Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

with him—even though IA would have her ass if they knew.
    Chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, she propped her elbows on her knees and forced herself to look at the woman again…to put her anger at the senseless murder aside and do her job.
    Like the others, there were no outward signs of struggle. But something told her Hannah Gains’s autopsy report would read like the other two on her desk: sexual penetration but no sperm, so no viable DNA; bruises on the lower back and nape of the neck; marks on her throat. And the kicker? The COD was catastrophic organ failure, a systematic shutdown of everything…heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and finally, brain function.
    So far, the only thing different about Hannah’s murder was absence of an ash pile. The other two girls had been practically laid out beside one. The lab work wasn’t back yet, but the ME had given them his best guess…cremated human remains.
    Angela looked down the length of the alleyway, staring into shadows and fog, wondering if they’d find the ashes at the other end. Holy hell. What kind of sicko were they dealing with here? Murder a girl…leave a cremated body behind to keep her company? It didn’t make any sense, but neither did killing innocent women. So, what the hell did she know?
    Wiping her hands on her thighs, she said, “Our boy’s stepping up his game…escalating. It’s only been eleven days since his last strike.”
    Her partner nodded as his cell phone went off, screaming “Highway to Hell.” Unclipping it from his belt, he cut off the music by flipping it open. “MacCord.”
    Angela returned her attention to the body, thinking about the boot print. Maybe it was the break they needed. Not many guys wore size fourteens, and if the body dumps were any indication, he liked the club scene, so—
    “Jesus fucking Christ. Where?”
    Mac’s snarl raised the hair on the nape of her neck. Pushing to her feet, she zeroed in on his face and caught the anger in his eyes. Crap. That look coupled with his tone said it all. Something nasty had gone down.
    Expression grim, Mac held her gaze and listened hard to the rapid string of words she could hear coming through the cell phone’s earpiece. She tipped her chin as she came up beside him and mouthed, “What?”
    He shook his head, listened some more, and then said, “Don’t touch a fucking thing. Our CSI Unit will handle it. We’ll be there in forty minutes.”
    As soon as he snapped his phone closed, Angela said, “Tell me.”
    “Dead girl. Missing baby. Two ash piles off Route Eighteen. Captain fielded the call…figured the case is linked to ours and told the locals out there to contact me.” Digging into the front pocket of his jeans, Mac tossed her the keys to his X-Trail. “You drive.”
    Quick reflexes helped her catch the Harley-Davidson keychain on the down arc before she put her boots into motion and followed Mac out of the alley. Yeah, no doubt about it. Her driving was a good idea. They were heading into a shit storm, and her partner was already pissed off.

Chapter Ten
     
    The glowing globes hugged the cave’s dome ceiling, putting on a light show. Her backside still glued to the car—with Bastian looming like the Unmasked Avenger—Myst glanced up to watch the lanterns for a second. Some big, some small, the lights bobbed like a swarm of jellyfish, paper-thin bodies suspended by, ah…
    Yup. Just as she thought. Nothing. Not a cable or safely net in sight.
    Too bad, really. She could have used one.
    Not that she thought the globes would fall or anything. It was magic up there, a swaying extravaganza of glory, glory, hallelujah without end. So the net she needed was all about her…to catch her sorry butt when she took a header and fell into the bottomless pit called Trouble. With one foot already planted in the abyss, she could’ve thought of a way to pull herself out…if she’d been alone. But she couldn’t run with a baby. Not without a circus-size safety net, which meant she was pretty much screwed.
    Bastian knew it. She did, too.
    So…one way to go, then.
    Done with the pity party—and the crying—her priorities realigned. The newborn needed attention. The medical kind that included a neonatal incubator, diapers, clothes, and infant formula. He’d been born in less than ideal circumstances. Okay, now whom was she kidding? The environment had been nightmarish: unsanitary, stress-filled, and bloody. The fact he was so quiet—sleeping so soundly