the thing got busy shrieking, his eyes narrowed. A deflection. The rogue was playing them, tossing out tidbits like chum into shark-infested waters. Excellent strategy. Stellar, really. Especially since Rikar’s bite had always been bigger than his bark.
Forge kept his head down and his senses sharp, waiting for Frosty to come at him from across the room. The pale-eyed male was on edge, ready to attack without provocation or warning. Any other time, he would’ve been on board with the plan. Relished the challenge. Enjoyed the fight. Given as good as he got.
Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Page 4