Fury of Ice (Dragonfury Series #2) Page 3

  Rikar raised a brow, asking without words.

  “Forge.”

  “Good to know,” he murmured and…made his move.

  His feet left the ground before his brain told him to go. He rocketed through the barrier into the cell. Electricity lit him up from the inside out. Rikar ignored the pain and Bastian’s curse. He had one purpose: reach the Razorback before his commander downloaded the launch code and went nuclear on his ass.

  Unleashing his frosty side, ice exploded from the floor, slammed into the walls and ceiling, sealing the entrance into the cell. The thick barrier shut his friends out and him in with a rogue he couldn’t wait to get his hands on.

  Frost cracked, coating steel and concrete. Rikar roared across the space, breathing white clouds of air on each exhale.

  His best friend pounded against the ice barrier. “Goddamn it, Rikar!”

  Dropping into a fighting stance, the rogue met him with raised fists. Rikar dipped beneath and swung left, unleashing an uppercut beneath the male’s chin. Bone met bone, cracking through the quiet as the rogue’s head snapped back. Rikar hit him again, his knuckles connecting with the fucker’s rib cage.

  Air exploded from his lungs, but no lightweight, Forge countered. Spinning on bare feet, he brought his elbow up, nailing Rikar in the temple. With a snarl, he absorbed the blow as he drove the Razorback into the back of the cell. He needed to hurry. B would give him a minute tops. After that he’d shift into dragon form, use his freaky electropulse exhale, and blow the lid off his interrogation.

  “Where is she?” Drilling him again, Rikar cracked the male with a right cross. Blood flew, streaking across the rogue’s face as a cut opened beneath his eye. “Where’s your lair?”

  Forge answered with a growl. Blocking a punch, the Razorback hammered him with a strong jab. Rikar’s head snapped to the side. His teeth scraped the inside of his mouth. Blood washed over his tongue. Rikar swallowed and pivoted, kicking out with his foot. His shitkicker connected. The rogue’s knee buckled, sending him to the floor in a messy sprawl.

  Rikar raised his fist again. “Tell me where.”

  “I’m not that easy, asshole,” Forge said, the Scottish brogue rolling in his voice.

  The thick accent ramped Rikar up. Fury roared through him, unleashing violence in an uncontrollable wave. “You fucker. She’s a female…an innocent.”

  “So was mine.”

  A shadow passed over Forge’s face a second before he rolled, avoiding the next strike. With a slick move, the male gained his feet and, fists raised, circled right. Rikar moved left, eyes narrowed and heart hammering, searching for an opening. Christ, Forge was skilled. Giving as good as he got. But the ice worked against him. The slip and slide hampering his ability to dodge. Losing his balance, Forge’s guard fell. Rikar punched through, knuckles taking punishment as he hammered the enemy with body shot after body shot.

  A roar sounded from outside the cell. Shit. B was in full dragon mode. And about to enter the fray.

  Working fast, Rikar lunged forward and grabbed hold. His hands slipped beneath the collar around the rogue’s throat. He squeezed, cutting off his enemy’s airway as metal tore at the backs of Rikar’s hands. Blood rolled between his fingers. Rikar didn’t care. With single-minded focus, he tightened his grip and shoved the rogue hard. Thrust off balance, Forge’s feet slid. He went down, shoulder blades slamming into concrete. Rikar went with him, landing on top of the male’s chest.

  Losing air fast, Forge struggled, fighting the vulnerable position. Without mercy, Rikar squeezed the male’s throat, crushing the life out of his opponent. “Tell me…tell me how to find her.”

  Both of his hands wrapped around Rikar’s wrists, Forge twisted, easing the pressure on his windpipe. Denying him the answer he needed. Craved. Couldn’t do without.

  Rikar snarled. “You son of a—”

  The ice wall exploded, throwing chunks of ice inward. The sharp shards blasted his back, and…

  God forgive him. He’d failed.

  The rogue wouldn’t give up the goods, and as B’s midnight-blue scales flashed in his periphery, hope shriveled, leaving a hole inside his chest.

  Angela. His female was in trouble. Was being hurt and…

  Christ. He couldn’t stand it. Wouldn’t survive as seconds ticked into minutes…into hours and days. With her held captive. Suffering God only knew what.

  Moisture gathered, pooling in the corners of his eyes as his best friend came through the hole in the ice wall. Shifting to human form, B moved like an organized hurricane, grabbing hold of Rikar. One forearm against his throat, the other clamped across his chest, his commander yanked, hauling him up and backward. As his hands slid from the rogue’s throat, Rikar roared, the anguished sound filling the corners of his heart along with the room.

  His female would die in a Razorback prison. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

  Chapter Four

  Swedish Medical’s ER was a frickin’ zoo, and the noise was messing with Mac’s head. Not that he had much to screw with in the first place. The explosion had fried his circuits, and after going a dozen rounds with unconsciousness, his brain was doing cartwheels. End over end. Minute after minute.

  Motherfuck, would the spinning ever stop?

  Fighting his stomach’s one-way evacuation plan, he clutched the mattress edge and rolled onto his side. The hospital bed creaked with his movement. Man, the thing wasn’t made for a guy like him. For the Olympic-size headache slamming the inside of his skull? Yeah, okay, maybe. But not for a six-foot-five homicide detective with a bad attitude and no time to waste.

  The whole situation was bullshit. All of it. The waiting. The noise. The fever and dizziness. The fact his captain had planted him on a hospital gurney in the middle of Baghdad. Okay, so that last bit wasn’t fair. It only seemed like he’d landed in the middle of a war zone, but he didn’t care. His partner was MIA. Had been taken by—

  Jesus, had he really seen what he’d seen?

  Mac rubbed the center of his forehead, bringing the visual into focus. The split-second snapshot didn’t seem like much, but…definitely. He’d gotten a good look before the scaly SOB airlifted him through the window. A dragon. With sharp claws, black scales, packing a whole lot of pissed off and breathing a boatload of poison.

  Or radiation. Whatever.

  Mac didn’t know what he’d been hit with. Neither did the doctors. Even after all the stupid blood tests.

  Which was a problem.

  His partner needed him, and where was he? On injured reserve, sitting on the sidelines while Seattle’s finest searched for Angela—his kid sister by silent agreement if not blood. His throat went tight. God, had he said the entire situation was BS yet? Yeah, a total frickin’ farce. He knew Ange better than anyone. Understood her in ways she didn’t understand herself. Knew her haunts, preferences, where she went to hide when she craved time alone.

  And what had his captain and the team of idiot doctors done? Ass-planted him…with a rent-a-cop outside his door.

  Mac snorted. Like that would make him stay put.

  Swallowing a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. The room went topsy-turvy. His stomach sloshed, then leveled out as his brain came back online. Thank Jesus. Yeah, the pain might still be there—thumping against his temples, cramping his muscles—but at least he was mobile. Operational and combat ready, because he couldn’t stay here. Where no one gave a damn about Ange. About the fact she was out there somewhere: alone, without her Glock for backup.

  So to hell with the doctors. With tests and CAT scans. Getting out of Dodge was priority one. Not his health. And not the dickheads who expected him to put himself first.

  Now if only he could find his boots.

  Busy looking under the bed, he missed the squeaking approach of nurse’s shoes. Metal screeched against metal, making him wince as the curtain surrounding his bed got yanked aside. The squeak of rubber shoes went silent. “Detective MacCord…what
do you think you’re doing?”

  Hell, she was back, and the last thing he needed. Nurse What’s-her-name was a slick operator. A liar with big blue eyes and no scruples. “Of course, detective, you’re free to go anytime,” she’d said. “Just a few more tests…”

  Yeah, right. She blah-blahed with the best of them and then screwed him over. Exhibit A? Conan—the genius with a security badge on his shirt—eyeballing him from the open doorway.

  The nurse hesitated a second, then stepped into his little patch of heaven. He watched her from his periphery, not looking directly at her, but keeping her in his sights. “Did you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Well?”

  Ah, eureka. There they were. Pulling a stretch and grab, he hauled his black steel-toes out from under the bed. The action spoke louder than words, and as she gasped, he stomped his feet into his boots.

  “You can’t leave. We haven’t finished running tests.” Her voice came out clipped and hard, like a battle commander’s in the middle of a firefight. “Get back into bed.”

  Ironic, wasn’t it? On any other night, he would’ve jumped on board that party train: shagged her hard, made her scream with pleasure and beg for more. But not tonight. He didn’t have time to play nice. All he wanted was out.

  Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose and hit the floor with a splat. Taking a steadying breath, he pushed away from the bed and stood. His legs protested a second, thigh muscles twitching before he caught his balance. The dizziness—the weakness and nausea—was a bitch, but that was the least of it. Other things were bothering him too. Like the fluorescents above his head. The bright light hurt his eyes and made his temples pound. And his skin? Way too sensitive, as though he’d been sandblasted while drifting in and out of la-la land.

  Rolling his shoulders, he cringed, hating the scratchy feel of the jeans and cotton tee he’d pulled on that morning. “Where’s my jacket?”

  “Detective MacCord, you’re not well,” Nurse Pain-in-the-Ass said, her voice cajoling now instead of steely. Good plan. Not that the tone switch-up would work. He was leaving whether she liked it or not. “Please…just a few more—”

  He pivoted in her direction, nailing her with the full force of his gaze.

  She blinked, then sucked in a quick breath. “Oh, my God. Your eyes. They’re…they’re…”

  Mac’s brows collided. His eyes were…what? What the hell was she talking about?

  The nurse backed up a step. Then another, staring at him like he were some kind of freak show. He reached for her, his gaze glued to her face. Panic flared in her eyes a second before she spun and ran for the exit. The instant she cleared the door frame, she yelled, “Doctor! I need a doctor over here!”

  “Goddamn it.” Guess his leather coat would have to wait.

  But he couldn’t. The nurse would be back with reinforcements. And as much as his job called for it, he didn’t like knocking people around unless they left him no other choice.

  Moving like an enemy tank, Mac rounded the end of the bed and headed for the door. Rooted between the steel doorjambs, Conan the Brilliant jacked up his pants. The security guard’s badge winked in the bright light, flashing silver against the navy-blue uniform. Mac wanted to roll his eyes. He made twin fists instead and, without slowing, met the baby rent-a-cop’s gaze. “You really wanna fuck with me?”

  Yup. That did it. Mr. Tough Guy moved, just slid right out of his way. As Mac passed, he nodded at the guard, acknowledging the crappy position he was putting him in. The kid would probably lose his job over letting him go. Or at the very least end up with a reprimand in his file.

  “Sorry, man. My partner’s in trouble.”

  Conan nodded. “Go left…out through the loading docks. I’ll tell ’em you went the other way.”

  “You’re a peach.”

  “With an ulterior motive.” Putting his feet in gear, the kid trailed him down the double-wide corridor. As they dodged patients on gurneys and medical personnel, he raised his voice to be heard over the din of the ER. “I want a recommendation that’ll get me into the academy this spring.”

  Pausing at a bustling hallway intersection, Mac’s mouth curved. Well, well, well. Maybe the kid wasn’t so dumb, after all. “Bring your creds to my office…I’ll consider it.”

  “That way.” Right on his ass, the kid pointed to a set of doors dead-ending one of the corridors. “Laundry’s through there. It’ll lead you straight out. Good luck, man.”

  Without looking back, Mac punched through the double doors. Five minutes later, he was outside and around the side of the building. Chilly autumn air washed over him. He clenched his teeth, trying to keep them from chattering, and rubbed his bare arms. But the cold persisted, sinking deep, rattling his bones until…

  Jesus. Where was he? Canada?

  It sure felt like he’d landed in his northern neighbor’s playground. The only thing missing? About three feet of snow. Not that he had time to be grateful for the lack of thick-white-and-fluffy. He needed to get across town, to the shipyard where he moored his boat. The hospital wouldn’t keep Captain Hobbs in the dark for long. When hospital staff couldn’t find him inside the facility, a phone call would be made and…boom! His boss’s temper would explode.

  So, home first to grab his backup weapon, then he’d get good and ghost. After all, his captain couldn’t give him hell if he couldn’t find him.

  A cab ride—and the world record for dry heaving—later, Mac crossed the deserted parking lot and approached the shipyard’s entrance. Surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence, he got within ten feet before the motion sensors went live. Industrial-grade halogens clicked on, flooding the security gate with light.

  Mac flinched and, turning his face away, stumbled sideways. God, that hurt. Which was beyond strange.

  Normally, the light-bright routine didn’t bother him. Tonight, the brilliance tunneled into the back of his brain, making his head scream. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as Mac’s shoulder bumped the warehouse wall flanking the walkway. Using it to prop himself up, he spread one hand against the cold steel, planted the other on his knee, and doubled over, fighting another case of the gags.

  Frickin’ hell.

  The nausea was killing him. And as the pain got worse, his muscles cramped, knotting so tight he couldn’t catch his breath. Sucking air in through his nose, he blew it out his mouth, trying to unlock his lungs. The in-and-out routine helped and, after a minute, he pushed himself upright and squinted at the keypad mounted next to the gate.

  Seven feet. Just seven more feet and he’d be inside, walking into the place he called home.

  Slamming his internal gearshift, Mac put himself in drive, forcing one foot in front of the other. He punched his password into the keypad. A motor hummed and chains clanked as the gate retreated, sliding sideways. Not waiting for it to open fully, he slipped through and staggered down the concrete steps, each footfall quiet even though his body was in riot mode.

  Force of habit. The necessity for silence had been drilled into him in basic training, then solidified by his time with SEAL Team Six. No matter how badly injured, he never made a sound.

  Keeping to the shadows, he headed for the fourth pier, passing nautical relics along the way. A working museum of sorts, the shipyard was the place old tugboats came to get a makeover. Kitted out with the best of everything, the tidy marine complex hummed during the day, shipwrights working on the tugs in hopes they would sell. And man, did they ever. Bigwigs paid a fortune to possess one of the beauties. The fact the yard was owned by a guy who owed him a favor?

  Well now, that was just his luck.

  Hoity-toity marinas weren’t his thing. But here, away from nosy boaters and polite society? Yeah, the shipyard was home, and he loved living on his boat.

  He’d never understood it, but he needed to be surrounded by water. Craved the smell of salty air, the rolling wash of ocean tides…the wet, inky depths beneath his home. And his daily swim? P
ure heaven. Just a hop, skip, and a jump away.

  Taking a sharp left, he strode down the ramp onto the wooden finger dock. Metal groaned under his weight, but he adored the rock-n-sway as the water reacted, throwing brine into the air, making the dock move beneath his feet. And, hmm, there she was, sitting right where he’d left her.

  His Sarah-Jane. The forty-seven-foot Chris-Craft motor yacht he knew and loved.

  Restored to perfection, she was his girl. She knew it too, gleaming in the moonlight, showing off her curved lines and polished teak railings. Slowing his roll alongside her, he unzipped the canvas doorway and hopped aboard. The instant his feet touched down, the ocean took over: Zen-ing him out, suppressing the sick feeling, allowing him to take a full breath. Yeah, the urge to puke still circled, but at least dry heaves took a backseat, letting him move without cramping up his abdomen.

  Crossing the open-air sitting area at Sarah-Jane’s stern, he dug the key out of his front pocket. The padlock disengaged with a snick. With a quick flip, he opened the door into the main cabin. Not wasting a second, he walked down the narrow staircase and headed for the galley. Stepping around the kitchen island, he grabbed the oven handle. Springs creaked as he yanked it wide and reached inside.

  Easy as pie, the Glock 19 slid into his palm.

  Mac’s mouth curved as he ripped the gun from its duct-taped cradle. Straightening, he flipped open the breadbox sitting on the counter. His hand closed around the magazine he always kept hidden there. Tilting the Glock in his hand, he rammed the clip home, heard the click—felt the satisfaction—as he chambered a round. After giving the weapon one last check, he shoved it, muzzle down, against the small of his back.

  All right. Almost there.

  Pulling a drawer open, he palmed twin five-inch blades. Sheathed in black leather, he strapped one to each forearm, handles facing toward his palms. Their cousin—a seven-inch KA-BAR—got slipped inside the neck of his steel-toed boot.

  Now he was good to go.