Fury of Fire (Dragonfury Series #1)

smarter than those fuckers. We’ll get her back, B.”
    His chin against his chest, Bastian closed his eyes and pictured Myst. Saw her violet eyes and beautiful face. Felt her warmth. Heard her laughter. Rikar was right. If he got himself fried—like he almost had in the garage this morning—Myst would be a sitting duck. Vulnerable in a world she didn’t understand.
    “We good?”
    Bastian nodded and, raising his head, looked his best friend in the eye. Their gazes clung a moment, silent understanding passing between, like it always did.
    Rikar slapped him on the shoulder. “Now…strategy. We’ve got two targets tonight: Myst and the Scot.”
    “I’ll look after my female,” Bastian said, starting up with the pacing again. “I’ll make sure she’s safe, then we go after Deep Purple.”
    His arms crossed over his chest, Venom snorted. “Pansy-ass name, but it suits him. I like it.”
    Rikar huffed and glanced at Wick. “You ready?”
    Nodding, Wick patted the military-grade case sitting on the ground beside him.
    Black with big, steel latches, the thing housed Gage’s latest invention—Dragonkind’s equivalent of a Taser. The weapon packed a one-two punch—a combo of high-voltage electricity and neuro-inhibitors that put a dragon out for the count. Once they zapped Deep Purple, they’d have an hour to get him in a cage.
    “Oh, shit,” Sloan said.
    “What?” he and Rikar said, their voices echoing together across the cavern.
    “We’ve got a bit of a snag.” Pressing on the earbud with his finger, a frown on his brow, their computer tech listened hard. “I’ve been monitoring the police chatter, scanning for any more murders, listening in on the detectives.”
    Rikar perked up. “The she-cop?”
    “Yeah,” Sloan said, looking up from the MacBook. His dark eyes meet Bastian’s. “The male just got a call. They have an APB out on Myst, and they just found her.”
    Bastian eyes narrowed. “Where are they taking her?”
    “King County precinct.”
    His hands curled into fists. As his knuckles went white, a picture formed, and Bastian imagined beating the hell out of the male detective. Taking comfort from the image, he slowed his rolling, forcing himself to think instead of react. The cops wouldn’t hurt her. Yeah, they might scare her a little, but the police followed certain rules: human rights, equal treatment, no corporal punishment allowed. Still, the idea they’d lock her in a room and threaten her…
    Just thinking about it made him want to rip their heads off.
    “Time?”
    “Forty-three minutes.”
    Jesus. Was the clock screwing with him, moving slower than usual? It felt like it, but as Bastian stalked to the other side of the cave, giving his shitkickers a workout, he kept it together, visualizing the fastest route to the police station. Sloan wasn’t the only one scanning human databases for intel. And he’d bet his fangs that Myst was now on the Razorbacks’ radar, and Ivar knew exactly where to find her.

    Steel closed with a snick behind her, shutting Myst on the wrong side of locked door. The chill in the air nipped, raising goose bumps on her bare arms. She rubbed her biceps, wondering if the cold was some sort of interrogation technique: take her Patagonia, toss her into fridge-like conditions, and wait for her to crack.
    Detective MacCord seemed like the type. The guy was hardcore, a lethal combination of skill and intensity with added value…violent tendencies. Kind of like Bastian and the crew at Black Diamond, only different—a toned-down version of kick-ass with his dark hair and stormy blue eyes. The only consolation? Detective Keen read as genuine; concerned, even. Then again, maybe it was all an act—a good cop, bad cop routine designed to pull her off balance.
    Myst huffed. As if the room wasn’t doing that already.
    Man, the place was right out of Law & Order.
    Standing just inside the door, she hugged herself a little tighter, fighting shivers and the urge to cry. God, how had it come to this? With her imprisoned in a twelve-by-twelve-foot box with beige walls and a one-way mirror? Although, it could’ve been worse. At least, the interrogation room had a window. Okay, so there were bars crisscrossing in front of the glass, giving off a criminal vibe, but light came through, making her feel less claustrophobic.
    Skirting the table and chairs in the center of the room, Myst walked toward the window. The view sucked, but she wasn’t interested in the