Page 3 of Draco's Fire

Phil grunted and flipped through the pages. His brow furrowed as he read.

Shayla kept quiet. She’d worked with him long enough to know the signs. He could tip either way.

He finished the last page and touched the corner of the folder.

Shayla held her breath. If he flipped it shut, she had him. If not…

Phil pulled his hand away.

Bugger.

“Look, Simmons. I get it. It’s been a while since you caught a good case,” he said.

Anger raised her heart rate and brought a flush to her cheeks. “I’m not jumping at shadows. Sir,” she said, grinding out the last word in a near growl.

She continued, “I’m not asking for the moon here. Just a taskforce. We need eyes and ears on this.”

Giving him space was the best strategy. She knew it. But she pressed on anyway, “A taskforce has the best chance at rooting out their objective. It’s going to be high profile.”

His composure cracked and he reached for the phone. His voice betrayed his reluctance as he said, “All righty. How about we get a second opinion?”

She had to use every century of her experience to weather the conference call. She kept her expression neutral, but inside her emotions churned.

Phil and his colleagues seemed to have a grand old time hashing through her report until finally, a signal she wasn’t privy to must have been exchanged. He delivered the verdict with palpable confidence.

“We appreciate your diligence, Simmons. But here’s the situation. If we created a new taskforce every time a shifter is threatened, we’d have to put half the city on the PEACE payroll,” he said, visibly basking in the supporting chuckles emanating from his phone.

It was times like this that she was tempted to shift, to flex, to show them what it was to be fae. But it was also times like this that reminded her that you shouldn’t have to do anything of the sort to be worthy of respect.

Phil either didn’t notice her struggle or didn’t care. “Your request is noted. And, of course, if something more comes of it, we can always revisit,” he said.

He ended the call and turned his full attention back to her.

One of the keys to a successful long life is knowing when to choose your battles. Shayla tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear and treated him to a cooperative smile as she said, “So, I have your permission to keep tabs on things, then? Dot and cross the appropriate letters. Mind the gaps and all that jazz?”

He leaned back and clasped his hands on his chest, “Sure thing. Whatever works as long as you keep your eyes on the prize.”

He nudged the file toward her, “Anyway. Thanks again for being a team player.”

Shayla took the folder and the hint. She even managed to not let the door hit her in the ass on the way out.

Her mood grew darker with every step back toward her cubicle. Without concrete evidence of a plan or an obvious target, there’d be no institutional support. Without a taskforce, her odds of getting the jump on the opposition were, to put it bluntly, shite. Damn her luck.

The chirpy cadence of a newscaster pulled Shayla out of her spiral, “The Central Park rally for non-violence will be held by none other than by Tyson Stallard, Dragon Shifter and outspoken pacifist.” She stopped in her tracks.

Oh.She’d cursed her luck too soon.

The broadcast continued, “Stallard, along with his partners, Michael Metcalf and Gil Xander, are the cofounders of the Humans Opposing Paranormal Exclusion—HOPE—an organization dedicated to promoting cooperation and equality between humans and metahumans.”

Oh no.

Her breath caught as the reporter droned on, “Funded by Xander Global, HOPE intends…”

Shayla’s mind raced from connection to connection.

A PR puff piece for a high-profile organization, advertising a rally that will inevitably draw all sorts of attention across the political spectrum, could not have come at a worse time. Did no one over there pay attention to what’s going on around them?

They may as well lead with, “Hey, sickos, have we got a bunch of big ol’ targets right here. Come and get ‘em while they’re hot. Everything must go, go, go.”

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