Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

told her to head right.
    Angela listened without hesitation. Intuition was a tool, one that always needed to be heeded. Her partner had taught her that and—as much as it sometimes annoyed her—Mac was rarely, if ever, wrong.
    Sending another silent prayer his way, she ran hard, searching for a door, another elevator, anything that might lead her out of the underground warren. Another intersection. Another decision. She kept to the right and—
    “Thank God.”
    Her chest so tight she could hardly breathe, she stared at her salvation. Doors. At least a dozen of them marching down the double-wide corridor. Six to a side, the same color as the walls, each blended into its surroundings, as though the Razorbacks hoped to hide them with a coat of paint.
    Grasping the cutter with her teeth, Angela freed up her hands and checked the first one.
    Locked.
    Crap.
    By the fifth, desperation took hold. Tears in her eyes, she moved onto the next. The knob chilled her palms as she grabbed hold. Praying hard, she twisted and…
    The lock disengaged with a snick.
    Her heart went loose inside her chest as she cracked the door and peeked inside. A solitary light flickered, casting eerie shadows across pale walls. She scanned the room. An old table with mismatched chairs. A bank of cabinets with a sink and stove. A fridge. But other than that? Not a soul in sight. Thank you, God. With one last look in either direction, she checked to make sure the corridor was still empty, then slipped inside the small kitchen.
    Working fast, she grabbed the box cutter and attacked the flex-cuffs binding her wrists. She nicked herself once, twice, a third time while she looked around. Her gaze locked onto the ventilation shaft. Up near the ceiling, it sat just above the top of the fridge.
    And wasn’t that a blessing? Escape route complete with a makeshift ladder and launching platform.
    All right, so climbing up a steel tube wasn’t her first choice. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. She wanted out and a cramped ventilation shaft was better than nothing.
    Grabbing the tea towel hanging on the stove, Angela wrapped it around her cut wrist. She didn’t want to leave any trace behind—not a single clue—for the bastards to find. If they saw any of her blood, they’d know exactly where she’d gone. And how to find her.
    After hiding the mangled flex-cuff under the sink with the cleaning supplies, she hopped onto the counter, then climbed on top of the fridge. On her knees, one eye on the door, both ears wide open, she attacked the vent screws with the tip of the box cutter. Around and around. One screw then the next. The last bolt dropped into her hand, and her bottom lip trembled. Her hands took up the cause, shaking so hard she struggled to get the grille off the wall.
    “Steady,” she whispered.
    Taking a deep breath, she tried again. Jackpot. The vent cap came away in her grip.
    Not wasting a second, she turned her back to the wall, lifted her legs into the hole, and walked backward on her palms. When her elbow connected with the lip of the shaft, she reached out and grabbed the metal grille from its perch on top of the fridge. Flat on her stomach, she backed all the way in, set the vent cap back in place, and put herself in reverse.
    Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She’d done it. Had made it inside. Now she needed to find her way out. Must locate a vertical shaft and climb to freedom before Lothair and the Razorbacks came looking for her.

Chapter Five
     
    Bastian’s chokehold was more effective than a WWE wrestler’s. A lethal combination of hard male hands and amped-up aggression. Rikar struggled anyway, muscles straining as he got dragged away from his target.
    With a snarl, he stayed locked on, face forward, all his attention on the Razorback. The bright blue of his gaze lit the rogue up, painting a bull’s-eye on the back of his skull. Not that the fucker noticed. Nah, not Forge. The bastard was too busy rolling to his feet, trying to get his balance on the slippery floor.
    Thank Christ for small favors.
    No way he wanted to make it easy for the male. Bastian was doing a great job of that already: getting in his way, pulling him off, denying him the satisfaction of eviscerating the rogue.
    All he needed was one more go-around. Just one more.
    Another fist to the head. A couple more shots to the kidneys, and Forge would buckle. And if the male didn’t, all the better. Rikar craved a fight. Wanted the knuckle-grinding,