Page 5 of Tater
The first swing of the knife caught the gun hand; the pistol went spinning. She turned with momentum, she slammed an elbow into the next man’s throat, felt cartilage pop. The dragon flooded strength through her, too much, too fast. Ren’s vision blurred red.
Someone’s chain caught her shoulder and yanked her back. Ren spun, flames flaring from her fingertips burning throughthe steel links. He screamed and fell. The smell of scorched leather filled the clearing.
More gunfire. A line of fire lanced through her side. The dragon screamed in her head. she stumbled, turned, and then she saw the shooter — bald, eyes wild. He fired again.
The bullet hit, but the dragon caught it halfway. Pain, heat, rage — all one thing now.
She lifted my hand and let the fire go.
Light and noise. His world ended in flame.
The light faded fast. All that was left was the stink of scorched fuel and rain turning the ash into mud. Ren’s knees hit the ground. The dragon went quiet, heartbeat dropping back into her chest like a dying engine.
The forest sounded wrong — no birds, no night bugs, just water that hissed on hot metal. She tried to stand; her right leg didn’t answer. The cut along her ribs burned like a live wire.
Boots scraped behind Ren. She turned slowly and saw one Hellhound was still moving. His cut was half-torched, his colors melting, but he was breathing. He raised a pistol with a shaking hand.
“Should’ve stayed on the damn leash,” he rasped.
The dragon didn’t have enough left for fire. It gave her one last pulse of heat, just enough. She threw the knife. The blade sank into his throat, clean. He went down without a sound.
Then her world tilted. The rain blurred everything into streaks of gray.
“Stay awake,” the dragon warned.
“Trying.”
A familiar noise cut through the storm. A low growl of an engine that didn’t belong to the Hades Hellhounds. The sound of a Bastards bike tuned mean and fast.
She tried to call out, but her voice came out a whisper. The dragon flickered, weak but alive.
“He’s close,”it murmured.
She looked up through the rain. Headlights sliced through the trees, one beam sweeping across the wrecked trail. Tires slid in the mud, then stopped. The bike’s engine cut.
Boots hit the ground. A silhouette moved through the steam and smoke, big shoulders, familiar swagger. Leather cut glinting with the crown-skull patch.
“Tater,” she managed to say.
He didn’t speak at first. He just stared, taking in the wreckage — the burnt trees, the bodies, the blackened mud, Ren on her knees in the middle of it. When he finally moved, it was fast. He was beside her, hands on her face, checking for breath.
“Jesus, Ren…” His voice cracked. “What the hell did you do?”
“Went for a ride,” she whispered.
He looked like he wanted to shake her and hold her all at once. His gloves were slick with rain and blood —hers or theirs, she couldn’t tell.
“Stay with me,” he said. “Eagle’s ten minutes out with the truck. We got you.”
“Don’t yell at me later, “she muttered.
“Too late for that.”
The dragon stirred, faint amusement threading through the pain. He came.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “He always does.”
The last thing she saw was his face, gray eyes hard and wet with rain. Then everything went dark.
