Page 25 of Forged in Fire
Take the shot. This isn’t your fight.
My head pounds at the debate within me. Beyond, the voices continue to flow as the pair argue until there’s no sense in fighting anymore.
“Take her!” Asguard commands the guards, a sharpness in his voice igniting something in me.
Motherfucker!
Heat explodes through my chest. My trigger finger shifts involuntarily from the target to the closest operative.
“No!” Her voice cracks. Desperate. She’s shattered, and it rips my goddamn guts out.
The guard reaches for her abruptly. Fear darkens her expression. Or is it sorrow? Maybe both.
Now or never.
She gathers herself, as if to fight back. But even as a dragon, she’s outnumbered by heavily armed men. She doesn’t stand a goddamned chance. Best-case scenario, she’s going to get hurt. Worst case…
My sights lock onto the guard’s chest.
What am I doing?
I squeeze the trigger.
The rifle kicks against my shoulder. The subsonic round hisses through the air. Hundreds of feet away, the operative drops instantly, assault rifle clattering across concrete.
Perfect shot.
And I just violated every protocol I’ve ever followed.
She spins toward the fallen guard, shadows exploding around. Scales flicker along her arms like liquid metal. Her eyes blaze like gold. Every movement transforms into a dance that makes my blood sing.
Dragon heritage surfacing. But those shadows…
The primary target—Kieran Asguard—staggers backward, shock replacing calculation on his features. First genuine emotion I’ve seen from him all evening.
Good. Fucker.
I work the bolt, brass casing ejecting in a bright arc. Chaos erupts as everyone dives for cover, shouts ringing out, shots punching through the air.
Two down. No going back now.
Muzzle flash and sound signature mark my position. The remaining operatives scramble for cover behind equipment crates, shouting coordinates.
They know there’s a sniper. Position compromised.
I low-crawl along the ridge line fifty feet north. Loose rock skitters down the slope, noise lost in gunfire erupting from the compound.
Should be extracting. Should be running. Should be anywhere but here.
She takes cover behind a shipping container, shadows pooling around her. Those dark tendrils move with purpose, reaching toward threats with uncanny intelligence.
What is she? Dragon, yes. But that shadow manipulation…
Through my new sight line, I track a third operative circling behind her position. Range: two-fifty feet. Moderate crosswind.
Why am I still here?
More heat signatures emerge from the main compound. Reinforcements. At least eight additional contacts moving fast toward the staging area.
