"My Lord, is it always like this?"
"Hm?" I blinked at Stefan's quiet question, turned away from watching the guys loading the truck to look into the dragon's troubled face. "What do you mean, Stefan?"
For a long moment, the ex-Stasi agent struggled for the proper words, finally settled for gesturing in the general direction of the now-distant motel. "What I saw in that room. What was. . . . Is that. . . ."
I watched as he ground to a halt, amazed to see Stefan at a loss for the first time since I'd known him. "You never saw anything like this in the service?"
Mutely, he shook his head.
I stared at him with something like astonishment for several long seconds. So. That's why. Finally, though, I took pity upon him and smiled. "Not all dragons have wings, Stefan," I replied simply. The agent looked at me, then at last turned away, his face pensive, while I went over to help shove an unusually recalcitrant crate aboard.
-On my wall the colors of the maps are running
-From Africa the winds they talk of changes coming
-The torches flare up in the night
-The hand that sets the farms alight
-Has spread the word to those who're waiting
-On the border. . . .
Click.
The quiet pop from the transceiver jerked me instantly awake. I blinked, amazed that I had actually dozed off. There was a quiet chuckle in the darkness, and a black-gloved hand patted my shoulder reassuringly. I looked up, saw Fields grinning down at me in the dim blue light that barely illuminated the interior of the truck. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just blinked-out there for a second," I replied with a trace of wonder.
Another laugh, and the hand gave my shoulder a light squeeze. "Don't blame you. You've been going full-throttle for days now. When's the last time you had any sleep?"
I gave vent to a tired snort. "Sleep? What's that?"
"Huh; I thought so." The soldier glanced at his watch. "Luce is in position, so the Mink shouldn't be too far behind—"
Click-click.
"Right on time," Fields smiled in satisfaction, but I could hear the tension building in his voice. "One last little go-round, and we all can get a little shut-eye." Pause. "Y'know, I just gotta ask: What is that thing?"
I smiled, knowing that Fields was trying to lighten things up. "This?" I held up the strange, alien-looking weapon. A second tube lay along the top of the short, black-painted barrel, and a compressed-air cylinder bulged from the side of the skeletal stock. A curiously flat magazine stuck out of the receiver at an odd angle. "Got hit some months back by a bunch of merc types. They were carrying these. Works pretty well, for those times you need to keep things low-key. I figure it'll be good for at least a couple nice, quiet take-downs. Besides," I grinned nastily "least I could do is return them their property."
We both chuckled over that, loud enough that a couple of the other black-garbed troops in the dim space glanced toward us, I suspect smiling at the dark joke. I looked up at Fields again. "Rumor has it you finally made it into Delta. Congratulations."
Fields grinned, then waggled a finger at me. "Ah-ah-ah! Rosters are classified; you know th—"
Click-click-click.
"Whoops! One down! Coming up on our cue!" The Special Ops man straightened, pulling his baklava down over his face so only his icy blue eyes showed. "Ready?"
I swallowed, a trifle too loudly to preserve dignity, that old corroded-copper taste I knew far-too well coming to my mouth. "No," I replied honestly.
Everyone in the truck laughed quietly at that, then settled into tense silence as the seconds stretched past. . . . .eight . . . nine. . . .
Click-click-click.
"It's show time." I heard Fields hiss as the back door of the truck was quietly slid up and we piled out, our boots hitting filthy pavement and pounding their way down the narrow alley.
Fifty meters later the alley abruptly let out into a broad, four-lane street and I glanced up at our target, a huge, brick and concrete warehouse-type affair standing six stories tall just across the street. There were more than a few windows in the looming structure, and they stared down at us accusingly. My skin crawled as we sprinted across the pavement. Any second now I would hear a shout, a gunshot, feel the impact of an incoming round. . . .
We were in the shadows again.
A slight slope ran along the right side of the building. We rushed headlong down it until we were below the first-floor windows, then jammed ourselves against the blank concrete wall just short of a side entryway. There we waited, trying hard not to breathe too loudly, for the remainder of the team to catch up. They weren't long in doing so, first Luce and then Mink slipping up to join us. Somehow I knew the Mink was smiling under his baklava, a smile that always made him look like a happy shark. I stifled a shudder and nodded to Luce. Sentries? I gestured.
Neutralized, Luce responded, we're clear.
I nodded again, reached forward to tap Deebs on the shoulder. He immediately hurried to the service entrance, his hand already diving into the small canvas bag he was carrying. This would take a minute; I turned my head to scan our surroundings in the meantime, eyeing warily the various piles of trash and junk that decorated the small lot to our immediate right. Just beyond that was a tall chain-link fence, on the other side of which rumbled a major interstate. I shook my head slightly. The Council must've really been desperate to use this place.
A tiny scuffing sound, and I glanced back to see Deebs' hurried return. "Door's clean; just the lock," he whispered in my ear.
I could feel the men around me stiffen at that bit of news as my thoughts raced. Clean? No alarms, no booby traps? That shadow in the back of my head was screaming TRAP!, but after a moment I relaxed slightly. They just haven't had enough time to get dug in yet. Besides; this was my one and only shot at rescuing my children. Beneath my baklava I could feel my lips skinning back from my teeth in a feral snarl. Screw it.
I gestured the men forward. Go. There was a tiny hesitation, but then we were at the door, Deebs kneeling to do something to the lock. There was a quiet snack as the bolt went back, the door swung inwards slowly, slowly, please, oh, please don't squeak, and suddenly we were in.
A tiny landing greeted us, followed by a short flight of concrete steps leading up onto the main floor. We hurried up it, Luce and the Mad Mink at point, myself and the rest following. The first floor was a wide-open, trash-strewn affair, empty save for piles of old moldering crates and rusting metal drums, their contents unknown. I glanced at the huge concrete pillars supporting the upper floors and I felt my lips twitch upwards into a tense smile as I deduced the reason why a dragon would feel comfortable here; no worry of suddenly finding yourself in the basement in this place!
After a cautious scan of surroundings lit only by the dim glow of a few street lamps outside, we turned to our right and slunk towards the nearest stairwell.
We were passing a pile of crates when a scraping noise to my immediate right slammed an icy wave of adrenaline through me. I spun instantly, my trigger finger squeezing, my weapon making its quiet little clatter even before the off-duty sentry finished sitting up in his sleeping bag. I could just make out the man's face as he stared down in astonishment at the three darts that now protruded from his chest, then his eyes rolled back and he flopped back down into his bed.
For several breaths I tensely scanned what looked to be the sentries' break area, but there was no one else there. Finally I relaxed slightly, then allowed myself the luxury of giving Mink a murderous glare when he materialized at my elbow. He hunched his shoulders a bit, sorry about that, then shrugged and went back on point.
The rest of the short trip was uneventful. Grease swung out from the group, fishing a few small wedges out of a cargo pocket as he headed for the building's other stairwell. We passed the broad wooden safety gate of a huge cargo elevator, then reached our own stairwell and began to slowly climb. Grease came hurrying back, then used a few more of his little wedges to jam the steel fire door of the stairwell closed behind us.
Higher we climbed, jamming each door as we went. The second floor was deserted, as was the third and fourth. On the fifth floor we eased the door open to see what looked like an impromptu barracks, roughly a dozen cots set up near the middle of the floor, all but a few of them occupied by anonymous shapes wrapped up in sleeping bags, gear scattered about them.
We jammed that door as well, then climbed for the sixth and final floor. So far, I couldn't believe how good our luck had been. Too easy, grumbled my churning stomach, but I ignored it while I wished mightily that I dared shift to my true form. Stefan had warned me against this, however. Their physical defenses will probably not be ready, but most assuredly the building will be wrapped in a web of Power, set to react to the presence of any unknown dragon, he'd cautioned. As long as you maintain your human guise you are invisible to those alarms; shift, however, and all will know your presence.
The view from the doorway of the sixth and final floor was blocked by pallets of steel drums stacked two- and three-high. We eased around them. . . .
. . . .And found ourselves facing a dragon coiled upon the floor less than ten meters away.