Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

it. At least not for a while. And he needed less time than that.
    Sure, the bastards would eventually figure it out. But they’d spend the rest of the night scratching their heads, hemming and hawing before hammering their way into the lair. By then, he’d be long gone. Along with the female captives.
    “Surprise, surprise, motherfuckers,” he murmured, the chill in the air raising goosebumps on his bare skin. Still he watched the entrance, counting off the seconds. When he got to thirty, he relaxed and conjured his clothes. The idiots didn’t have a clue. His mouth curved. Nightfury losers. “Have fun trying to find me.”
    His footfalls soundless in the gloom, he pivoted and strode toward the back of the cave. Skirting tall stalagmites, he approached the rear wall, reached out, and, curling his fingers around a small stone ledge, pressed down. The lever clicked. Metal shifted, the clink and grind sounding loud in the silence as granite slid sideways, uncovering a steel door.
    With a flick, Lothair opened the keypad and punched in his code. Another series of locks. More clicking, and he was over the threshold. He hit the stairs running, his boots rapping against steel treads as he slammed the door and reengaged the electronic locks with his mind.
    Down. Down. Down. The circular staircase went on forever, taking him into the bowels of the earth, closer to the underground lair. When he reached the bottom, he checked in with his comrade. “Denzeil…where you at?”
    “On the move , ” the male said, sounding out of breath. “Females in tow.”
    “Keep it tight. I’ll meet you in the garage.”
    “How soon?”
    Lothair sprinted past the old clinic. “A minute and a half . ”
    A female screamed, her terror coming through mind-speak loud and clear.
    Denzeil grunted. The crack of knuckles sounded against flesh. A female voice begged for mercy in the background as Denzeil asked, “Nightfuries?”
    “Clueless, but not for long.” Lothair’s lips curved, reluctant admiration for his friend’s methods growing with each female sob. “Get your ass in gear.”
    “Ten-four . ”
    Ten-four . Lothair fought an eye roll. Denzeil’s trucker lingo drove him bat-shit crazy. The male might as well have said, Breaker, breaker-one-nine, good buddy . He shook his head, wind whistling in his ears, pace NASCAR fast. The male watched way too many reruns of Dukes of Hazzard . Still, terrible taste aside, Denzeil was useful most of the time, solid in the heart, if not always in the head. So, yeah. Guess he was living with the eighteen-wheeler crap.
    Uneven concrete crumbling beneath his boots, Lothair skidded around the last bend. Boxes lay strewn in all directions: up against walls, in the middle of the corridor, stacked three high in some places. And in between them? A pool of congealed plasma and blood-spattered walls…his parting gift from the she-cop.
    A whole lot of get even banged around inside his head.
    Lothair pushed it aside. He needed to keep his head screwed on straight and stay focused on the exit strategy. But later? New plans would be made with payback in mind.
    With a swallowed curse, he put the memory away and ran past the mess, leaping over an overturned box as he headed for a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. He hammered the wooden panels, punching through into the garage. Just in time too. The party had started without him.
    Slowing to a jog, he watched Denzeil toss the second female into the trunk of a rusty Oldsmobile and slam the lid closed. The bang echoed in the large cavern, bouncing off the domed ceiling and smooth stone walls. It pissed him off. Angela should be there, crammed in with the others, coming along for the ride as his personal pet.
    Fucking female.
    Somehow, some way, he’d hunt her down. And when he did? No more Mr. Nice Guy. High-energy female—ideal for the breeding program—or not, he didn’t care. Ivar and his order could go to hell this time around. The second he got his hands on the she-cop, he’d rip her heart out. Watch it beat in his palm as he raised it high. Like a trophy. Like the conqueror he was and always would be.

Chapter Eleven
     
    Sitting in the backseat of a cab, Tania Solares rubbed the bridge of her nose, wondering what the hell had happened. The last thing she remembered had something to do with plants, a watering can, and a box full of Miracle-Gro. Not surprising, really. As a landscape architect, her job required all three, but not