Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

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? Pure 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.
    Kicking the oven closed, he glanced out Sarah-Jane’s side windows. Nothing moved except the ocean, the soft laps against boat hulls the only sound in the shipyard. But with dawn an hour off, it wouldn’t be long before workers clocked in and ruined the serenity. Not good on any level. He needed a place to bring Ange if—no, not if … when —he found her, and the traffic from boat to boat might prove a problem.
    So…
    That left plan B. The cabin on his small, but private, island.
    And wasn’t that a kicker?
    He never took anyone there. Ange didn’t even know about it, but today was a new day. A shitload had changed in the last few hours, so what did it matter that his secret hideout was about to become not so secret anymore? He couldn’t take her home. Not if he was right about the thing that had taken her.
    Jesus. Dragons. Who would’ve guessed and…why wasn’t he more surprised? The question was an excellent one. And the fact he couldn’t answer it should’ve freaked him out. Instead, all he found was acceptance…and a crapload of subtext and mental flashbacks.
    He’d been dreaming about dragons lately. A lot. And one in particular. A blue-gray dragon with webbed claws, smooth scales, and sharp fangs. One who loved the ocean and swimming as much as he did.
    Weird. But maybe it explained why seeing one hadn’t come as such a shock.