Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

He’d been waiting for days to meet Forge. “What’s the play?”
    “Bastian and I will handle it,” Rikar said, heading for the elevators. “You and the boys are on standby…there for support.”
    In other words? Be seen, not heard. “Why do I suddenly feel like a three-year-old?”
    “Eyes and ears open, all right?” An intense expression on his face, Rikar glanced over his shoulder at him. “Put all of the cop shit to good use. Feed me cues…body language, expression, anything else you notice. If you see something that’ll help crack him, connect through mind-speak and give me a heads-up. Got it?”
    Mac nodded. Good plan. One he and Angela had often employed. One interrogated. The other listened, concentrating on speech pattern, body language, and emotional cues. No matter how small, a suspect always gave something vital away. Information that sometimes helped break a case wide open. The fact the Nightfuries were about to deal with Forge the same way—and wanted his help—jazzed him. It made him feel included, like a valued member of the pack.
    “Hey, Rikar?” Mac stopped as the corridor dead-ended at the elevators. Reaching out, he hit the down button with the side of his fist, then stepped back to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his XO. “Got a question for you.”
    “Shoot.”
    “The whole energy-regression thing?”
    “What about it?”
    “Once Ange’s energy signal is altered and Lothair can’t track her anymore…” Mac trailed off, struggling to tie all the threads together: the how, what, and whys of Dragonkind. “How the hell are we gonna set the ambush?”
    “Easy.”
    The elevator pinged as the doors slid open.
    Rikar glanced at him before stepping inside. “I’m tapped into her life force now. That connection gives me access…the ability to manipulate her unique energy frequency and mimic it. Old. New. Doesn’t matter. Once we’re set…when Angela’s in place and ready to go…I’ll send out her original beacon. Lothair will pick up on the signal, think it’s her and—”
    “The fucker’ll come running.” Setting up shop at the back of the Otis, Mac planted his shoulder blades against the stainless-steel wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Go after her and get us instead.”
    “Bingo.”
    The perfect plan. Except for one thing. “I don’t want her anywhere near the front line.”
    “She won’t be,” Rikar said, icy gaze glittering. “An M-twenty-five rifle and a thousand yards out with you watching her six, remember?”
    As if he could forget. He’d gone over the plan again and again, running every scenario, looking for holes, weaknesses…a better fucking strategy. Any reason at all that would keep Angela at home instead of putting her in the middle of the firefight.
    But that wouldn’t happen.
    The second he and Rikar tried to sideline her, she’d go it alone and end up hurt. So it didn’t matter that the odds made him jumpy. The situation wasn’t SOP (standard operating procedure). Was opposite of normal with a pack of freaking dragons in the mix. Anything could go wrong and—if things went true to form—usually did. Which scared the hell out of him. He would never forgive himself if Angela got caught in the crossfire.
    Or worse. Ended up recaptured by the sadistic SOB who’d hurt her.

     
    Rolling his shoulders, Forge craned his neck to one side. The collar dug in, scraping the underside of his jaw. Shite, the thing was driving him around-the-bend crazy. Chafing his skin. Tightening around his throat with each movement, cranking his internal pressure cooker into KABOOM territory.
    Volcanic. Nuclear. Whatever.
    The description didn’t matter. And Forge didn’t care. He wanted the collar off. Zip, bang, gone…nothing but history. Not that it would happen any time soon. Bastian had made that abundantly clear.
    Cranking his fist tight, Forge paced the perimeter of his cell, feeling like a caged lion. Back and forth. Around and around. The cycle was nonstop. Bare feet silent on the concrete, the noise inside his head catastrophic, he tried to come up with an action plan. A strategy to use the next time Bastian visited.
    Bloody hell. Two days of blah, blah, blahing. Of doing the verbal dance with the Nightfury commander, and still, Forge didn’t have a clue what the male wanted. All the yakkety-yak-yak made him nervous.
    Which, come to think of it, was a good thing.
    Despite the lockdown, his reaction told him his instincts were still