Page 16 of Forged in Fire
Regret.
“I’m sorry, Iris,” he says quietly.
“No!” I gasp.
This can’t be happening.
The betrayal cuts deeper than any physical wound. Not rescue. Trap. Not salvation. Destruction of everything I’ve believed for the past few years of my life.
I expected danger when I walked into this place. Considered the chance of capture, considered the very real prospect of death. But this…
I never considered this.
My brother—my twin, the other half of my heart—just led me straight into enemy hands.
Chapter 6
Riven
Dust and concrete. That’s what this mountainside compound tastes like when the wind shifts and carries the scent up to my position. I’ve been watching this shithole for so many hours I could navigate it blindfolded.
Twelve heat signatures bleed through the main building’s walls, pinpointing the location of its occupants. Two clustered near what appears to be a research station. The others move in patterns loose enough to tell me whoever’s running security thinks altitude equals protection.
Amateurs. Or they want people to think they’re amateurs.
My thermal scanner picks up the details that matter: which guard pisses behind the generator shed at 0300, which one smokes on the north perimeter at shift change, which doorway gets skipped during the third-hour sweep. Three days of reconnaissance burned those patterns into my skull.
The staging area spreads below my position like a terrorist’s wet dream. Equipment crates stacked in neat rows, each one sporting shipping labels that would make customs agents reach for their sidearms. I know what’s inside them, and it’s not research equipment. Military-grade hardware disguised as archaeological supplies. Chemical compounds that don’t exist on any legitimate manifest.
Standard Syndicate front operation. Nothing I haven’t seen before.
Except tonight, something feels off.
Heat crawls up my forearms, pools in my chest where dragon blood runs thick and restless. Not the controlled burn I use for precision kills; this is different. Hungrier. Like my dragon is responding to something in the air that my conscious mind can’t identify.
Something calls to the beast in me. Something I should recognize but don’t.
Bullshit. Get a fucking grip.
I shake my head, refocus on the mission. I spent a week following breadcrumbs through Cluj-Napoca’s underworld, bribing information brokers, running surveillance on Syndicate contacts who thought they were smarter than the Guild’s intelligence network.
Wrong.
Through my scope, I confirm the heat signature I’ve been hunting.
Gotcha.
Within the building, the target moves with the relaxed motion of someone who has no idea he’s being watched. I don’t need to see him in person to spot him. Even as just a heat signature, I recognize his bearing: above average height, solid build, loose-limbed gait.
Perfect match for the profile in my jacket pocket. The file I’ve memorized down to the last detail about eye color and preferred weapon configurations, along with everything I’ve learned about him while watching this place.
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
I stay motionless, debating the wisdom of moving positions. I’d rather not take the action in there, but I can’t spend all night waiting to find out if he’s going to emerge from that building anytime soon. I also don’t want to delay this assignment any longer. There’s no guarantee he’s going to be here much longer.
I gather myself, preparing to rise. Then stop.
