Steel Dragon

Part Seven

"Black Ops"

The machined threads of the heavy steel bolt gleamed softly in the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent lights as I carefully worked the gooey, lead-gray anti-seize compound into them with a small acid brush. I eyed the coating for any thin spots, then gently threaded the bolt into its proper hole in the cylinder head. A moment to peer inside the grease-smudged technical manual that lay upon the workbench, then I dialed the proper setting into the torque wrench and set its socket firmly upon the bolt head and began to turn. Several seconds later I heard a quiet click. I backed the bolt out about a quarter-turn, tightened it back down. I felt my lips curve upwards into a slight smile as the bolt traveled almost a half-turn further than before by the time the click came again.

Perfect.

I straightened, grimacing as my back told me in no uncertain terms what it thought of people who spent hours hunched like Quasimodo over greasy lumps of cold metal. I stretched, then wiped my hands on a bit of an old undershirt as I turned to survey the web-like mass of wiring that spread itself across the majority of the garage floor. Well, I could work on that for awhile, I supposed, but my poor sore back wasn't going to thank me for it.

Heck with it; I earned some goof-off time. I stumped my way out of the attached garage and into my little bungalow proper. After a more serious scrubbing-up at the kitchen sink, I glanced at the old mechanical clock set beneath the 1957-vintage electric wall oven, decided it was close enough to noon to justify some lunch for myself.

A baloney and lettuce sandwich washed down with a cup of coffee later, I was cleaning my dishes when I heard the clunk of the day's mail arriving. Wiping off my hands, I wandered over to where the various reincarnations of dead trees lay heaped upon the floor beneath the mail slot, picked the mess up, and commenced to sort.

I hummed an anonymous little tune as I flipped most of the stuff into the gaping maw of the boxy little wood stove I'd installed in the corner nearest the mail slot (might as well get some use out of junk mail), the remainder onto the seat of the old wing-back easy chair I had placed next to the little stove. My sorting done, I tossed a few bits of kindling in after the junk, followed by a burning match. Soon, I had a nice little rumble going within the stove that quickly chased the chill out of the room. I settled back in my favorite chair with a sigh, propping my moccasined feet up to soak up the heat as I began to read the remainder of my mail.

Nice way to spend a Saturday morning. . . .

Bill . . . bill . . . a letter from one of the few charities I considered worth a damn. . . . Hey! A postcard from one of my Army buddies. The usual how're-you-doing and write-soon sort of thing, but still I felt a broad smile working its way across my face as a warm feeling that had nothing to do with the stove filled me.

I gazed at the card for awhile, then with a regretful sigh I got up and went over to a sheet of corkboard I'd mounted on the wall across from my chair. A thumbtack, and the card joined the half-dozen others from various places around the world. I looked at them for a long moment, that twinge of regret that I felt at least once a day going through me, as I thought of good people whom I'd quite probably never see again.

The job I'd landed not-all that long ago was going well; already I'd received two raises, if that could be believed, and my bank account was sloshing with more cash than I knew what to do with. I chuckled softly to myself. Lady Dithra had once remarked wryly upon dragons' knack for accumulating money, but I wasn't all-that sure that this was precisely what she'd meant.

At long last I was working to finish that damned college diploma, I had a comfortable home now, and I had even managed to find a replacement engine for my poor little sports car. Still, I was fairly certain just how quickly it would all get chucked into the ditch the moment a more-official piece of correspondence came out of my past, containing, to me, the most important message in the world.

We need you.

Again the corner of my mouth quirked up into a smile, but this time with a touch of bitterness as I stared at the sad little collection of postcards pinned to a piece of corkboard.

Fat chance.

It was all gone, now, and the sooner I put it behind myself, the better off I'd be. I paused on that thought, a certain dark wraith snickering derisively in some shadowy corner of my soul. Really? Or is the only reason you can turn your back on your past the fact that someone else has said those words to you now? I grimaced, then chuckled. Probably right. Pretty pathetic excuse for a sentient being I was, who couldn't even generate his own sense of purpose without it being entwined with someone else's.

I opened a few more letters, eyes blindly scanning their contents, but finally I sighed and tossed the remainder to the floor beside my chair and stood to look out the window. Months had passed and it was autumn now. The leaves on the trees had begun to turn, and there was a definite chill in the air. Winter was just around the corner, and a crow lounging in the pine tree at the far end of the yard was looking distinctly unhappy with that fact.

There hadn't been very much contact between myself and my true kind during this period, save for the occasional call to Stefan, who always responded, regretfully, in the negative. This was the hard part; the part that really got under your skin. The Wait. It was also always the largest part in this sort of thing, both sides holding their positions while their agents and proxies snooped and probed, seeking that one bit of information, that one chink in the opponent's armor that could mean the difference between success and oblivion.

I hated it. Everyone I ever knew hated it. But that was just the way things were. Frankly, in my most secret of hearts, I had begun to despair of ever seeing my children, let alone rescue them from their fate. . . .

The phone rang.

I jerked slightly, for a brief moment not even recognizing the sound for what it was. Then the instrument rang again, and I sighed. How ironic for the silly thing to erupt just as I was thinking those thoughts. Irked, I was tempted to let it go, let the answering machine take the call. Probably some damned telemarketer, anyway. But, on the third ring I was walking across the room, reaching for the phone's cradle to pick it up.

"Yes?" I asked curtly, fully expecting another sales spiel.

"My Lord? We may have something."

Stefan laid the map upon Dithra's enormous dining room table, unfolding it to reveal a vast metropolitan area. He paused for a brief moment, orienting himself, then a finger stabbed down upon a circle penciled upon the paper. "Here, my Lord."

I stared at the circle, then lifted my gaze to arch a quizzical eyebrow at the ex-Stasi agent. He responded with an apologetic tilt of the head. "We cannot be completely certain, no, my Lord, but I am certain enough to say that this is the place we should go to seek your children."

My children. Could it be that I will finally see them? And if so, will they accept or reject me? I pressed my lips together into a thin flat line as my eyes once again dropped to study the chart, then my expression twisted into a small grimace as I read the map title. "Chicago, south end. I know that area; it's a damned pit. Bad place to raise kids."

Stefan gestured agreement. "Perhaps, my Lord, but I believe that this is the sort of place that Ksstha would seek out; one where there is secure shelter, and the local inhabitants, if any, would ask no questions."

And if anyone did, they could be eliminated with little fear of repercussion, I reflected cynically. "What put you onto this place?"

"Food, my Lord," Stefan replied, a small grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "By human standards, dragons eat a very great deal. Children, just out of the shell, consume frightful amounts." The smile flattened out into a slight grimace. "I should have thought of it sooner. The few agents I have managed to get into Ahnkar's camp have never been able to penetrate to the level where they could learn your family's whereabouts, my Lord; Ahnkar is far too cautious with that information. However, he failed to realize he needed to keep his logistics just as secure."

"You followed the groceries." I smiled wickedly, then chuckled as I studied the map. "Classic. Follow the logistics tail, and you'll find your prey at the end of it. Ahnkar isn't the first one to make that mistake, and he probably won't be the last. Cold comfort for him, I'll bet." I looked up at Dithra's agent. "Got any photos of the place?"

"Yes, my Lord." Stefan handed me a disappointingly thin folder. "These were taken rather hurriedly and at a distance. I apologize for the quality, but our people feared giving themselves away."

I flipped open the folder, scooped out the pictures. Grainy, smudged. Taken in daylight, though, and they'd managed to get three of the four sides of the structure. It was a three-story, flat-roofed affair, mostly brick, some concrete, all ugly. Possibly an old turn-of-the-century factory, long since abandoned to dust, decay, drifters, and dragons. Still fairly solid, from the look of it, and I guessed it would be pretty easy to defend, especially with what surrounded it. "Empty lots all around?"

Stefan sighed. "Yes my Lord, I am afraid so. The area is in very poor condition, and many of the buildings have been taken down. It is one of the reasons we couldn't get closer photos."

I grunted, alternately staring at the map, then the photos. "Defensible, a cleared perimeter, probably booby-trapped to hell and gone, to boot." I sighed. "Well, someone in Ahnkar's camp knows what they're doing. Any info on the interior layout?"

"No, my Lord. When I checked, I discovered that the plans were nowhere to be found. Lost, stolen, or simply never filed, I do not know."

I hmphed to myself, then shrugged. "Probably the last. Place looks old enough." I looked up at Stefan. "Had any thoughts as to how we're going to hit this place?"

Silence. Stefan opened his mouth, closed it, hesitated, then sighed, his eyes dropping. "No, my Lord, I have not. We, and the few that stand with us, do not have the strength to battle our way into such a place as this, assuming it has even a fraction of the defenses it should have, given what it holds." The agent hesitated again, then looked at me sidelong. "Unless. . . .?"

I caught his drift, and for just a moment I was tempted. Finally, though, I shook my head. "I think that. . . ." I paused, chewed my lower lip for a moment before continuing. "That would be a very bad idea, Stefan. I've been working with the sphere, whenever I can get up the nerve, and the level of control I have over the thing is just pathetic," I sighed. "That thing is so complicated, and has so much power, I feel like a brain-damaged infant playing with a nuke." I grimaced, then bowed my head. "If I tried to use the sphere to force our way into the place, it would be just as likely to wipe the whole building right off the face of the earth." Plus there's the fact the damned thing scares the living crap out of me, I added silently. "We have to come up with something else. How about mercenaries? Someone tossed a team at us; I see no reason why we shouldn't return the complement."

Stefan stared pensively at the map, his hands folded behind his back in a strangely familiar parade-rest posture. "We have the financial resources, and I have the proper contacts to possibly put something together," he began slowly. "However, if they do get inside, then there is the strong possibility they will see certain things." He looked up at me, his eyes measuring. "Once their task is done, we would probably have little choice but to eliminate them."

I stared at him silently for several long moments, then turned away, my insides churning. To take a sentient being, even a mercenary, and casually use and discard him like so much toilet paper. . . . Grimacing, I gave my head a short, savage shake. I could be one hard-assed son of a bitch sometimes, but even a snake like me has to find someplace to draw the line. I'm a softhearted fool, and it's going to cost me my children. I rubbed my eyes. "We'll think about that one. In the meantime, what about your agents?"

For a moment, I really thought Stefan was going to say something that we would all live to regret. It was understandable, really; putting together any sort of competent intelligence-gathering apparatus is an incredibly tedious, nerve-wracking, and ofttimes heartbreaking task that I wouldn't wish on anyone. Suggesting the personnel of such a network be expended like so much ammunition in a purely military operation is a surefire way to provoke a violent reaction from any good spymaster.

After more than a few moments Stefan finally found civil words. "My Lord, only a few members of our network are of our kind, and I reserve them for such things as penetrating Ahnkar's camp. The overwhelming majority of our network is human. Eastern Europeans for the most part, whom I placed in this country years ago, when I still pretended to work for the Communists. They are spies, my Lord, not combat personnel. Even if we use them, and somehow succeed in our attempt to take that place. . . ." Stefan paused, then continued, his face carefully neutral ". . . .We would have to deal with them as well."

I stared stonily at him for several long moments, then, reluctantly, dropped my gaze. "Understood," I sighed. "All right, it appears like we'll have to take a look at the mercenary option, unless Dithra can come up with a better idea. Where is Dithra, anyway?"

"My Lady was away on other affairs when this information came in, my Lord. I have contacted her, and she should be here within the next day or two." He paused. "I can well-use that time," Stefan admitted with a trace of wryness "as there are certain difficulties involved in moving such a force into the country. I believe I can arrange adequate transportation, but locating and procuring the equipment I suspect we will need, that may prove a problem."

I thought for a moment. "Let me make a phone call or two, maybe I can help a little with that part," I offered.

"Thank you, my Lord; that would make my task much easier."

A day passed. A long drive, a stop at a hole-in-the wall gas station for fuel and one of those phone cards, then another, longer drive to an even more remote place out in the boonies, and now I was standing in a weathered old phone booth, listening to the ringing of a distant telephone. Come on. . . . I grimaced to myself. Would be just my luck to go to so much trouble just to find out he managed to get himself killed somewhere. . . .

"Y'ello?"

A great weight seemed to lift from my heart when I heard that gravelly, cocky voice on the other end, and I felt a broad smile stretching its way across my face. "Deebs. It's been awhile."

There was a pause on the other end, then "Max? Hey, it's the Max! How the hell you doin' man? Haven't heard from you in a long while!"

"Probably because I've retired since last we spoke."

"You? Retire!? You're pullin' my leg, right?"

"Nope; afraid not. Still getting into trouble, though. How about you?"

"Me? Hell, if I ain't kickin' up a fuss and pissin' people off it's 'cause I ain't breathin' any more." The boisterous voice subsided, then paused. Finally, "This isn't a social call, is it?"

A statement, not a question. Deebs knew me too well. "Wish it were, but I need some stuff. Still have your connections down south?"

"Yeah, still got 'em," Deebs sighed. "Kinda figures, the only time you ever drop me a line is when . . . ah, never mind. What kinda operation are we talkin'?"

I paused, licked my lips. "Black op, Deebs. Real black."

"I see." Another pause. "Think it's gonna get wet?"

I stared out through the grimy glass of the old booth at the yellow, orange, and blood-red autumn foliage of a nearby grove of trees as I drew in a long breath, then let it out. "Yeah. Probably."

There was about three seconds of silence, then a sigh. "Okay, I'll get right on it. Got your list?"

"Yeah. Ready to copy?"

"Ready to copy."

I gave him the list. There was a full minute's pause at the other end, then, finally, "Got it. Call me in . . . three days at this number. Same time. I'll tell you then how much of this I can get hold of. I'll need a place for delivery when you call back."

"Okay." Pause. "Deebs, thanks."

The voice on the other end snorted, a trace of its earlier humor resurfacing. "Well, we'll see just how thankful you are after you see my bill! Take care of yourself, buddy."

I smiled again. "Later, Deebs."

I really hate the cheap vinyl covers some joints put on their seating. I know why they do it, of course; lay something nice down and it wouldn't be five minutes before some slob figured out a way to wreck it. Still, sitting on the stuff for more than twenty minutes always reminded me of trying to remain seated on a hot frying pan. Not very fun.

I squirmed slightly upon my little skillet, but Schmoo didn't notice as he swilled down another gulp from his wine glass. "I don't get it," he continued as he put down the glass "what in the world would you want that old barn for? The floor's nothing but dirt, the roof leaks, and we're all just waiting for a stiff wind to put it out of its misery. And you want to rent it from me?"

"Yup," I simply replied. The door's lockable, it's a long way away from anything on your little plot 'way out there in farming country, and the nearest neighbor is too far away to be able to see anything strange going on there. "Need to store some stuff for a couple months. I'll pay in advance, and I'll even patch the roof. How much would you like for rent?"

Schmoo gave me a long look over his glass, and I could just about see the wheels turning. Schmoo wasn't rich by almost any stretch of the imagination; when he wasn't working in the library he was mopping floors at the local elementary school just to make ends meet. The money was extremely tempting, but that temptation warred with his knowledge of my background, and, worse, a streak of curiosity as wide as the Amazon. "What kind of stuff, Mike?"

"Supplies, equipment, some tools," I hedged. I really needed that place; nothing Stefan could come up with on short notice was suitable.

"What kind of tools, Mike?" Schmoo bored in relentlessly, his usual happy-go-lucky air fading noticeably. "I happen to know what you military-types call tools, you know. Is this something that'll piss-off the cops?"

I gazed at him silently for several long moments. I knew it would come to this; Schmoo had a wife to consider, after all, so I'd carefully worked out a cover story in advance, close enough to the truth to be plausible, but not so close that Schmoo would end up in security-paranoid Stefan's gunsights. "There are some kids, newborns, actually, that are in the middle of a custody dispute. If I don't get them away from the people who have them now, there's a good chance they could get hurt or killed before everything's all over."

Schmoo blinked at me through his thick glasses. "Whose kids? Who're these people? Why can't the cops or the FBI handle it?"

"The first and second questions, I don't think I can safely answer. As to the third, the people in question are not citizens of the United States, and by reasons of power and other factors are effectively immune from prosecution," I replied, slipping back into the old patter with disturbing ease. "The kids are currently at a location not all that far from here, though that could change quickly. It's possible they could be taken out of the country soon, and out of our reach."

"Wait; let me get this straight. These people might kill these kids?" Schmoo was getting agitated. He'd always had a soft spot for children.

"No; these people wouldn't do anything to harm the kids, but where they're headed, though, it's a sure bet they're going to get chewed up," I answered as best I could, packing as much intensity as I could into my voice. "Schmoo, please. If the kids stay with these people, sooner or later they're going to get splattered all over the walls. I've tried reason, but they won't listen, so now I have to go bust some heads." I sighed, gazing at, then blinking away could-have-beens. "And, just maybe, make up for some things."

I paused for a moment, staring down at the tiny, not-too clean tabletop, then reached inside my jacket and pulled out a bulging envelope. I placed it on the table and slid it towards my librarian friend. "It's in twenties. Don't deposit it, keep it in a safe place and use it for small expenses. That way, nobody'll be able to trace or prove anything," I advised, watching Schmoo's face.

My friend stared at the envelope for almost a full minute. Finally, he shook his head. "Keep the money. Go ahead and use the barn. Save those kids; that'll be payment enough."

Slowly I retrieved the envelope, then quickly reached for my wine glass and took a sip, more to hide my eyes than anything else. My honor is dust upon the wind. "Thanks, Schmoo," I mumbled.

"Ahh, let's not talk about it anymore, okay? Let's talk about something else."

It was one of the last really warm days of the year, and the battered old lawn chair creaked as I leaned back in it and soaked up the sun's radiant heat. I longed to shift to my proper form; the stretch of soft earth in front of Schmoo's old pole barn would have been a wonderful place to bask in the sun and snooze the day away, but, unfortunately, I was here on business. Deebs had contacted me the day before, telling me that he'd received the funds he needed, and a rental truck was headed my way containing most of what I had asked for. "I'm workin' on the rest of the stuff," he added. I gave him the delivery point, and he gave me the ETA. "Be seein' you soon, Max," he ended with.

I blinked, then took a tighter grip on the receiver of yet another remote phone booth. "Deebs, this isn't a sanctioned op. Maybe you should let someone else—"

"Bullshit," he replied succinctly. "You need my help, you got my help. All the way. See you soon, buddy." And with that, the line went dead.

I grimaced, my memory of the conversation casting a pall over my enjoyment. Once I took delivery of Deeb's stuff, I would just have to usher him out of the A.O. just as quickly as I could. Stefan's own words when we had first discussed the operation haunted me. I had seen the ex-Stasi agent kill with about as much emotion as a man stepping on a bug, and I was quite certain he would have no compunction when it came to 'dealing' with any human he considered a security risk, friend of mine or not.

I sighed, then let my head sag back and closed my eyes, letting the sun beat upon my eyelids until the whole world was one big ruddy glow. This stuff just gets too damned complicated, sometimes. . . .

The sound of a laboring engine woke me from my doze. I opened a slitted eye, to watch a yellow Ryder truck, much like that used for that sordid little scene in Oklahoma City, waddling its way up the slope along the faint dirt track. I grimaced slightly at the ill omen, and then straightened in my chair, making a point to not glance at the M4 carbine laying concealed in the tall grass next to my seat.

The truck ground to a halt perhaps thirty feet away from me, and the engine stopped. There was a quiet pause, broken only by the wind sighing through the weeds, then a clunk as the driver's door popped open and Deebs slowly climbed down out of the cab.

"Jeez, that was a haul," he groaned, flexing himself this way and that. "My back ain't never gonna speak to me again." He chuckled, straightened, then walked to meet me as I rose from my seat, the rifle left behind. "How're you doing, buddy?" He asked, one callused hand gripping mine while the other squeezed my shoulder. "Been a long time."

"Yeah, it has," I replied, feeling my face stretching into a broad smile. "Too damned long." I took a good look at him. He hadn't changed much; same shoe-brush haircut, same straggly little moustache, same comically ugly face. I tried to think of something to say as I searched that face, about how much I'd missed having him around, but failed utterly. "Did you get the stuff?" I said at last.

Deebs hesitated at the abbreviated greeting, but then nodded. "Yeah; most of it." He gestured to the truck. "This where you want to unload?"

"No; better back her up to the barn door, first," I replied as I bent to pick up my rifle. "We're pretty remote out here, but no point in taking a risk."

"Hey, no problem," Deebs glanced at the weapon I'd tucked under my arm but said nothing as he turned and walked stiffly back to his truck "should have thought of that myself."

After a bit of seesawing back and forth on the narrow track, we had the truck in the proper spot. Both Deebs and I squeezed between it and the open barn door. Deebs went about unlocking the rear door on the truck and slid it upwards, revealing a stack of rough wooden crates.

Wordlessly we looked at them for a moment, then I leaned my rifle against the barn wall and clambered inside and inspected the crates more closely. They smelled of oil, and were stenciled with the words Machine Tools. Various cryptic part and serial numbers adorned the boxes here and there. I lifted my head to look at Deebs, my eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Yeah, I inspected it," he grinned back to my unspoken question. "The stuff on the outside's just for show." He disappeared for a moment, then came back and tossed me a sturdy pair of wire cutters. "Pop 'em open and tell me what you think."

I caught the cutters in midair, turned and snipped the steel strapping sealing one crate. A little prying with the cutter handles and a few good kicks dislodged the lid, and I flipped it back and reached inside, withdrawing a lengthy object wrapped in oiled paper. I tore the paper away, revealing the grim instrument that lay within.

The Heckler&Koch G3A3 looked to be unused; no scratches on the dead-black metal or the plastic grips. I extended the telescoping stock, brought the heavy assault rifle up to my shoulder and peered through the sights, then lowered it and ran the weapon through a function check. Everything worked perfectly. I set it down. "Clips? Ammo?" I asked Deebs.

"Over there in the corner, behind you," my friend replied. "Seven-six-two AP NATO's a little hard to find right now, but I got lucky." He gestured to the weapon. "H&K stopped making those awhile back; everybody wants five-five-six these days, but there's still some stock down south." He paused, then said with a trace of diffidence "Those babies pack one hell of a punch, especially with AP. Why'd you want them?"

"For something that will need one hell of a punch to make it fall down," I replied, evading his question as I finished prying open an ammo tin and pulled out a bandolier, examined the black-tipped armor-piercing rounds. "Get the two-oh-three?"

"Afraid not," Deebs sighed. "Got the ammo; most of the types you wanted are pretty standard cop issue, so that was easy. But the launcher's gonna take some doing." I looked up at him, and he shrugged. "I got some people looking. Give me another day or two. The Mark-Threes're in that box over there," he continued, trying to change the subject.

I stared at him coldly for a moment, then realized what I was doing and dropped my gaze, my cheeks growing warm with shame. "Okay, Deebs, no problem. I have to move pretty fast though, so let me know if it'll take more than a week, okay?"

"Hey, no problem; should be no more than three or four days, tops."

"Good." We went through the rest of the inventory, then dragged the heavy crates out of the truck and onto a set of old pallets inside the barn. I finished up by tossing a dusty old tarp on top, then closed and locked up once Deebs got the truck moved clear. "Feel like getting something to eat?"

"Man, I thought you'd never ask!" Deebs grinned. "Haven't had anything since breakfast this morning. Hop in and let's go find something. Anyplace around here with some decent beer?"

After wining and dining Deebs and fending off his occasional fishing expeditions, I got him situated in a comfortable motel a number of miles from our storage site, then headed home. When I got there, there was a message on the answering machine from Stefan. I gave him a quick call, then headed over to Dithra's place.

As I watched the rusty iron gates swing aside, I noticed a large For Sale sign hung on the perimeter wall a little further down the road, and frowned. Selling? Why? I tossed a few possibilities around in my head as I continued up the winding road to the huge stone house, finally concluded it was none of my business. I parked my little car, soon finding Stefan at the front door, waiting for me.

"My Lord, thank you for coming," Stefan said, a slight smile on his normally impassive face. His expression made me optimistic, but he would not speak until we were safely within Dithra's study.

Finally he turned to look at me, the smile broadening and a look of triumph in his eye. "My Lord, we managed to get someone in."

I blinked, suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded. "My family?"

"They are indeed there, my Lord, and in good health."

I closed my eyes and slowly slumped down upon the sofa, head lowered. For a moment, just a moment, I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders. There was a stinging sensation in my eyes; I kept my head lowered until it went away. Control. Control. Finally I looked up. "Defenses?"

"Formidable, my Lord; just as we suspected," the agent replied, his smile fading somewhat. "My agent reports he is trying to gather detailed information on them for us. Perhaps he will find a weakness."

"Perhaps," I nodded, but I knew better than to hope. "This agent, is he the one who followed the groceries?"

"Yes, my Lord." Stefan paused, his eyes briefly growing distant, then refocusing on me. "He's the best I have."

I studied his face for a moment, then continued. "If we survive this, I'd like to meet this dragon. Even if he does nothing more for us, I already owe him a lot."

"We all owe him, my Lord," the ex-Stasi agent replied "I pray that we have the opportunity to tell him that, someday."

I pressed my lips together as I contemplated the life of a deep-cover agent, and gave a heartfelt sigh. "Yeah. . . ." I fell silent for a moment, my innate paranoia stirring uneasily at the timeliness of this windfall. But no; Stefan was too good a spook to fall for a trap, or a doubled agent. I changed the subject. "Most of the hardware is in. What's the status on the mercs?"

"I have two possible leads, my Lord. Nothing solid as of yet, unfortunately."

I felt my lips thin. "You know, it would be just my luck that by the time we pull this together they'll have moved, and we'd have to start all over again," I sighed again, then looked up at Stefan. "Wish we'd had something set up beforehand."

"I'm sorry my Lord, but we have covered this," Stefan replied, a trifle defensively. "We do not have the resources our opposition has. To keep a professional unit ready, secure, and able to deploy on short notice is simply beyond us. I still have no idea as to how even the Council did it without garnering a substantial amount of risk."

"With Ksstha one of the guys running the show? Oh, they did, and hang the risk." I scrubbed at my forehead with the heel of my hand. "I have absolutely no doubt every one of those goons would have been dead five seconds after handing over the goods." I looked up at Dithra's agent and gave him a lopsided smile. "We just sent them to Hell a little sooner than expected, Stefan," I chuckled grimly, then changed the subject. "Any word from Lady Dithra?"

"A short message, my Lord. She has been delayed, but has been apprised of the situation. She will return as soon as possible."

I felt a twinge of concern touch me, but I shook it off for now. "Anything else?" Stefan hesitated, but then signaled that he had nothing further to add. I stood. "Well, keep me informed. I'll be out putting the last of the gear together. Give me a call when Lady Dithra gets back, would you?"

"Of course, my Lord."

A goodly number of miles away from my little bungalow and well away from prying eyes, there is an old abandoned strip mine. More than a hundred feet deep and faced with solid rock on all sides, it's an excellent place to experiment with things that could do an impressive amount of damage when handled improperly.

Things like a Sphere of the Lung.

There were quite a few scars on those weathered stone walls, and I added several more before I quit for the evening. I sat back on my haunches and stared balefully at the softly glowing sphere as it hovered before me, the threads of color slowly dancing beneath its translucent surface implying a tranquility I did not share.

Damn it, if I could just get a handle on the blasted thing, all of the work, the preparations both Stefan and I were struggling with would be completely unnecessary. Some tasks were easy; the Lung levitation trick, that strange merging with the surroundings, moving from place to place. Try most anything else, though, and suddenly controlling the sphere was like keeping a grip on a greased pig. Power went spearing off in any direction but the one you wanted it to go. What had changed? In my final battle with the magus Niata the power of the sphere had surrounded and infused me, its incredible power becoming an extension of my will. But now. . . . Damn it, what had changed?

Sighing in frustration, I took the sphere into my mouth once again, that strange connectedness quickly expanding my awareness to encompass my surroundings. I concentrated for a moment to reduce myself to a more manageable size, the sphere following suit (one of the few things I'd learned to do with it). A flicker of thought, a quiet snap, and I was back in my modest home.

Another snap, and the sphere vanished from my jaws, transporting itself back to its ancient resting place beneath a certain sandstone cliff. It would return to me at my mental call, although I did not know why. A lingering effect of that connectedness, I suspected. . . .

My mane jangled when I ruefully shook my head at all the suspicions, hunches and malformed theories swarming about in my tiny little mind, then went quiet as my form shifted and flowed. On two legs I wandered into the bathroom and had myself a nice, long hot shower. Feeling much better, I toweled myself off, catching sight of myself in the mirror above the sink.

I paused, frowning as I studied my body. You're getting soft, Sarge; too much easy living. My frown deepened, then my form twisted and changed again, the amount of weight my hands supported on the edge of the sink increasing as they covered themselves in gleaming scales.

It was strange. When I first found my true form, it had been downright snakelike in its almost-painful leanness. Now, as I surveyed my glittering form in the glass, I realized that leanness was still there, but now wrapped in hard, bulging muscle. So gradually that I hadn't even noticed, my true form had been growing stronger, even as my human side faded. It was almost as if my true form was slowly sucking the life out of my other half and making it it's own.

The golden eyes reflected in the glass gleamed balefully as I felt the corners of my hard mouth curving down into a scowl. This was unacceptable; if I ever did succeed in rescuing my children, I suspected it would be by dint of human guile, not dragon power, and allowing a mission-critical portion of myself to slide like this simply could not be tolerated.

Scarcely two hours had passed before I found myself at a small gym not too far from my place and approaching the main desk. The burly, shaven-headed guy behind the counter looked up from some paperwork to give me a quizzical glance. "Yes? May I help you, sir?"

"Could be," I replied wryly. "I retired from the Army not all that long ago, and already I'm starting to look like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Think you can help me solve this little problem?"

The big man evidently caught the pun, for his face split into a grin so broad that for a moment I thought his head was going to separate into two halves. "Yes, sir; I think we can help you with that."

-The fishing boats go out across the evening water
-Smuggling guns and arms across the Spanish border
-The wind whips up the waves so loud
-The ghost moon sails upon the clouds
-And turns the rifles into silver
-On the border. . . .

Another gust of wind rocked the rental truck on its springs. I shivered slightly, pulling the coat tighter about me as I scanned the slowly rusting mountains of scrap metal that surrounded the parked vehicle. That done, I spared a glance at Deebs, who sat behind the wheel and looked none-too happy himself. Even more unhappy than the evening in his motel room two nights ago when he told me he had a line on the remainder of our gear.

"So; why the long face?" I'd asked.

Deebs had shaken his head. "I don't normally deal with these people, Max. Word has it they play pretty rough. But, they say they have what we need." He paused, gave me a hopeful glance. "Can't we hold off for a few days more? I'm sure one of my regular sources'll cough something up pretty soon. . . ."

"No, afraid not," I sighed. "We're already behind schedule, and the opposition could move at any time. We can't afford to wait anymore."

Deebs had grimaced, then raised his hands in mock-surrender and let them fall. "Okay, man. I'll go warm up the truck."

I nodded. "Good; and I'll make a phone call or two while you're at it."

Thankfully, I'd had the foresight to pre-arrange some leave-time from my job. Two days of hard driving later, there we sat, in an enormous scrap yard not all that far from the Mexican border, listening to a cold, blustering night wind whistle around our truck. I gave Deebs another glance. "Think they'll show?"

My Texan friend snorted quietly, refilling his coffee cup from the thermos on the seat between us as he answered. "You kiddin'? With the amount we said we'd pay for this stuff, the Devil Himself couldn't keep them from showing." Deebs sipped some of his bitter brew, then tossed me a ghost of a grin. "Don't worry man; they'll be here." The smile faded as he turned away to gaze out the window again. "Then we'll see."

Another hour passed in silence. It was a little past midnight when another truck pulled into the clearing between the heaps of metallic garbage, situating itself opposite us. A pause, a flash of headlights, then those lights extinguished and everything went still.

Deebs looked over to me. "Ready?"

I chuckled, a trifle nervously. "No; but let's do it anyway."

We climbed out of our truck and into that evil wind. I turned and reached back in, dragging out a large, heavy suitcase, lugging it with me as we trudged out to a point roughly midway between the two vehicles, where we stopped and waited.

A full minute passed, then the doors on the other truck opened and three men got out. I gauged them as they approached. Two were obvious muscle, the heavy coats draping their massive frames doubtlessly hiding some serious firepower. The third was shorter and more slender than the two goons who flanked him, and was more expensively dressed. His expression was completely blank as they approached, but then changed to a smirk as they came to a stop about three meters in front of us.

A pause while Shorty gave us the once-over, the smirk broadening. I was beginning to dislike him when he finally spoke. "Got the cash?"

Deebs nodded. "Yeah." He gestured to me, and I placed the suitcase on the ground between the two sides. I popped the latches and opened the case, turning it so the wind wouldn't try to steal what lay within.

Shorty waited until I had retreated, then knelt and inspected the case's contents for several moments. Finally he nodded with satisfaction, stood, and turned to gesture to the truck behind him. "What you want is in there. We trade trucks, and we're outta here."

"Fine," I spoke for the first time, "just as soon as we check the stuff."

There was a deadly pause. The two goons had gone stone still, and Shorty turned back to give me an icy and just who the hell are you? look. Finally he shrugged, his smirk returning. "Fine by us."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, then tossed them to me. Then he gave a florid bow, his arm sweeping back to indicate the truck. "Your merchandise awaits."

Deebs gave me a glance, but I did not look directly at him as we moved past the others and headed for the truck, Shorty and his goons trailing along behind. I knew what Deebs was thinking; this stinks to high heaven. I had a pretty good idea as to what was coming next, but kept my peace, preferring to finish out this little part of the play.

We reached the back of the truck. I undid the padlock, slid up the door and motioned for Deebs to climb in. There was a jumble of crates piled on the floor. Deebs went to one and worked at the lid, at last prying it back and looking inside. There was long pause, then at last my old friend reached inside, and slowly pulled out a rusty piece of iron pipe.

Scrap metal.

There was a click behind me, and I turned to see Shorty and his goons, each one now holding a weapon. Still smirking, Shorty shook his head in mock-sadness. "Y'know, I really wish you hadn't done that," he began almost conversationally, the chrome-plated revolver in his hand held at a jaunty angle. "Yeah; you'd've been out some cash, but at least you'd've still been alive."

I sighed, finally allowing my expression of contempt to surface. "And I really wish you hadn't done this." I scratched my right ear, then continued. "Leave this one alive, Stefan."

For someone in his line of work, Shorty was pathetically slow. It took a full second for my final words to soak in. Then his eyes widened and he spun, the revolver coming up. His goons were already moving; lunging in opposite directions, desperately seeking cover when the first supersonic round cracked its way through the clearing and Shorty's gun arm shattered.

A moment, then there was another crack, and the goon on the left went limp in mid-step, his inert body toppling forward to hit the dusty ground hard. The guy on the right lasted another three paces, but then there was one last crack. He convulsed, lurched forward another step or two before crumpling to his knees, then slowly fell forward onto his face.

Silence. I left that stillness untouched for the count of ten, then slowly arose from where I'd flung myself when the rounds began coming in. Dusting myself off as best I could, I glanced towards the back of the truck. Deebs was cautiously peering out, and caught my eye. "You okay?"

I nodded. "You?"

"I'm fine."

"Good." I turned around and trudged back, adrenalin crash curdling my stomach as I went to meet the shadowy figure emerging from amidst the piles of debris. Our eyes met, and I felt my lips stretching into a thin smile. That smile widened as my eyes lowered to study the vicious-looking piece of military hardware the dark-clad figure was carrying. "Stefan, there seems to be no end to your talents."

Stefan smiled slightly, gave a small bow. "Thank you, my Lord," he murmured quietly. As he straightened his eyes looked past me into the clearing, then into mine, one eyebrow raised in query. I paused for a thoughtful moment, then indicated the two motionless heaps upon the ground. Then I turned back to the ex-Stasi agent and made a small flicking motion against my throat with my thumb. Stefan gazed at me for a second, his face unreadable, then he once again made that slight bow.

Turning away from him, I headed back to where Shorty crouched on his knees, making small whimpering noises as he cradled what was left of his arm. Pausing only to pick up his revolver, I slammed my knee into his back between the shoulder blades, my free hand grabbing his hair and bowing the stunned man backwards over my braced leg, the weapon's short muzzle burying itself in his throat, the business end up hard against one of the carotid arteries.

"Congratulations, sir;" I began with a strange, icy calm as I deliberately thumbed back the hammer "you've annoyed us. Now, how do you think we should respond to this little faux-pas of yours, hmmm?" I asked as I ground the revolver deeper into his throat. Shorty made little response, save for some gargling noises and rolling his eyes like a terrified horse. Several times his frantic gaze sought the surrounding garbage piles. "Oh, you had someone out there, as well?" I asked sweetly "Well, don't worry yourself about them; they're dead. Just like you."

Shorty shuddered at that, and a faint whining noise issued from him. Something else issued from him as well, and I wrinkled my nose at the smell. "That's right, short-stuff. Frankly, the only reason you're still breathing for the moment is because you might still be useful to us."

I flung his head forward, bent, and lifted him to his feet, my free hand holding his mangled arm in a cruel grip. A half-strangled scream came from Shorty's lips as he struggled to his tip-toes in a desperate attempt to relieve the agonizing pressure. Maintaining my merciless hold I walked him back to the cab of his truck. "You see, we really need that stuff we tried to buy from you, so we're willing to try this again. Forty-eight hours from now, same price. If you don't deliver, or you don't show, you stop being useful to us. And that would be a real bad thing to be."

I spun him around and pushed. He cried out as his back slammed against the rider's side door of his truck. He started to say something, but choked off, eyes rolling, as his own weapon buried itself in his throat once again. "You see, Shorty, I think we've decided that we don't like you very much. So, if you screw with us again, what we're going to do is not so much kill you as erase you." I drew my face to within inches of the silly little thug's, my voice dropping to a hiss. "First we're going to kill all your associates. Then we're going to kill your woman, then your kids, then your parents, your siblings, your relatives . . . hell, we're going to kill your fucking dog if you even think about jerking us around again. GOT IT?"

Poor little Shorty jerked like a marionette, then nodded frantically. "Yeah. Yeah," he gasped weakly.

I released him to slump against the door panel. "Get out of here. Forty-eight hours, Shorty, then we come for you." I paused. "And get that arm fixed. It'd be a damned shame if we had to dig you up and kill you twice."

Shorty made a sound like a cross between a swallow and a choke, then, his eyes never leaving mine, he clawed open the truck's door and began to crawl inside, making little grunting noises as his wounded arm bumped into various obstructions.

I started slightly when Stefan gently cleared his throat behind me, then turned to eye the grisly cargo he gripped in each hand, his weapon slung over one shoulder. I nodded my thanks, gripped one of the round, surprisingly heavy objects by the nifty carrying handle on the top. "Oh, and don't forget your buddies, Shorty."

The little thug had just about made his way to the driver's seat and had finally looked away, evidently scrabbling for the keys. He looked up in time to see the object sailing through the air, bouncing once upon the bench seat to land squarely in his lap, wedging between his belt and the steering wheel, the still-open eyes gazing up at him.

Shorty screamed, high and shrill. He was still screaming when I tossed the remainder of Stefan's cargo at him and slapped the door closed, then turned and walked away, Stefan trailing along behind like the specter of Death.

Deebs was waiting for me a little ways from the rear of the gun-runners' truck, staring at what was left of one of Shorty's former goons. He shook his head and turned to meet us when he heard our approaching footsteps upon the junk-strewn ground. "Man, I don't ever want you pissed-off at me," he stated fervently.

"Pissed-off?" I paused, considering for a moment, then continuing with a growing heat. "Yeah, I'm pissed-off. Pissed-off because my whole damn life's been turned upside down, pissed-off because people are plinking at me simply because I'm me, pissed-off because those same bastards are messing over kids to get at me . . . and you know something? I could've kissed that idiot back there when he decided to screw us over, because by God I really needed something to KILL!"

Deebs drew back, eyes blinking warily. "Um, yeah. What you said." He blinked again, then lifted his gaze to my shadow. "Who's our backup man?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

It took several seconds for me to cool myself down to the point that I could answer clearly. Finally I glanced over my shoulder. "That's Stefan. He and I hooked up awhile back. He's a good man to have watching your backside." I turned fully, noting the glint in Stefan's eyes as he stared coldly at Deebs. "Stefan, this is my dear friend Deebs," I started, heavily emphasizing the word dear. "He's been my buddy for many years, and I trust him completely." I finished carefully.

Stefan's eyes flicked over to me, widening slightly, then taking on a faintly pleading look. I returned the look stonily, and finally his gaze dropped and he bowed slightly. Turning, he repeated the bow to Deebs. "It is an honor, sir," he sighed.

"Ahh, don't call me ‘sir,' I work for a living. Call me Deebs. Everybody else does, ‘cept when they're calling me other things."

The ex-Stasi agent gave me another glance from beneath Deebs' friendly barrage, this time the pleading look was stronger. I smiled slightly, shrugged a shoulder, then began to trudge back to our truck with the other two in tow, one more reluctantly than the other.

"Hey! Is that a Dragunov you're carrying? Man, I haven't seen one of those since. . . ."

The lights were on in Deeb's motel room.

Another couple days of hard driving, with nobody but a chatterbox and an annoyed dragon for company must have dulled my wits somewhat, for it took almost five full seconds before the implications penetrated my thick skull and I lurched to a halt about twenty feet from the door. Stefan stopped as well, after almost colliding with me. He looked at me quizzically, then turned to follow my gaze, his own narrowing at the sight of the light glowing behind cheap curtains.

Deebs, of course, just kept steaming straight ahead. Finally he paused, just short of the door, when he realized we weren't with him anymore. He looked back at us. "What?" he asked, then turned back and finally noticed the lit window. "Hey! The guys must be here." With that, he pulled out the motel room key, popped the door open and charged on in.

Guys? I glanced at Stefan, found him already retreating into the shadows of the poorly-lit parking lot, his hand plucking at my sleeve to follow. I began to back away as well, but then Deebs flung open the door, the room's illumination flooding out around him and catching me squarely. "Hey, Max! Come on in and say hi to the guys!"

Stefan had instantly vanished. Pinned by the light, and with no hint of cover, I myself reluctantly moved toward to the door Deebs held open. As I came abreast of him, I hissed "Deebs, just what the hell—"

"Hey, Max! Long time no see!" I blinked, then turned my head in the direction of a familiar voice, found myself looking at a tall, muscular man, brown hair shading icy blue eyes, a tight grin, and the kind of jaw line and overall good looks that women go all to pieces over.

Fields.

"Hiya, Max! How's it hanging?" My eyes moved again, this time to see a slender man with black hair slicked down with what had to be a liter of Vitalis, equally dark eyes, and an eternally sardonic grin.

Grease.

Scanning the rest of the room, I saw someone even smaller than Grease, with an unruly thatch of hair the color of pale straw and watery blue eyes. He smiled almost shyly when I looked at him, gave me a small wave.

Wolfman.

A slight movement, and I turned once more to find a whipcord-lean man with muddy-brown hair and a dark gaze so intense it made most men flinch sitting slightly hunched-over in a chair in the far corner.

Mad Mink.

I held the Mink's laser-like stare for several long seconds, then slowly, one corner of the severe mouth curled upwards almost imperceptibly and he nodded slightly. I returned the nod, then turned back to Deebs. "I suppose you'd care to explain this?" I growled.

The Texan seemed taken a bit aback by my expression and tone. He blinked, then shrugged, his face serious for once. "Hey, man, you need help. And after looking at your shopping list, I knew you needed a lot of help. So, I made a couple calls, and the people I talked to made a couple calls. . . ." He trailed off, paused, then shrugged again and nodded toward the men in the room. "They decided to mosey on over and see if they could lend a hand."

I stared at Deebs. Then I turned to look again at the men lounging in his motel room. I tried to swallow around a mouth gone bone dry as my stomach quietly tied itself into a knot. "Look, guys," I finally croaked "I really appreciate you taking the time and trouble to come here, but this is a black operation. An unsanctioned black operation. Anybody that comes out in one piece could find themselves facing the cops, or worse, with nobody to bail us out." I paused, but everyone just sat and watched me calmly. "In addition to that, there's going to be people on both sides who will want to make sure you never tell any tales. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"We understand," I jumped at the sound of the deep voice just behind me, spun around to stare at the tall, dark apparition that had appeared without the slightest sound. "Deebs filled us in," he continued smoothly "and we'd like to believe we can take care of ourselves."

I took in the anthracite features, the utterly still eyes, the eternal, Buddha-like smile. "Lucifer," I said at last.

The man nicknamed Lucifer gave me a gentle nod of his head, then continued in that soft, deep voice that for some reason always made my skin crawl. "Sorry if I'm late, but I was interested in why your friend out there was so reluctant to join us."

I blinked at that, then shook my head. "You didn't—No; no, not even you, Luce."

Lucifer chuckled quietly. "No, I didn't," he replied, sounding a bit surprised "I couldn't get close enough." He gestured back over his shoulder into the evening gloom. "Your friend is very good."

"Yes, and I suspect the reason he hasn't put a bullet into your back yet is because I'm in the line of fire," I snapped as I quickly stepped around him and to the door. "It's okay, Stefan, come on in," I called in a quiet voice.

There was a long, doubtful pause, but finally Dithra's agent separated himself from the shadows and slowly approached, his hand never straying far from the open front of his jacket. I backed clear of the door, carefully watching Stefan's face as he came into the light, his eyes immediately sweeping the room, quickly registering everyone within.

There was the tiniest sound of an indrawn breath to my left-rear, and I quickly looked that way to see Wolfman staring hard at Stefan, his body tensing. Lucifer had caught Wolfman's reaction as well, and his eyes narrowed as he looked more closely at Stefan as the ex-Stasi agent turned to study him in return. A moment, then Lucifer's eyes widened the tiniest bit, then the expression vanished as his face went utterly blank. Tension suddenly curdled the air of the little motel room as both Lucifer and Stefan shifted positions slightly.

"At ease," I said quietly, but with a certain edge. Both warriors twitched, then glanced at me. Slowly, almost grudgingly, they began to relax. "Luce, guys, this is Stefan," I continued "he's been with me on this thing for quite awhile now, and saved my tail more than once. I trust him." I paused, then gave both Luce and Wolfman a hard look. "Times change, gentlemen."

Wolfman stared at me like I'd gone mad. I returned his look, and finally he lowered his gaze and nodded. I then turned to Luce. He was wearing a wry smile that seemed to say Do they really, Max? But at last he nodded as well.

I then turned to the ex-Stasi agent, pointed out each man in the room as I named them. "They and I have been through more than a little crap together, Stefan," I continued, "and I trust them just as much as I trust you." I turned and looked into Stefan's face as I said the last. "Do you understand?" Paws off, dragon.

Stefan blinked at that, seeming indecisive for a moment. Finally he looked away and back to the room's occupants. "Why are they here . . . sergeant?" he eventually asked.

"Now, that's a very good question," I replied, getting back to my original train of thought "and what I think they're doing is dropping in for a very short visit." I spun around. "Correct, gentlemen?"

"Nope, 'fraid not, Max." Grease replied, unfazed, his Tennessee drawl just as plain as ever. He put his hands behind his head, flopped back upon the room's single bed, and grinned up at me. "'Fraid you're stuck with us for a spell."

"You know that isn't the way things work, Max," continued Fields, looking more than a little miffed "you've pulled our asses out of the crack more than once. We've done the same for you, and now we're going to do it again. You can yell and scream all you want, but that's the way it's going to happen. So, why don't we just cut the crap and get down to business?"

I blinked and licked my lips, feeling more than a little desperate. "This isn't your fight," I pleaded. "Don't you understand? You get involved in this, and there's a good chance that both sides will end up trying to kill you."

"Well, then I suppose we'll have to kill them, first." I cut my eyes to Lucifer. His mouth had that Buddha smile on it again, but his eyes were serious. "Sorry Max, you're not getting rid of us. It's one of those honor things, I'm afraid."

Oh God, Ancestors. . . . In spite of the evening's chill I could feel sweat begin to form at the edge of my hairline, soon threatening to trickle its way down my face. How do I get them to walk away before they get themselves—

"Are they your children, Max?"

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. I stared at Luce, then turned to give Deebs an incredulous look. He squirmed for a moment under my glare, then spread both hands. "Sorry man; you let it slip about the kids when we were down south. Didn't take me long to put a few things together."

I stared helplessly at Deebs for another moment, then turned back to face Luce's patient gaze. Long moments ticked by in heavy silence, then finally my eyes dropped. "Yeah, they're mine," I replied, almost inaudibly.

"So, what's the problem?" asked Fields. "We go and pick up your kids, maybe kick a few asses while we're at it, and get out. Seems to me we'll be home in time for supper."

"For one thing, there's no we about this," I snapped. "You're not getting involved."

"Oh, yeah? Why not?" Fields put his fists on his hips, that hero's jaw of his thrust forward belligerently "Just why is it you think we're not gonna help you with this?"

The sweat finally broke free, and, just as advertised, ran down my face. You damned fools; I'm trying to keep you alive! "I can't tell you the reasons, Fields, but they're damned good ones."

"Why can't you tell us?"

"That information is classified."

Grease gave a theatrical groan, and draped a forearm across his eyes. "Oh jeez; spare us that crap, willya, Max?"

Fields glanced at Grease, then swung back to me. "That's bullshit, and you know it," he said succinctly.

Finally, I'd had enough. "Okay, fine. You want in on this? All right; but let me tell you something first," I began, anger building. "You come in on this, every last one of you are gonna get exposed to information that will haunt you for the rest of your lives, however short they may be. Information that you won't ever be able to tell anyone without not only getting yourselves killed, but triggering a fucking war as well, gentlemen! Is that what you want? Is it? Then be at the barn the day after tomorrow, early. Deebs'll tell you how to get there. Anybody wants to back out, who doesn't want to have to watch over their shoulder for the rest of their miserable life, all you have to do is not show up." I paused for breath and stared at them for a moment, the sudden flare of anger just as quickly guttering down into sadness and regret. "Frankly, I pray to God nobody shows up. I'm outta here."

With that, I spun on my heel and stomped my way out the door.

I had just about reached our truck when steel-hard fingers clamped down on my shoulder and spun me around to gaze into Stefan's seething face. "My Lord, have you gone mad?" he hissed. "We cannot involve your humans; not unless you intend to eliminate them as soon as—"

"The word, Stefan," I interrupted heavily, "is kill. Not ‘eliminate.'" I turned away and trudged the last few steps to the rental. I then turned to face Stefan again, sagging back to lean against the vehicle's blessedly cool metal. I sighed, then scrubbed at my face furiously with both hands, silently begging my tired, confused brain to for God's sake think. "They'll be at the barn in two days," I began at last "those who aren't smart enough to back out, anyway. They'll be isolated out there, and there we can do . . . whatever needs to be done. We'll give them their damned info then, and . . ." I lifted a hand to forestall Stefan's strenuous protest ". . . if anybody freaks, if anybody even looks like they're going to freak, they die."

I had closed my eyes and allowed my head to sag forward at the last, and so missed Stefan's immediate reaction, not that I really cared at the moment. My friends. In two days time I may find myself having to kill people who have shared hardship, triumph and tragedy with me. People I value. People I trust. . . .

"And afterward, my Lord? What do we do with them then?"

"And then they walk." I lifted my head and stared hard at the ex-Stasi agent. "You read me, mister? They walk." I sighed, then imitated a chopping gesture I saw Dithra use once. "They won't talk. Even if they did, without hard evidence, who would believe them? Creatures right out of a fairy tale? No," I shook my head, starting to feel better as I continued "it'll be put down as just another poor old grunt with too much time out in the field." I straightened. "Cancel the mercs, Stefan. This just might work out after all," I finished wonderingly.

"And if you're wrong, my Lord?" asked Stefan in a clipped tone.

"I'm not wrong, Stefan. Mankind as a whole is far too arrogant to believe such an incredible story. Perhaps when we talk to Dithra next. . . ." I trailed off for a moment, then sighed. "Well, we'll see." I looked at my watch, then up at the sky. "Let's get to our car and back into town. It's getting late, and I suspect tomorrow's going to be another busy day."

Exhausted by days of driving a truck and the emotional roller-coaster of the previous evening, I tried to sleep in, but the maybes, might-have-beens and what-ifs swarming around in my head made for a short night. Finally I gave up, got dressed, and headed over to have it out with Dithra.

Needless to say, Dithra had long-since been briefed by Stefan on the situation, and by the time I got to her place was about as close to blowing her stack as I'd ever seen her.

The setting was eerily similar to the grilling session I'd received not-all that long ago; me sweating on the sofa, Dithra in her usual gray-green seated in her favorite chair, her gold-green eyes simmering with consternation. "Yes; I most certainly recall my own goals, dear one," she continued "but it is still far too soon, and warriors? You would reveal us to human warriors?"

"Soldiers, my Lady; not warriors in the sense you mean that term," I replied intently. "Unlike the wild-eyed barbarians you undoubtedly recall from the past, good soldiers know discipline, they know loyalty, and they know honor, my Lady." I leaned forward. "What's more, these are Intelligence and Special Ops troops. They know how to keep secrets. Indeed, every one of them has more than a few that he'll take to the grave. What's one more?"

"That 'one more' of which you speak so lightly, dear Hasai, is the one that could destroy us all," Dithra retorted, eyes flaring. For several long seconds her gaze bored into mine, but I refused to flinch. Finally her head drooped and she sighed, her hands lifting to rub at her temples in a very human gesture. "Very well," she said at last "I will trust your judgment on this, dear one. However, you must understand," she continued, lifting her gaze to meet mine squarely "the responsibility is yours. Should things turn out badly, it will be your task to deal with the results. Do you understand, Hasai?"

You may have to kill your own friends. I stared bleakly back at the ancient dragon, swallowed, and nodded. "I understand." God and Ancestors help me, but I did understand.

Dithra studied me for another long moment, her eyes softening. "Dear one," she said at last "it is a good thing to see you, a young dragon, choosing your own course. It reminds me of things. . ." she trailed off, paused, then reached out a hand and gently touched my face ". . . from a far happier time. But take care. Oh, dear Hasai, please; take care. . . ."

Take care. That heartfelt plea was still echoing in my head later, as I stood in a dimly-lit chamber, studying the battered behemoth huddled in the shadows before me, scarcely moving save for the slight rise and fall of a shallow breathing. For long minutes I studied the living ruin, private thoughts, occasional regrets running through my mind. Finally, in a whisper, I spoke.

"Niata."

There was no response; not so much of a twitch of recognition. I waited a minute more, then moved forward to study the slack face of the ex-magus, finally placed an all-too human hand upon the creature's powerful jaws and gazed deeply into huge, half-lidded eyes that stared apathetically at nothing.

"Niata, I need your help."

Silence.

"Niata, I must know. What was that place you brought us to? What does it signify, and what in the name of the Ancestors were those . . . things?"

Nothing but the faint sound of breathing.

"Niata, please; it's important. To all of us. I can feel that it is."

More time dragged by in silence. Finally I sighed, gave the dragon's scarred features a regretful caress, then turned and walked away.

<. . . .>

A touch, light as the brush of a moth's wing across my thoughts. I froze in mid-step and spun about to stare at Ksstha's renegade, but nothing had changed. Finally I began to wonder if perhaps wishful thinking was making me imagine things. Whatever it was, there was no further response whether fanciful or otherwise, and finally I gave up and left.

The morning of the second day, I didn't drive out to Schmoo's old barn; partly because I didn't feel like it. Partly because I didn't want my car seen leaving my house, nor seen anywhere near the place on that particular day should things go bad. Instead, I used the sphere to transport myself to the stretch of deep forest and scrub that lay perhaps a hundred meters behind the building. Banishing the sphere and shifting to my human form, I settled my icy jacket across my shoulders and began trudging towards the barn, my stomach queasy with dread.

As I cleared the edge of the woods I could hear the sounds of men and materials moving and being moved about within the rickety old structure, and once the unmistakable sound of a bolt going forward. All that ended when there was a quiet, carrying whistle and everything suddenly went still.

A pause, then there was movement to my right. I glanced that way to see Fields slowly stand up within a clump of brush, a G3 cradled in his arms. He looked at me for a moment, then smiled and touched one finger to the bill of his woodland BDU cap in mock-salute before turning to whistle twice more. I nodded to him in return as I continued towards the barn, where the previous sounds were slowly resuming.

There were two older cars, a civilian Jeep and an ancient-looking pickup truck sitting out in front of the barn, one of which had the radio on and was playing a disturbingly appropriate old Beatles tune. I stopped and stared at the offending vehicle for several long moments, then shook my head and headed inside.

They were all there, of course.

Lucifer set down the piece of hardware he'd been inspecting and just stood there expectantly, watching me, smiling that little Buddha-like smile as always. Wolfman looked up and waved from where he was seated upon a sheet of old tarp. The GSG-9 veteran was lovingly disassembling what appeared to be Stefan's Dragunov, though how the hell he'd managed to latch onto it was anybody's guess. Deebs and Grease paused from breaking down some crates over in the corner, and the Mad Mink slid shut the breech of an M203 before nodding to me, a ghost of a smile upon his thin, almost lipless mouth, his eyes just as penetrating as ever.

For several long moments we just stood there and looked at each other, nobody saying a word. Nobody needing to. Then I turned to Deebs, one corner of my mouth curling up into a smile. "Looks like we got our two-oh-three."

"Yup," Deebs replied cheerfully "came in air freight, can you believe it?" He chuckled. "Man, you really must've put the fear of God into those asswipes."

"Fear, yeah," I replied, smile fading somewhat "but not of God." For God would have mercy. I paused for a long moment as I looked over them all once more, then sighed. "Let's take a walk, Luce." At that, I pivoted on my heel and walked out the door.

I nodded once more to Fields as I walked past, heading back into the forest. About a hundred meters in, I intersected the path I was looking for, leading in from the left. I turned right along it, heading deeper into the woods until the trail ended in a small clearing dominated by a huge beech tree.

Though I hadn't heard the slightest sound behind me during the entire trip, I was unsurprised to find Lucifer standing right behind me when I turned around. The man was a ghost. He was surveying the clearing and the surrounding brush, his small smile growing fractionally wider as he doubtlessly came to the correct conclusion as to why we had come all the way out there.

At last he looked at me. "So, Max?" What's the big secret?

I looked at him for a moment more, wondering if we'd ever look at each other the same again. Or look at each other at all. Finally I nodded, stepped away about ten meters, and shifted.

I think it was the very first time I ever saw Luce at a loss for words. He took it all in, the steely scales, the wings, the serpentine form, with a visage that had gone completely blank. Finally he spoke; the words so soft only a dragon's hearing could have detected them.

"Shen Lung."

Abruptly he straightened into a more formal posture, his right hand clenching into a fist to be grasped by his left, then he bowed to me. Deeply.

I had to close my stinging eyes for a moment as I curved my long neck in response, then curled the corner of my hard mouth into a wry smile. "Not quite finished yet, Luce," I told him, then released the hold on my size.

He almost took a step back, but not quite. He opened his mouth, closed it, licked his lips. "Now I know why you wanted the G3s," he managed at last.

I chuckled grimly, then nodded. "Need the punch," I replied, then grew serious. "Do you understand the secrecy, now? Do you understand what would happen if the existence of my kind becomes public knowledge? Do you understand why I didn't want you and the others to become involved?"

Lucifer is one of the deadliest people I have ever known. He is also one of the smartest people I have ever known, plus he'd been in the spook business at least as long as I had. It took less than five seconds for him to go over all the ramifications in his mind, and for his face to settle into a somber expression. "What happens to us after the job?" He asked at last, as usual cutting to the heart of the matter.

"Nothing, as long as I'm alive."

He blinked at that, so I elaborated. "Luce, I've trusted you with my life. Now, I have to trust you with not only my life, but the lives of an entire race, most of whom would be all-too glad to see you and the others converted into fertilizer. But that will not happen, because I trust your word. Do I have it?"

Lucifer gazed up into my armored face for a long moment, his lips curving into a brief, genuine smile as he contemplated the complement I had just paid him. "You have it," he replied at last.

I released a breath I didn't know I was holding, then bowed my head to him in thanks.

"And the others?"

I lifted my head again. "Each will get his chance," I replied. Neither of us elected to discuss the consequences of failure. "Why don't you go get one of the others? I trust your judgment on who should be next."

He nodded contemplatively, that Buddha-like smile returning to his face. "Thank you," he replied, then paused, his smile growing wider. "This should be interesting."

Interesting was an extreme understatement, to say the least. Deebs fell on his ass. Fields ran through his complete and vast inventory of swear-words. Poor little Wolfman almost fainted. The Mad Mink actually said something. "Now I've seen everything," he remarked, his razor-thin smile growing fractionally wider.

Only Grease came close to losing it, and it was fortunate he wasn't carrying a weapon, else I would have had yet another scar on my scales to add to my growing collection. I wasn't all-that surprised; Grease was the closest in my little Dirty Half-Dozen to actually being religious. Fortunately, Lucifer was there to bolster him, and things slowly settled down.

Eventually I had them all sitting on the ground in a semi-circle before me while I coiled comfortably and told them the whole long, sad, sordid story. ". . . .So, what we have right now is a stalemate, with both sides trying to get what the other side has. If our opponents get what they want, the result will be war. A long, vicious war to the death that I don't think that either side can win without a cost I really don't care to think about."

"And if you win?" This from Fields.

"If we win, we follow the strategy of the one we call Dithra, in which we carefully introduce ourselves to the human race, and, hopefully, find a way to co-exist with them."

"You mean with us, right?"

I paused at the small challenge, then chuckled gently. "No, with them," I replied, then continued "I don't class you guys with the rest of the humans." Pause. "That's a complement, by the way. At least I think it is."

Another pause, than Wolfman spoke up. "So. We go in, get your kids, get out. What are the chances of meeting any of . . . your people?"

"Slim, I hope," I replied. "Those we do come across, we'll try to handle. Failing that, well, that's why I insisted on the G3s. Anything less would be like spitting on a forest fire, and I don't want anyone going in naked."

There was a bit more of the question-and-answer; it was amazing at how quickly the guys adapted to the idea of talking shop with a huge steel-plated lizard, but finally Lucifer decided to get down to business. "Okay, Max, when and where?"

My mane jangled softly as I turned to look at him. "Chicago, within the next several days."

He frowned at that. "Not much time for training. You've verified the address, right? Got plans? We need to drill on. . . ."

He trailed off as I shook my head. "No plans, Luce. Sorry, but we go in guessing."

"Well, swell," groused Grease. "This is going to be real fun."

I frowned at Grease, momentarily forgetting what such an expression looked like on a mug like mine. He paled slightly. "Plans would have been great, but we can make do without them. We have photos of the outside of the place, and can extrapolate the floor plan from those."

"You hope."

I didn't bother to curb my expression for my reply. "It's a little late to think about backing out, Grease," I rumbled.

The wiry little man was very still for a moment as he looked up into my face, but then placed his hand on his chest and put on an exaggeratedly offended expression. "Back out? Me? Hey, you know me, headlong into everything! I was just wondering if everybody else was picking up my bad habits," he grinned.

I stared at him for a moment more, then snorted a chuckle, accepting his roundabout apology. "All right, get settled in at the motel, then familiarize yourselves with the equipment here at the barn. Feel free to burn off a few rounds, except for the forty-mil; we don't have very many of those. Luce, you're running the show until I get back. I'm going to try to dredge up more info on this place we're going to hit."

"My Lord, they have him."

I felt an icy chill sweep through me as I heard those words from Stefan, and I let my legs drop me into one of Dithra's sofas with a plop. I didn't need to ask who he was; there could be only one. "How?" I asked at last.

"I do not know, my Lord," Stefan replied grimly "he was tasked to gather what information he could on the building's defenses. Perhaps he made a mistake. All we know is that he has been apprehended, and is being held."

I sighed, rubbed my face with both hands. You poor bastard. Was it all just a trap after all? "Do they know we're coming?"

"I believe so, my Lord. I'm informed that there is a great deal of activity at the site."

I felt my lips compress into a hard thin line. Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT! I took too long! "Moving the kids, or digging in?"

Stefan paused for a long moment before answering, his face pensive. "They're not moving your children, my Lord, this I know from my remaining agents. Therefore, I believe they are strengthening their defenses."

"Turning the whole place into a great big booby trap, no doubt," I snarled quietly, then rubbed my eyes. "Damn." I sat there for several long moments, silently cursing myself for letting the sole opportunity to rescue my children, whom I'd never seen and now probably never would, slip right through my fingers.

"My Lord, I believe that perhaps we can turn this to our advantage."

I froze, then looked up at Dithra's agent. "What do you mean?"

Stefan hesitated under my flat stare, but then continued. "Ahnkar's camp knows we are coming, so we should manipulate this fact. We will be coming, yes, but with far more strength than their forces can safely handle without putting what they are striving to protect into jeopardy."

I guess I was especially slow that day, because I just sat there and blinked stupidly up at Stefan. "What are you talking about? I only have six guys. They're good, but not that good!"

"Perhaps, my Lord," the ex-Stasi agent replied, a small smile hovering about his lips "but when I am finally finished feeding false information to our adversaries, they will think it not six but sixty."

Finally I started to get it. "You're gonna spook them. Make them jump."

"Yes, my Lord." That little smile was beginning to alight. "Our resources are limited, true, but Ahnkar's are not infinite either. They cannot tolerate the chance they may lose what they have, so, if I can do this correctly, they will have no choice but to move your family to safer location. Perhaps they will lay a trap at the old location to crush our force and capture you, but they will move your children first. I am sure of it."

I gazed up at Stefan, the shroud of utter gloom about my thoughts beginning to show signs of breaking up. No competent human commander would ever fall for it, but then again, no human commander had to worry about the extinction of his entire race. "Then we hit them at their new site before they have a chance to set up a perimeter," I finished for Stefan. "Brilliant."

That smile finally found a home. "Thank you, my Lord, but I have yet to accomplish this plan."

Perhaps, but betting on you is a hell of a lot safer than betting against you, Stefan. "You have the resources?"

"I believe so, my Lord."

"Then let's get started. Let's get that pompous bag of hot air thinking he's about to get the whole of the 82^nd Airborne dropped on his head. . . ."

It took three days. Three days in which I could do little except fidget, but finally Ahnkar panicked. He jumped, praise the Ancestors, not only to a different location, but to one we could get plans for!

Lord, what a difference one little mistake can make. Within twelve hours we had secured a full set of blueprints. A few hours after that we had photos from Stefan's agents. Grease took a quick trip to the nearest office supply store for materials, and within an amazingly short time he and Deebs had put together a scale model of our target, using construction board and rubber cement. By sunset the team had taken that model apart and put it back together again so many times we could have found our way around the place half-blind and dead-drunk. A dozen dress-rehearsals out behind Schmoo's old barn, and we were ready.

I took a deep breath, held it for a moment, let it out. "Okay," my eyes swept the motel room's occupants "any more questions? Comments? Snide remarks?" That last brought a quiet chuckle. "Good." My eye caught that of Dithra's agent where he leaned against the far wall. "According to our latest info, our agent, the guy who got us this far, was moved out today and is being held in a separate location. We're going to spring him at the same time we're hitting this place." I gestured at the battered remains of Grease's model with the mostly-untouched beer bottle I held in my hand. "Stefan and Dithra will handle that, as security should be light, and will get lighter when news of our raid gets around. I really wish Stefan was going with us--" I nodded to the agent. His lips compressed into a thin line of disapproval, but finally he signaled his reluctant agreement once again. "—But we owe this guy." Murmurs of agreement on that one; Stefan looked surprised. I smiled at him. "Rule Number One, Stefan; everybody goes home."

I paused, then once again scanned the room. Lucifer was smiling his little smile. The Mad Mink was also smiling, nodding slightly, almost rocking in place. Wolfman nodded to me reassuringly. Grease, Fields and Deebs simply looked grimly competent.

Finally I spoke once more. "We're moving out in the next fifteen minutes, and I figure to hit the place by 0300 tonight. We go in, grab what we're after, get out. Anything gets in our way, we go through it. Take no chances." I paused for a long moment, then slowly raised the lukewarm beer in salute. "Everybody goes home," I said, my voice strangely husky.

A moment, then other beer bottles held in other hands were lifted to clink with mine.

"Everybody goes home."

"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 ComBloc?"

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.

Oh, shit!

The creature was huge, almost Elder-size, and his emerald eyes were already open. His massive head lifted, the fanged jaws opening in attack, and all I could do was stare up at him, rooted to the spot by both awe and an alien, paralyzing terror.

Is this what humans feel when they look upon a dragon?

Fortunately, the Mad Mink wasn't so easily impressed. The M203 in his hands made a loud TONK, and an M651 40-millimeter shell went zipping across the intervening space. An instant later, the dragon's head disappeared within an explosion of white crystalline powder that glittered prettily, like fine new snow in the dim light from outside. There was a moment of shocked silence. . . .

. . . .Then the dragon screamed.

As quickly as we could we worked our way around the thrashing behemoth, most of us with our shoulders hunched against the sheer ear-splitting volume of the choked, gargling howls of agony. Jeez, that's torn it! As I hurried past I glanced back, flinched when I saw the dragon's slate-gray scales running red as he clawed wildly at his own face. I thought about what it must be like for someone with senses several orders of magnitude keener than a human's to take a full load of military mace right in the face, and winced in sympathy. Sorry pal, but maybe you'll pick the right side next time.

I almost slammed into Deebs before I realized the rest of the team had ground to an abrupt halt in front of me. "Deebs? What the hell are you—"

Then I saw what everyone was staring at.

Situated in almost the exact center of the warehouse's vast floor was a waist-high pile of tattered old mattresses, arranged into what was unmistakably a nest, and within that nest, three pairs of jewel-bright eyes stared at us. I didn't have time for more than a single indrawn breath before there came an electrifying hiss from within that nest and three gleaming forms launched themselves at us in a glittering cascade of metallic scales.

The clicking sound of safeties flipping off came to my ears as heavy assault rifles were brought to bear. "NO!" Frantically I clawed my way to the front of the team, shoving Luce roughly aside as I put myself between the humans and my attacking children.

My children. Ancestors, how beautiful they were! Already the size of Bengal tigers and far, far more deadly, they gleamed the colors of gunsteel, chromium, and quicksilver, their luminescent eyes glowing with savage anticipation, their glittering talons tearing chips from the concrete floor as they accelerated straight for me.

Lord, man, shift! They don't recognize you in this form! SHIFT BEFORE THEY RIP YOU TO SHREDS! I blinked, tried to shift, but there wasn't enough time. My heart in my throat, I swung the dart gun up, my finger tightening on the trigger as I prayed to anyone willing to listen. . . .

The lead dragonet was within twenty feet of me when suddenly the child's eyes went huge. Jaws lined with gleaming fangs closed with a snap reminiscent of a bear trap and four sets of talons dug into the floor, the child actually sitting down in its frantic effort to stop. Less than a second later dragonets number two and three plowed into their leader from behind, all of them going down into a thrashing heap of legs, tails and nascent wings, literally right at my feet.

It took several long, almost-comical seconds for them to untangle themselves and get back to their feet, then the leader of the little pack gingerly extended his head and began sniffing gently at my black coveralls. A pause, then the dragonet began to make a strange purring noise, almost a croon as the child began to rub the side of his armored head against me. Within moments the other two were following suit, and I found myself surrounded by rubbing, purring, happy children.

I allowed myself the luxury of closing my eyes for the amount of time needed to draw in a breath and let it out in a huge gust, a giddy rush of both joy and relief almost sending me toppling to the grimy floor. But then I frowned and looked about myself, scanning the surrounding dimness for someone I'd both hoped and dreaded to see.

Where in the hell was Pasqual?

"Max! MAX!" Reluctantly, I turned to look at a frantically gesturing Lucifer. "Max! We still need to block the other stairwell! Can you control them?"

I blinked, then shook my head to clear it. "Um, yeah. Go ahead; I'll hang onto them."

Several members of my team, Luce included, didn't seem too sure of that, but he and Fields began to slowly edge around us anyway, their weapons never quite pointing at my children, but never all-that far from it, either. Three gleaming heads immediately lifted, and baleful draconic eyes tracked the men. A rumbling growl issued from the gunsteel throat of the pack leader. What shall I call you, dear one? Have you chosen a name for yourself yet? I surprised myself by giving vent to an annoyed-sounding hiss and all three dragonets flinched, quickly turning to butt their heads against me in crooning apology.

Both men were still more than fifty feet away from the opposite stairwell when the fire door slammed open and the building's guards began pouring in. Instantly my team threw themselves behind whatever cover they could find as moments later a hail of submachine gun fire came slicing across the floor. Assault rifles thundered in reply, and the guards dove behind crates and drums as well when several of their number went reeling back through the fire door and tumbled down the stairs.

The scene was like something out of a madman's nightmare. Behind us a huge dragon howled brokenly as he continued to paw at what was left of his face, his thrashing body knocking crates and metal drums flying in all directions. In front, MP5s winked at us like little fireflies from behind cover as G3s bellowed their response and the air all around us snapped, snarled and buzzed while I half-shoved, half-dragged a yelping trio of dragonets to cover behind a stack of heavy steel drums, the air turning blue around me as I vented my rage and frustration. Pinned! We had to get out of here before the big guns arrived!

So far, none of my guys were injured; the anonymous crates and other whatnot they were crouching behind were easily absorbing the 9mm our opposition was flinging at us. The guards, however, weren't as lucky as they found to their horror the heavy NATO armor-piercing rounds ripping right through their ersatz cover like it was so much wet cardboard. Their firing became frantic. Mink's mini-mortar went TONK again, and another cloud of CS blossomed among the guards. Several more mercs tried to make it up the stairwell, but were forced back as at least two of my men kept a steady rain of fire pouring through the doorway. Abruptly a small, ominous canister went skittering across the concrete, and moments later a slamming concussion came rolling out of the stairwell door. No one else emerged after that.

I ducked involuntarily as the steel drum just above my head made a loud PONNNG, and a clear liquid began cascading down the side of the pallet. I sniffed it, and felt my eyes go wide as I recognized the acrid smell. Acetone!

"THE DRUMS!" I screamed "DON'T HIT THE DRUMS! DON'T HIT THE DRUMS, OR WE'RE ALL DEAD!"

There was a hesitation amidst all the shooting, then it resumed; slower, more deliberate in tempo. Across the floor, several of the surviving guards realized what was gushing out of the bullet-riddled containers they were hiding behind, and began to desperately crawl towards other cover.

Then the floor exploded.

There was no other way to describe it, as huge fragments of concrete spalled off the buckling section of floor and flew whistling across the room while friend and foe alike scrambled to get out of their way. Then the floor heaved, and the enormous armored skull of an Elder dragon burst into view. Both sides stared in shock as heavy rebar screeched and bent and the Elder began to shoulder her way up through the hole she'd dug from below, eyes like huge amber lanterns glaring at my men, glowing with rage. Again the G3s thundered and I heard the Elder grunt with pain. She paused for a moment, but then she kept right on coming, grimly ignoring the rounds slamming into her.

My forelegs hit the floor with a thump. Within moments I completed shifting to my true form, screeching dragonets scampering out of the way as I rapidly swelled to full size. Stefan was right about there being Power woven about the building; even before I finished my shift I could sense a harsh keening in my head as magical alarms were set off by my presence. What I did not expect were the broad, snarled bands of bright red light that suddenly seemed to leap at me from every wall, unfurling like gaudy ribbons and reaching out towards me to snare and bind. . . .

With a snarled oath I flung out a taloned hand, activated a slicer spell and hurled it at one of the onrushing traps, which disintegrated beneath my pattern's actinic lines. But the other spells came on unabated. I managed to destroy a second one, then the remaining two slammed into me across my back and hindquarters, rapidly twining their way around me. I hissed in alarm, clawed at the ribbons frantically while I watched the Elder arch her neck, an ominous glow beginning to emanate from within her gaping jaws.

A solid column of blue-white flame went surging across the floor at my team, who dove behind crates that were turned into flaming torches instants later. Men rolled away, beating frantically at smoldering clothing. I was too tangled up in those damned ribbons to invoke any of my patterns, but I managed to grab a nearby steel drum with my single free hand, and desperately fling it at the Elder like a rock. It caromed off her skull, but she merely blinked and shook her head. She turned and gave me a murderous glare that clearly said later for you, then turned back to my men, her neck arching to flame again.

But now there was someone standing out in the open, directly in front of her, weapon braced at the hip. White-hot flame roared out to wrap the figure, but not before the Mad Mink's M203 went TONK and a gold-green shell flew glinting through the air.

The blast was incredible. I felt more than heard the concussion of the HE round shatter the surrounding windows as the shockwave battered against me, shrapnel pinging off my metal scales. The Elder's head went whipping back on its long neck like it had been drop-kicked by God, smashed against the ceiling, then fell limply to the scarred concrete. Either dead or unconscious, the Elder then began to slide back through the hole she'd only half-emerged from, to finally flop back down to the floor below us with a resounding crash.

"MINK!" I howled, then turned to struggle frenziedly with the bands which effectively immobilized me. Finally in desperation I tried something I did once in the Caribbean, and breathed my own flame across the bindings. My scales heated rapidly beneath my azure breath, then the pain started as that heat began to work its way through to the flesh that lay beneath. But the crimson bands that wrapped me began to blacken and shrivel beneath the flames like physical things, then suddenly erupted in a blast of ruby light, the shockwave of the suddenly unraveling spell ridding the window frames of what little glass they had left and very nearly knocking me out.

Finally free, I staggered across the floor, towards a crumpled mass of char that lay sprawled next to the heat-warped remains of his weapon. The few remaining guards, seeing my charging form, evidently had had enough, as they promptly fled back down the stairs unmolested by the surviving members of my team, most of who were staring at what lay smoking upon the scorched concrete at my feet.

There wasn't all that much left; the flame-resistant coveralls I'd outfitted us with had allowed my men to survive the Elder's first assault, but hadn't done one damned bit of good when it came to a direct hit. By some miracle Mink's remaining rounds of 40mm hadn't cooked-off from the heat, perhaps protected by the heavy bandolier he'd carried them in.

There was the sound of a combat boot scuffing concrete, and I lifted my eyes to see Deebs and Fields standing there, staring. A pause, then Fields swore softly. "Damn it, Mink; why'd you have to go and do that?"

"He did what needed to be done," I replied quietly "just like he always did." I closed my eyes for a moment, then lifted my head. "Find something to wrap him up in. We're taking him home."

Both Fields and Deebs nodded silently and went to scrounge something, while I continued to stare at what was left in the flickering light of several burning crates. A touch against my left foreleg caused me to start slightly, then look down to see the leader of my three children rubbing himself against my leg, followed closely by the other two, looking for all the world like they were trying to comfort me.

A soft WHOOMPH caught my attention then, and I looked up into yet another nightmare. The Elder's breath had ignited one of the spreading pools of solvent, and it had grown into a swirling mass of stinking blue and yellow flame that was quickly retracing the flow of flammable liquid back to its various sources. In seconds several dozen pallet loads of rusting steel drums were wrapped in hungry flames. Moments later a fire sprinkler directly above part of the conflagration went BANG, but all that issued forth was a small dribble of muddy goop that quickly tapered off to nothing.

It was time to leave. I turned toward our planned escape route, only to find the barrels we'd bypassed there piled against the door by the gray dragon's thrashings and already well involved. Feeling the rising heat, my children's incapacitated guardian gave a moan and began to blindly grope his way away from the flames.

It would only be a matter of minutes before those drums were heated to the point where their contents would cause them to go off like Roman candles, and our planned escape route was now out of the question. Deebs and Fields hurried back with an old tarp and the others pulled in from the perimeter, forced back by the rising flames.

I turned to the hole that the Elder had ripped in the floor, discovered the gray dragon had found it and was already slithering out of sight. I looked to follow, but was immediately greeted by a hail of bullets from below as soon as I drew near, several spanging off my armor before I could yank my head back. Nope; not that way.

"Max! Over here!" I whipped my head around to see Luce waving at me from next to the old cargo elevator we'd seen on the way in. Of course! Quickly I lumbered over, three increasingly frightened dragonets scampering along in my wake as Luce heaved the safety gate up out of the way and crouched, the muzzle of his G3 questing for a target as he warily scanned the interior. For once during this messed-up mission luck was on our side; the elevator was on our floor, and operational, probably having been last used to transport my children up from the building's loading dock.

I coughed, blinked, nictitating membranes reflexively sliding down over my eyes as I pulled my head down, out of the oily blanket of utterly black smoke that was beginning to fill the huge room in spite of the blown-out windows, the cloud of toxic chemicals steadily descending from the ceiling like some dark burial shroud. Behind us it was starting to look like a scene out of Dante's Inferno as we hurriedly crammed everyone aboard the elevator.

Luce slammed down the safety gate and reached for the controls, then paused and turned to me. "They'll be waiting for us," he warned.

I nodded my acknowledgement. I'd reduced my size in order to better fit within the elevator; now I expanded again, arranging my long body to act as a protective barricade. Luce hit the control for the ground floor, and with a lurch and a loud grinding noise the lift began to descend.

They were indeed waiting for us; the cargo elevator's noisy operation was obvious advertisement as to what we were up to. We had scarcely begun our descent when 9mm Parabellum began to sleet into my armored side from the floor below. I gnashed my teeth at what felt like the impact of a thousand hammers and twisted my delicate wings out of the line of fire as best I could, my head turned away. Suddenly there was a weight across my forelegs, and I looked down to see Grease laying there, a stream of bright brass casings tinkling off my breast as his assault rifle spat out its furious response.

Ten seconds later it was over as we sank below the level of the fifth floor. I lifted my head and warily eyed the opening as it rose above us, the burning sensation in the back of my throat strong as I and several rifle barrels waited for someone to be stupid enough to stick his head into view, all of us praying that no-one up there had a grenade.

As we descended past the still-empty fourth floor I was distracted by a low growl from adjacent my left hind leg, and looked down. Up to now the two groups, men and dragons, had been crammed up against opposite ends of the lift as far away from each other as they could possibly go. Now, however, my children's leader (eldest?) was beginning to slowly approach my troops, his spiny crest raised aggressively, and my other children were beginning to give the men a speculative look, as well.

Ashadh. I will call you Ashadh, my little impetuous one, until you select a name more to your liking. I hissed a warning, and my tailtip lifted to gently cuff the child, a blow that spun him almost completely around. Ashadh blinked, shook his head dazedly, then quickly began rub himself against my flank, crooning in apology while his siblings subsided into wide-eyed silence.

Seconds later, it was like the world had exploded as the first of the chemical-filled drums upstairs finally cooked-off. Children yelped and men cursed, fighting to keep their feet as the cargo lift jounced and bounced like a yo-yo on the end of its cables. I yanked my head up, felt my eyes widen as I saw a column of yellow-orange flame come roaring down at us like some vast, enraged elemental.

"GET DOWN!" I thundered, but my men were already throwing themselves flat. I snapped out my left wing, slapping it down on top of both troops and children and tucking my own head under just as the blast hit.

Heat washed over me, so intense that for a moment I thought the Elder had recovered and was bathing me in her flaming fury. I could feel my scales heating, the skin of my wing blistering, could hear my children yowling in fear as it seemed to go on and on, too long, the entire building's gone up and we're all going to roast alive. . . . Then finally, reluctantly receding, soon to be replaced by a howling column of rising, seemingly-icy air as the elevator shaft was transformed into a giant chimney, feeding oxygen into the firestorm above us.

For a heart-stopping moment the lift seemed to hesitate, then continued downwards, the grinding noise louder than ever. Above us, the lift cables were visibly smoking, and I began to wonder just how much more punishment the ancient machinery could take.

By the time we lurched to a groaning halt on the ground floor, burning chemicals were beginning to patter down on us from above like some hellish rain, and I'd had enough of this damnable box. Evidently some of the Council's mercs had managed to force the stairwell door; I could feel a handful of rounds bouncing off my side as both my fore and hind legs braced against the safety gate and shoved. The heavy gate ripped free from its fittings and went flying across the room, crushing several of the remaining guards not already running for their lives. The rest finally decided that discretion was the better part of valor when I swung my head clear of the lift, filled my lungs, arched my neck, and flamed.

For ten solid seconds I slowly panned that azure column of purest rage from left to right, at last stopping only because I had run out of breath. I panted, my head swimming slightly as my golden eyes searched for targets, but everything within a fifty-foot radius of the cargo elevator was too busy burning to give us any trouble.

Quickly we piled out of the lift and I lumbered forward, smashing flaming wreckage aside as I headed for the one exit I could clearly see amidst the flame and smoke. My men fanned out to either side of me like a dragon's wings, covering my flanks as I went, my children trailing safely behind. Anything that even remotely looked like a threat I flamed, and my men pounded into splinters and rubble anything that might serve for cover.

Once again the building rocked around us and powdered concrete sifted down upon our heads as more drums erupted on the floors above, and what little opposing fire there was left trickled off to nothing as guards scrambled to escape what was rapidly becoming a flaming tomb. Ahead, I could see several surviving mercs struggling to open the large double doors I was aiming for.

One saw me coming, screamed, and all dove out of my way. Moments later my head slammed into the metal doors and they leaped from their ancient hinges and crashed into the street in a cloud of powdered rust.

For an awful moment my shoulders jammed in the doorframe, then, cursing my own stupidity I quickly brought myself down to a size that would fit through more easily. My troops and my children poured out behind me as I leaped down a short flight of steps and across the street, away from the doomed warehouse. Risking a glance over my shoulders, I saw enormous plumes of red-orange flames pouring out of the top floor windows and reaching what must have been at least twenty meters into the air. The fifth floor wasn't too far behind; flaming solvents were probably running down through that hole the Elder made, igniting things on that level. For a tiny moment I allowed myself to worry about the Elder and my children's guardian, hoped they would be able to get out in time--

The sound of breaking glass brought my head down to see a lone mercenary, his face twisted with rage, finish busting out a first floor window with the butt of his weapon. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Grease, who was playing Tail-End-Charlie, spun and loosed a burst in the direction of the sound, but his rounds went wide as the merc opened up with his SMG. There was a grunt, and Fields staggered forward as if someone had slugged him in the back, almost dropping his load.

Eternal instants later there was an ear-splitting crack just above our heads, and the gunner toppled. A second crack, and another guard was punched back through the open doorway. I whipped my head back forward and searched the dark buildings that loomed before us, but not even a dragon's eyes could pick out where Wolfman and the Dragunov had set up shop, protecting us in those long, exposed seconds out in the street.

Another moment, and the dark, stinking, wonderful walls of that little alley were around us again, the metronomic crack of Wolfman's rifle fading in the distance as he continued to cover our escape. We reached the truck at last, and I chivvied my squawking children into the back, followed by myself. The troops piled in next. Fields and Deebs managed to heave their load aboard, but then Fields sank to one knee, panting raggedly. Grease and Luce finally had to help him aboard, both swarming up behind him to immediately start tearing at Field's coveralls.

Deebs was tossing his own gear inside, stripping out of the baklava and coveralls to reveal civilian clothing. He grabbed for the strap that would pull the door down and closed, then hesitated, giving the quietly cursing Fields a worried look. Luce glanced at the Texan, gave him a reassuring nod. "Doesn't look too bad," he answered the unspoken question "he'll hold together 'til we can get him to someone."

Deebs hesitated a second more, then finally nodded and began to pull down the door. The last thing I saw before it slammed shut was that alley, glowing red-orange with reflected light like the passageway to Hell.

Somewhere up in the northern Rockies there's a huge ranch. It's quite remote; the nearest human habitation being not less than an hour's drive away from the main house. It was a wonderful place if one liked their privacy, which was probably why Lady Dithra owned it.

The trip there, cooped-up in the back of a truck with a trio of increasingly claustrophobic dragonets was unpleasant to say the least, and the less I say of it the better. At last we arrived, tired, smelly, sorry-looking lot that we were by then, and the sight of that gorgeous sky when Deebs finally opened the back of the truck for the final time almost made it all worthwhile.

Both Stefan and Lady Dithra were waiting for us there by the main house, accompanied by a third. He was tall and young in appearance, very nearly as dark as Stefan save for his pale gray eyes. Dark rings under those eyes spoke volumes as to what his recent past had been like.

Dithra's face was aglow as I slowly limped up to her and bowed my neck respectfully, but her eyes were upon the three children that had come spilling out behind me, gamboling in the long grass, their scales glittering in the bright sunlight as they wrestled and rolled. "Hasai. Oh, dear Hasai, they're beautiful!"

Wearily I swung my head to look at my children, watch them celebrate their release from their cramped prison. Slowly, almost grudgingly, a small smile began to curl the corners of my hard mouth. "Yes; yes they are, my Lady," I replied at last. I watched the three young ones for a long moment, a sense of wonder beginning to work its way through the cloud of utter exhaustion that fogged my brain. The