Page 8 of Flames of Ruin

‘Draco’ comes from the old English term, meaning dragon. As much as I don’t want to be a monster like my father, part of me knows I will never escape the reputation he left behind. The citizens of Edinburgh feared him. So on some level, I kept true to the name and took on the mantle of being “The Dragon”. Someone the citizens and criminals of the city would either fear or respect.

Shado nervously paces behind me as I peruse through the information flashing across the screen of my computer.

Adrien. There is no last name in any of the files, as if someone wiped it clean from the database. Age thirty-one. His callsign in the Special Forces was Shado. Looking at him now, I can’t picture him being a part of quiet, guerilla warlike missions. He spent twelve years in the military before getting dishonorably discharged due to espionage.

What information was he seeking?

Scrolling further down the screen, I notice something that sticks out. One of his frequent points of contacts prior to his enlistment is on my list of targets.

Turning toward him, I arch my eyebrow, questioning him, “Espionage, huh?”

“Yeah, not one of my finer moments.” He shrugs. “At least, getting caught.”

He leans against the computer desk with his arms folded across his chest.

I stay quiet for a moment, staring at him, lost in thought, trying to decide what to do with him. He knows my real identity, my secret. In thirteen years, no one has ever found out who I am and lived to talk about it.

“So, why do you do it?” His voice breaks my thoughts. “The vigilante shit? Do you get off on killing people when you could just let the cops do their job?”

His question makes me laugh. “The cops? Of Edinburgh? The ones that are just as corrupt as some of the biggest crime lords in the city?”

“You mean you?” He pauses, “So, you’re disguised as a crime lord by day, yet you kill them by night. Again, why?”

“Do you always talk this fuckin’ much?” I grit my teeth, the muscles in my jaw clenching.

Running my hands through my hair, I inhale and exhale, attempting to keep my composure. If his file is correct, and he’s as good as it says he is - aside from getting caught - I could use him for my nightly excursions.

“The dragon tattoo is a dead giveaway, man. Not very inconspicuous.”

I raise my gaze to meet his. “How many crime lords have you seen with scary animals tattooed on their skin? It’s kind of the norm around here.”

“I guess.” He grunts as he pops off the table, heading toward the steps to the first floor.

“Where are you going?” I call after him.

He turns around, staring at me. “Umm, I kind of need stitches. I don’t really feel like bleeding out tonight.” He gestures to his shoulder that is still leaking miniscule amounts of blood.

I roll my eyes.

Dramatic fucker.

“Sit.” I motion to the chair next to the desk as I grab the first aid kit out of the drawer.

He scoffs, “What, are you a doctor too?”

I snap my head in his direction.

“Do you want to go to the hospital where you’ll have to give a statement about being shot? Or would you rather it be taken care of here and not be brought into an investigation involving a quadruple homicide of four gang members?”

He slips his hoodie off before sinking down into the chair, almost sulking.

Opening the first aid kit, I prep his skin with alcohol and begin threading the string through the suture needle.

He looks at me with his eyes wide. “You’re not going to numb me first?”

Grabbing the whiskey bottle off the desk, I hold it out to him, taunting him. “Take a swig of this, pussy. You’ll be fine.”

Before he has a chance to swallow, I shove the needle through his skin, probably more forcefully than I should, but the kid is annoying as fuck.

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