Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

another.
    So close. He was so close now.
    He could smell the alluring scent of his female’s skin. Her energy lit him up, and he zeroed in, all his focus on a single shipping container. Orange with the number six-seven-one on its side, it stood in the third row from the right.
    Dead. Ahead.
    Myst was barely one hundred yards below him.
    On a flyby, he slashed a yellow dragon with his razor-sharp tail. He ignored the shriek and tangled with a second Razorback. The kill took seconds. A quick twist, a hard snap, and the enemy folded: broken bone knifing through scales, spine split wide open, the metallic scent of blood perfuming the air. Taking out another rogue, Bastian scanned the aerial firefight for his warriors.
    All good. He spotted them, each one kicking ass without taking names.
    Wings spread wide, he sliced around a mega-crane, coming in from the back end. If he could get low enough, he’d slip through the enemy front. From there, he’d have a straight shot at Myst.
    He snapped another enemy neck, the kill efficient, his technique brutal. Without watching the decapitated Razorback fall, he pinged his warriors, giving them a heads-up. “I’m going in.”
    “Make it fast,” Rikar said, breathing hard.
    Venom chimed in, “Thick as fucking flies out here. Grab her and get out.”
    Dipping low, he gave the f-bomb a workout. Retreat wasn’t in his playbook. He added another page, ignoring the hit to his pride. “Rikar, cover me.”
    “Roger that.” The crackling of ice came through mind-speak as Rikar unleashed his frosty side on the enemy. “Coming in on your right flank.”
    Registering his first in command’s presence, Bastian rotated, spinning up and over. He needed the most direct route…a fast in and out. The snatch and grab would secure his female and protect his back, allowing him to get them both out in one piece. He lined up his approach and—
    Bastian’s scales prickled, picking up a powerful vibe. “Shit…Wick!”
    His warrior growled in answer.
    “Deep Purple’s here,” he snarled, tracking him…realizing the male was too close to Myst.
    “On it.”
    Fury replaced the blood in Bastian’s veins. He flew fast, tracking low over rows of shipping containers. The bastard had his female and was moving fast. He scanned each alleyway, his night vision picking up trace energy. Seconds ticked past, cranking him tighter, making his scales feel too small for his skin. He needed to find them before Deep Purple left the—
    Bingo.
    Jesus, the male was in human form, running with Myst in his arms. Not wasting a moment, Bastian dove, coming in fast and furious, claws wide open. The rogue glanced over his shoulder. With a curse, he dropped Myst and shifted. Dark purple scales flashed in the low light. Baring his fangs, the Razorback curled his talons around the top of the container. Bastian let him climb, wanting a clear shot without jeopardizing his female.
    One, Mississippi. Two, Mississippi. Three, Mississippi…four.
    Bastian exhaled, drawing deep from his core.
    The electro-pulse shot from his throat, hammering the male in the chest. Deep Purple cartwheeled, smashing into a crane beside the loading dock. Metal groaned as the structure snapped, raining steel down on the Razorback’s head. Locked and loaded, Wick banked hard overhead. The rogue flailed, spiked tail arching as he struggled to get up. His warrior pulled the trigger. The three-pronged Taser nailed the enemy dragon in the side, pumping him full of electricity.
    As Deep Purple went spastic, Bastian arched his wings and set down fast. He slid sideways, claws tearing holes in the steel container top, and shouted, “Myst!”
    Sitting on the ground, she looked up at him. He saw the relief in her gaze—felt it fill his own chest—a second before her focus shifted over his shoulder. “Bastian…watch out!”
    Her scream made him twist sideways. As he flipped, sharp claws raked his side. Blood welled along his ribcage, and he caught a flash of red scales. The spikes on the enemy tail missed him by an inch, and upside down—still halfway through his spin—Bastian lashed out. His paw connected with a crunch. The rogue pinwheeled, spinning like a top, and he got a good look at his attacker.
    Ivar. The pink-eyed SOB had come out to play.
    Primal need and brutal aggression ripped through Bastian. He’d waited for this moment forever. Had dreamed of coming face-to-face with Ivar. Wanted to rip him apart. Make him bleed. Watch him