Fury of Ice (7 page)

No freaking out allowed.

Later. She kept telling herself that, using the word as a catalyst…as a reward for pushing forward. ’Cause, yeah. Once she made it out of here, was safely home with a gun in her hand and the deadbolts flipped, she’d let herself go, indulge in a full-blown breakdown. But not right now.

Later
.

It was hard to keep going, though. To hold it together, ignore the scrapes and bruises, the nausea and fatigue. Ravished by the drug, her blood was delivering the medicine with each pump, pushing it deeper into her muscles until it tingled along her spine. Rat-bastard Razorbacks. Whatever they’d pumped her full of was doing its job and, as exhaustion crept closer, the pain got worse, making her want to slow down, rest for just a moment. No harm, no foul. Right?

Wrong. The second she gave in—laid her cheek down on the warm metal—she was dead with a capital D. No passing go. No collecting two hundred dollars. No way out.

And wasn’t that a lovely thought? Uh-huh, a real barrel full of laughs.

But no matter how much she hurt, she needed to keep moving. Anger became her ally in the dark, handing her a lifeline, helping her embrace the idea of payback. Vengeance. Her get-even gene cranked over, giving her strength where her body had none.

Different scenarios rose in her mind as she dragged herself another few feet. Coming back with a grenade launcher. Blowing the underground bunker to kingdom come. Or maybe she could use C4, make sure the boom-boom factor hit record levels. Hmm, definitely C4. Mac was good with the stuff. He’d make sure the fireworks went off better than the Fourth of July.

Yup. No doubt about it.

She’d stepped up her game, moved past dating, and was now married to the idea of premeditated murder. She’d never understood it before, the kind of rage that brought a man to the brink. What sent him over the edge into unrelenting violence. Well, she knew now. Twelve hours ago she would’ve toed the company line and said “vigilante justice” should never be condoned. Now?

Everything had changed. And not for the better.

She was army-crawling through an endless shit hole, for God’s sake, a hot, dark place full of creepy-crawlies and cobwebs. Angela wiped another one from her face, hoping the spider that built it wasn’t stuck in her hair. Pausing, she did a quick tousle-and-swipe through her pixie cut. The last thing she needed was a pissed-off spider without a home.

What she wouldn’t give for a pair of infrared goggles. Or a flashlight. Hell, a candle. She didn’t care what kind of light source came her way just as long as she saw what was coming. Eight-legged freaks included.

Stupid. Her. Them. The situation. All of it was beyond sick.

“Stinking Razorbacks,” she murmured, holding onto her voice to keep the panic at bay.

Feeling her way through the dark, Angela elbow-walked up the ventilation duct’s incline. Sweat made her skin slick, and she cursed as she slid, losing ground on the metal. Gritting her teeth, she slapped her palms against the vent’s side walls. Her nails raked against steel, screeching as she dung in. The eerie sound echoed, raising the fine hair on her nape, but she didn’t stop. No way could she give up. If she tumbled back down, she wouldn’t have the strength to make it out alive.

Bending her knees, she planted her feet, bracing one against the side wall and the other against the floor of the shaft. Her toes cramped, protesting the pressure. Angela ignored the pain and, with a crablike shuffle, crawled inch by excruciating inch to the top. At its mouth, she felt around, getting her bearings. The shaft ninety-degreed into a T. She grabbed for the corner, felt sharp metal cut into her palm and blood flow, and still she pulled, heaving herself into a wider ventilation corridor.

Jackpot. She’d found the main duct. Decision time. Which way should she go…left or right?

Crouched with her knees pressed to her chest, Angela looked both ways. The darkness was absolute. She couldn’t see a—

Holy hell. What was that? It was lighter at one end of the tunnel. Not by much, but enough for her to see the blackness morph into fuzzy gray. Angela stared at it a second, disbelief warring with hope. Yeah, definitely. Light was coming from somewhere down there.

Uncurling her limbs, she slid onto her belly. Pinpoint focus and the push-pull combo of her hands and feet propelled her forward. Reaching the right spot, she glanced up.

A vertical shaft.

With a twist, she played the contortionist. Her muscles squawked, protesting the pull. Angela ignored the sting and, exhaling a shaky breath, looked up the duct, searching for the…

Bingo.

There it was. Proof positive. The darkness faded near the top, becoming lighter by the second. Her heart skipped a beat, then settled into a slamming rhythm, hammering her breastbone. Was this it? Had she found her way out? Would it bring her to ground level and freedom? Avoiding sharp metal corners, Angela examined the trajectory again. Looked good. Seemed solid. So…

Only one thing left to do.

Her hands flat against the side walls, Angela stood, pushing her body through the mouth of the vertical vent shaft. She took a moment, sent a quick prayer heavenward, asking for strength and luck, then started to climb.

Pulling his wings in fast, Rikar set down hard. His talons slid, gouging parallel tracks in the asphalt inside the shipyard. Ignoring friction burns on the pads of his paws, he scanned the area. Not a soul in sight. Perfect. He didn’t need any witnesses, human or otherwise. Not if he wanted to get MacCord out in one piece.

Cloaked by magic, invisible to the naked eye, he swept the scene again, waiting for his comrades to land. Industrial. Quiet. Nothing but steel-clad warehouses and chain-link fencing. The shipyard’s security screamed “stay out,” the setup complete with bright lights, barbed wire, and bad attitude. Well, all right. A whole lot of pissed off he could handle. The sound of ocean waves crashing into the breakwater, sending spray twenty feet in the air as docks bobbed and wood creaked? Rikar rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension. Yeah, not his favorite thing.

Christ, he hoped Sloan’s intel was good. The last thing they needed was a wild goose chase. Not with dawn twenty minutes away. But…shit. A boat? The male lived on a fucking
boat
? Rikar grimaced. What kind of dragon did that?

The soft snick of claws sounded behind him.

Glancing over his shoulder, Rikar nodded as Bastian tucked his midnight-blue wings and shifted, moving from dragon to human form. As the leather trench coat settled across B’s back, covering him from shoulder to knee, he stomped his foot into one of his shitkickers. The thud-thud echoed, bouncing off boats, skimming the choppy surface of the water as Venom landed on the closest warehouse.

Perched like the angel of death, the big male leaned over the steel edge. Ruby eyes flashing, horned head swiveling left to right, his green scales glinted as he mind-spoke,
“Go to it, boys
.
I’m the lookout
.
”

“There aren’t any Razorbacks in the area, Ven
.
”

“A pity.”
Folding his wings against his sides, Venom kept his eyes on the sky.
“Would’ve been fun to kick some more tail tonight
.
”

Rikar snorted.

B shook his head, then glanced at him. “So, what are we looking at here?”

“My guess?” Following his commander’s lead, Rikar transformed and conjured his clothes. “A water dragon.”

“Thought they were a myth.”

“I’ve never met one either, but it makes sense, B.” Giving the area another visual sweep, his eyes narrowed on the fourth finger dock. The Chris-Craft didn’t fit…was out of place in a shipyard full of tugboats. “If what Sloan dug up is right, the male likes water…was with the SEAL teams for seven years.”

“Sloan’s never wrong,” B said, an unhappy look on his puss. “And there isn’t a dragon alive…prechange or not…that
likes
water.”

No kidding. Just standing next to the ocean gave Rikar the creeps.

Which, naturally, pissed him off.

Fear wasn’t in his bag of tricks. He rarely felt it, but right now…knowing he was not only headed toward it, but about to climb on board a freaking motor yacht? Rikar grimaced. The memory was so not going in his photo album under the “happiest moment” of his life.

Rikar put his feet in gear anyway and jogged toward the Chris-Craft. Had he been into boats, he would’ve said she was beautiful, all curved lines and sleek body. But he wasn’t, so he scowled at the bitch instead, silently cursing the male who’d brought him to the shipyard.

The urge to turn around and walk away thrummed through him. The problem? He couldn’t leave the male vulnerable, prey to something he didn’t understand. Supposition? Maybe, but Rikar didn’t think so. MacCord had been raised outside the safety of a pack, without any knowledge of his Dragonkind sire. But had his father known about him, the male would never have left his son alone in the human world.

It simply wasn’t done. Ever.

Add that to the fact Angela cared about him, and yeah, Rikar was on the hook. No way could he leave MacCord to suffer and expect his female to trust him.

Ammunition. He needed ammunition—proof of his worth—when he got Angela back. Something to hold up and say, “See? Look at what an upstanding male I am.” If he walked away from the male cop now, she’d shoot him down without giving him a chance. Not something he wanted to think about, never mind experience firsthand.

Reaching dock number four, he ignored the ocean sway and leapt over the gangplank. His feet landed with a thud on the dock. An instant later he slid to a stop alongside the Chris-Craft. “MacCord!”

His voice carried across the water, ricocheting off boat hulls. Nothing came back. No answer from the male, just the groan of ropes and the soft creak of wood.

“I’ll look inside.” Grabbing the handrail, Bastian vaulted through the unzipped canvas and onto the boat. “You search the tail end.”

“Asshole,” he said, growling at his friend as he drew the short end of the stick.

He didn’t want to go anywhere near the stern. There was no doubt a swim platform back there. One he’d have to step on, get closer to the water in order to—

Rikar sucked in a quick breath. Fucking hell. What did MacCord think he was doing?

More in the water than out, the male clung to his boat: eyes closed, hands gripping teak trim, cheek flat against the swim platform. Terrific. The situation was beyond FUBARed. Trust a water dragon to actually immerse himself in
water
.

Gritting his teeth, Rikar made the leap. He landed on the platform, boot treads slipping on wet wood, a “fuck me” locked in his throat. Off balance, he grabbed for the metal ladder bolted to the boat’s stern. His fingertips caught and held, saving him before he took a nosedive into the ocean.

Good thing too. Otherwise, there would’ve been a skating rink around the Chris-Craft, not choppy, blue water.

A death grip on the ladder, he hit his haunches and cupped the back of MacCord’s head. The male flinched, groaning as Rikar connected with his life force. Energy glazed his palm, telling him how much time they had. Christ, the cop was close to the
change
. So close, they needed to move him now. And get him a female fast.

“B!”

Like an apparition, Bastian appeared at the railing. “You got him?”

“Yeah, and we gotta go.”

MacCord stirred. The male raised his head, nailing him with shimmering aquamarine eyes. “Fuck…off.”

Despite the urgency, Rikar’s lips twitched. He couldn’t help it. Freaking MacCord…giving him attitude while weak as a newborn. “Give over, big guy. We’re here to help.”

The cop shook his head, trying to dislodge his hand.

Rikar ignored him and, releasing the ladder, grabbed him under both arms. With a snarl, the cop reared, fighting the grab-and-pull. Water flew, splashing all over the place, throwing the smell of salt in the air, making Rikar want to kill something. MacCord was his first choice. He thought of Angela instead, reminding himself how important the male was to her.

Bastian leapt from the boat onto the pier. Waiting for the handoff, he crouched at the dock edge as Rikar dragged the cop down the swim platform.

“D-don’t. Get the f-fuck off.” Half in the water, half out, MacCord struggled, legs kicking up spray, shivering so hard his teeth chattered. “The w-water…I n-need it.”

“We’ll get you more,” Rikar murmured, hoping to soothe him. The
change
was never fun. It hurt like hell, and there were no guarantees. Some males didn’t live through it even when they knew what was coming. But MacCord didn’t have a clue, which made guiding him through it all the more dangerous. “I’ll get you want you need, okay? Right now, we need to move.”

At the end of the platform, Rikar pulled a heave-ho, transferring the male to Bastian.
“Ven…you’re up.”