Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) (28 page)

“Jesus.” A
serum
. Bastian’s brows collided. He’d heard that word before. From his mate after she’d treated Angela’s injuries—wounds received while imprisoned inside a Razorback stronghold. Myst had described the needle marks on Angela’s stomach. Concern hit hard, making his chest tighten. Only one conclusion to draw—whatever Ivar was doing to the females inside his lair had already been done to Angela. The news pushed urgency through his veins. Bastian hopped off the hood. “We can’t wait. We need to know what the serum does now.”

Wick shifted to flank him. “Only way we do that is by finding Ivar’s lab.”

“Keep investigating from your end,” Azrad said. “I’ll work it from mine.”

Bastian tipped his chin. “How?”

“By qualifying for the games.”

“All three of us will compete.” One corner of his mouth curved up, Kilmar cracked his knuckles. “Win top placement and—”

“We get escorted right into Ivar’s lair,” Terranon said, finishing his friend’s sentence.

“Kill the guards inside the bastard’s lair. Locate the captives,” Azrad said, a nasty gleam in his eyes. “The second we do, we’ll get the females out. Hand each one off to you for safekeeping.”

“And relocation.” Secure each female. Find new places for them to live. Witness protection at its best. Already thinking ahead, Bastian made a mental note to get the ball rolling when he got home. Daimler knew all about rewriting a person’s history. The Numbai had done just that for J. J., Wick’s mate, less than a month ago. Fake IDs—passport, driver’s license, new SSN—included. “Easy as pie.”

Sloan grunted. “Tricky as hell. You get caught and—”

“We get dead.” Expression nonchalant, Azrad pushed away from his perch. The buttons of his army jacket brushed the hood. Plastic rattled against rusty steel. “Well worth the risk to dismantle the Razorback nation.”

“No arguing with that,” Wick murmured.

“All right, then.” With a nod, Bastian palmed his brother’s shoulder. Giving him a squeeze, he treated him to solid slap, then turned toward the highway. He needed to walk away. Right now. Otherwise, he’d say “fuck it” and pull the plug on the entire operation. He didn’t like the undercover sideshow. Direct and deadly suited him better, but wel
l . . .
he sighed. His strategy might be killing rogues, but it wasn’t ending the war. Azrad’s approach, however, just might. Scrubbing a hand over his head, Bastian stopped five feet away and glanced over his shoulder. His gaze skimmed over Azrad and his crew. “Meeting’s over. Send us updates when you can, but be safe. Don’t blow your cover.”

Azrad nodded.

Boots crunching over gravel, Bastian shifted into dragon form. Unfolding his wings, he leapt skyward, heart aching, mind racing, hoping like hell he’d made the right decision. And wasn’t sending his brother in too dee
p . . .

Or headlong into certain death.

Chapter Seventeen

He had a mole. A spy inside the Razorback ranks. Mind reeling, running shoes planted on wet pavement, Ivar stood on the edge of human calamity, watching chaos run amuck in the hospital parking lot. Flashing lights from emergency vehicles. Smoke billowing from the side of the building. Firemen at the end of water hoses snaking across the ground. He frowned as someone yelled and the crowd scattered in the wrong direction an
d . . .

His brow furrowed.

A traitor inside his pack. Un-fucking-believable.

Yet, nothing else made sense. Or explained the Nightfury presence in Arlington. No news reports. No call had gone out. No reason for the enemy to be here. Which meant someone with insider information had tipped them off. The idea left him cold. His temper solved the problem, flaring so hot it heated him through. Pink flame responded, circling the center of his palms. He shut the fire show down and skimmed the human horde panicking a few feet away.

Small town USA, his ass. The place felt far too big tonight. Betrayal-big. Battle-big. Fucked-up-big. Ivar clenched his teeth.
A spy.
Holy God. He could hardly wrap his brain around it. The concept seemed foreign, as though it belonged to someone else, not him. He pursed his lips. Stood to reason. No one, after all, had ever betrayed him before.

Frowning, he swept the crowd again. Man, what a mess. Police shouted instructions, trying to restore order, bu
t . . .
no such luck. Human civilians, it seemed, sucked at listening. Ivar cursed under his breath. Talk about inconvenient. Forget the traitor for the moment. He had a more pressing problem. One that began and ended with him getting back inside the hospital. Sooner rather than later. In others words—right fucking now. Otherwise, he wouldn’t get what he needed to work in his laborator
y . . .

Evelyn-of-the-gorgeous-energy’s blood.

Her sample was in there—somewhere.

Probably in the medical lab awaiting testing. Ivar frowned. At least, if he got lucky. Who knew how far the humans had gotten? Maybe he was already shit out of luck. Maybe the lab tech had already used the entire sample. Maybe her results already sat inside a folder waiting for a doctor to look at them. He huffed. Such a waste of time. The female wasn’t sick. She was a genetic anomaly with an extraordinary immune system.

One that would kill any virus it encountered.

Interesting. Fascinating. One hundred percent noteworthy on the sliding superbug scale. Not that he cared at the moment. His love of all things scientific would have to wait. He didn’t have time to screw around.

He
needed
to get back in there.

Eyes on the human hive, he plotted his trajectory. Back door would no doubt be best. Avoid the mess. Find the lab. Steal the sample. Easy-peasy—

As long as Hamersveld answered his call.

Gritting his teeth, Ivar uncloaked and stepped forward. His soles scraped over a rough patch of pavement. He kicked at the crack with the toe of his boot. He wanted to say “screw it” and go in now. Just let loose, cross the lot, and shove the idiot humans out of his way. Prudence stopped him. Experience backed the play. Heading into the medical facility alone didn’t qualify as smart. Not right now. Not with the building burning and Nightfuries within shouting distance. Ivar scowled. All right, so that was an exaggeration. The enemy might be close, but weren’t cause for immediate concern. His soldiers were doing their jobs—and following instructions—hopscotching east, over thick forest toward mountain terrain, leading the Nightfury pack away from Arlington.

Great strategy. Even better outcome—distract on one end, slip in and get what he needed on the other. Now, if only his new XO would show the hell up.

Dragon half rising, Ivar sent out another call. The ping echoed inside his mind, then spiraled out, searching for a connection. He held his breath and listened hard. One second turned into more, ticking past with unerring accuracy. Nothing. No answer on the other end of the line. He bit down on a curse. Freaking Hamersveld. Independent bugger. Where in God’s name was he? Good question—one without an adequate answer. A pity. If the male didn’t arrive soon, impatience would get the better of him and something bad—or rather, worse—would happen.

Probably another batch of dead humans.

Siren wailing, another fire truck roared into the lot. Emergency lights painted the side of the building red. Spin away, then circle back for another go-round. A revolving light show without end. Come one, come all. More human calamity.

Ivar growled in frustration. As if there weren’t enough to wade through already.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched a group of females run past. Total panic territory. Typical human behavior. No doubt a flaw in their nature. Then again, what did he know? After his bonehead performance tonight, he shouldn’t cast the first stone. Raising both hands, he rubbed his temples. The entire mess was his fault. He’d set the fire, KO’ing a hospital room in the process.

His gaze strayed to the shattered window. Shards of glass clung to the steel frame, looking like shark teeth in the smoke. An image of the explosion expanded inside his head. Ivar grimaced. Such a dumb-ass move. A momentary lapse in judgment, except for one thin
g . . .

Lighting the fuse had been so much fun.

Pleasure hummed as he replayed the look on Venom’s face. The surprise in his eyes. Complete panic when the fucker unleashed his magic, then realized his mistake. Highly enjoyable. Beyond priceless. Well worth the mess in the aftermath. It wasn’t often, after all, he surprised, then upended a Nightfury. The bastards played the game too well for that. Like master chess players, his enemy liked to control the board, never flew into a firefight unprepared, and rarely, if ever, made mistakes.

Tonight, however, proved an exception to the rule.

Lovely in so many ways. Brutal in others. Particularly since he was stuck here, growing more impatient by the moment while—

Rain splattered across his back. A lethal vibe followed, raising the hairs on the nape of his neck. Branches snapped. Shrubbery rustled behind him. Ivar’s mouth curved as he glanced over his shoulder.

Hamersveld stepped out of the bushes and onto the pavement behind him. Expression set to thundercloud, his XO scowled.
“What the hell, Ivar?”

“About time you got here.”
Relieved to see the male, Ivar growled at him.
“Where have you been?”

“Setting up an ambush,”
he said, sounding as pissed off as he looked.
“I had a wide-open shot before you yanked my chain.
Hristos
, I could’ve had him this time. Wa
s . . .
”
He raised his hand and held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“This close to nailing the whelp.”

Ivar raised a brow.
“Who—the Nightfury water-rat?”

“Who else?”
Muscle ticking in his jaw, Hamersveld glared at him. The pale-blue rims around his black irises flashed. He stomped his feet into his combat boots. The thud-thud echoed across the parking lot, sending a clear message. Irritation times a thousand.
“Wide open, Ivar. This close. Whatever you want, it had better be good.”

“Just back me up, okay?”
With a quick
pivot, he jogged toward the rear of the hospital. No time to lose, even less to explain. He’d fill his XO in on the fly. Skirting a fire truck, he rounded the back of the hospital. Pavement turned to grass. Frozen blades snapped, crackling beneath his shoe treads.
“We need to move before the Nightfuries come up for air.”

“What happened?”

“I fucked up.”

“How?”

Well, by blowing the hell out of a hospital for one thing. By not testing the virus in his lab before unleashing it for another.
“The virus is attacking females. Males are not being infected.”

“None at all?”

Ivar shook his head.

“Silfer’s balls,”
Hamersveld whispered, worry in his voice.
An apt reaction considering the danger and the horde of dying females. Ivar upped the pace. Hot on his heels, his XO followed, the crunch of footfalls rippling off the brick facade.
“How do we stop it from spreading?”

“Make an antivirus. Give it to human doctors as fast as possible.”

“Before it reaches larger populations?”

“
Da
, exactly.”

Muscles bunching, Ivar leapt over a boulder. Cold air whistled in his ears. Sighting the ground on the other side, he landed with a thump and slid down an embankment. His feet slammed down on another stretch of asphalt. He glanced left. Perfect. A loading dock, large doors open to receive transport trucks. Not wasting a second, he ran toward the concrete platform—while marveling at the irony. Unprecedented, but he planned to put his scientific genius to work and save human lives. Ivar frowned. A weird thought. Not something he’d ever imagined doing before. Yet, here he was, racing to find a cur
e . . .

Using an HE female’s blood.

Her plasma—all those lovely, killer red and white cells—would do the job. Allow him to synthesize an antivirus in his lab to achieve the desired result—death of his baby, superbug number three, in the wilds of human society.

Reaching the wide alcove,
he vaulted onto the concrete platform. With a mental flick, he opened the door and stepped over the threshold. He paused in the center of the large foyer. Hamersveld slid to a stop behind him. Ivar glanced at the wall signs to get his bearings an
d . . .

Yippee-ki-yay. Medi-la
b . . .
basement floor.

“This way,”
he murmured, jogging past a bank of elevators.

A door marked “Stairs” sat beside them.

Ivar cranked the handle, crossed the threshold, and descended the stairs. His Nikes slapped against concrete treads. Hamersveld’s footfalls rose in tandem behind him, making Ivar’s heart beat faster. The violent blood rush echoed in his ears, shooting him full of adrenaline. A few more steps, a couple of doors, an
d . . .
please, let the sample be intact and usable. All he needed was a couple of vials.

Reaching the landing, he hammered the next door. Reinforced steel flew open with a bang. He strode into the subterranean corridor. A high counter stood opposite him. No one at the helm, just a solitary stretch of no-one’s-home manning the entrance to the hospital lab. He took a run at it, and planting his hand on the hard surface, leapt over the attendant’s station. File folders shifted, slipping to the floor. Ivar stepped over the pile and headed for a set of glass sliders.

Motion detectors went active.

The clear panels slid sideways, dumping him into a large laboratory. Organized environment. Clean smell. Long table stacked with papers to his right. Work stations full of samples to his left. Human lab tech decked in protective gear, absorbed in his work, sitting at a high counter, noise-canceling headphones on, a row of fridges behind him. Gaze narrowed on the lab rat, Ivar moved toward him. The doors closed with a hiss behind him. His soles squeaked on the industrial-grade floor. The male tech looked up from his microscope. Ivar rounded the end of the countertop.

Blinking like an astonished owl, the idiot stared at him. His brow furrowed, the human shoved the headphones off his head and set them on the counter. “Hey, man. You can’t be in—”

Ivar struck. His hand closed around the tech’s throat. The human squawked. He squeezed, lifting the male off his stool. “Where are the blood samples kept?”

Caught fast in his grip, the tech shook his head. Ivar flexed his hand. Fear sparked in the human’s eyes. He pointed to the row of fridges.

“The samples from the quarantine patients.” Needing more specific information, Ivar leaned in and looked him in the eye. His pink gaze glowed, reflecting in the dark one staring at him in horror. “Which fridge?”

“Th-t
h . . .
” Unable to talk, the male gasped for air. Ivar relaxed his grip. Toes dangling an inch off the floor, his captive sucked in a desperate breath. “Th-third one.”

“From the left?”

“Yes.”

“Svel
d . . .
” Glancing toward the door, Ivar shoved the human toward his XO. “Mind scrub him while I search.”

Scraping him off the floor, Hamersveld slammed the tech into the wall. His black eyes started to shimmer. The male whimpered. Ivar turned away from the counter. Three strides put him in front of the third refrigeration unit. He grabbed the handle and pulled. The glass door opened with a suctioning pop. Glass vials rattled in metal trays. Focus on the fragile test tubes, he read each label, looking for—

Bingo. Evelyn V. Foxe. Name written on the side. White sticker standing out against the dark richness of her blood.

Pocketing all three vials, he spun toward the exit. Hamersveld met his gaze and released the lab tech. The male groaned and, eyelashes flickering, slid into a heap on the floor. Ivar nodded on the flyby, letting his XO know he had what he needed.