Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I stare at the eerie glow of the flickering screens.
But Dragon isn’t simply staring. He’s glaring at those screens. Tension is rolling off him in waves, and why shouldn’t it?
He may catch a glimpse of his sister. His first time seeing her since she was five years old.
I grab his hand, give it a slight squeeze, and then move to loosen it, but he grasps my hand more tightly. His other hand is a clenched fist, the knuckles white with tension. I squeeze back, reminding him that he isn’t alone in this. We watch as the SWAT members move through the compound, their figures ghostly shadows on the monitors.
As the team moves farther into the compound, their radio communication grows sparser and their movements more cautious.
Something isn’t right.
I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.
Dragon releases my hand and rubs at his forehead.
He feels it too.
Static comes through the radio, and then the monitors go dark for a moment before flickering back to life.
“Damn,” one of the techs says. “We’ve got a man down.”
Dragon curses under his breath.
I swallow down the lump in my throat, trying to ease the urge to vomit. We shouldn’t be here. We’re just in the way.
But Dragon won’t leave, and I won’t leave him.
The monitors flicker again.
A metal door. At least I think that’s what it is. Everything’s grainy. Shouldn’t this be top-of-the-line surveillance equipment?
Above the door is…
I squint to make it out.
It’s some kind of symbol.
A snake coiling around a cross.
Oh, God…
This cult is called the Order of the Serpent.
Just looking at that symbol makes me nauseated.
There’s evil behind that door.
“Charlie team, breach,” comes a voice across the radio.
My heart thunders as I watch the monitor. A SWAT member steps forward and places something on the door.
I grab Dragon’s hand again and squeeze even tighter. He doesn’t recoil or comfort me.
A deafening bang echoes from the speakers, and the screen fills with smoke. It was some kind of explosive. That’s what the guy put on the door. When the smoke clears, what was once solid metal is now reduced to scrap.
This is it.
“Proceed with caution,” Jameson’s authoritative voice cuts through the eerie silence.
As the team advances farther into the room, my breath hitches in my throat. This is where they carry out their dreadful rituals, shrouded in secrecy and darkness.
On one side of the room, a figure comes into view on the monitor.
Oh, God…
My heart leaps into my throat.
Dragon drops my hand and goes completely rigid.
It’s a woman. She’s thin and frail with blond hair. The image quality isn’t great, but from Dragon’s reaction, I know it’s Griffin. She’s bound and gagged.
Dragon vibrates next to me, a growl emanating from his throat.
“Dragon…” I begin.
“Don’t talk,” he commands.
“Target located,” one officer radios back to Jameson.
An officer approaches Griffin. His steps are slow and measured, eyes never leaving her as he lowers his gun. The team behind him spreads out, securing the room. The officer speaks to her, words we can’t hear. As the officer starts to untie her, a cry pierces through the radio feed followed by a series of rapid shots.
The image on the monitors quakes as whoever is carrying the camera takes cover.
“Alpha team report!” Jameson’s voice roars across the radio frequency, echoing around us.
“Contact! We have contact!” a voice replies amidst a flurry of static. “Multiple hostiles!”
The monitors finally stabilize to show a scene out of a nightmare. Hooded figures rush toward the SWAT team, their faces hidden behind masks, some brandishing knives.
Dragon drops my hand. “I have to go,” he says, his voice sounding unusually vulnerable.
“Dragon!” I call out after him, but he doesn’t stop.
“Sir!” one of the techs yells.
Dragon runs toward Jameson, toward the compound.
And I watch, helpless.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dragon
I race toward the building. I know Griffin is in there now. And she’s alive.
A rush of hope hits me, but it’s quickly overtaken by a swell of fear when I remember the figures on the monitors. SWAT team members down. Cult members in cloaks and carrying knives.
I have nothing.
But my feet drive me forward.
As I draw closer, the sounds of battle become louder. Gunshots echo off the stone walls. I duck behind one of the SWAT vans, my heart pounding as the chaos unfolds from this closer vantage point.
Every gunshot could be Griffin.
No.
No, no, no!
Without warning, a cloaked figure rounds the corner, his eyes wild and maniacal beneath his mask. He’s armed with a knife, and he lunges at me.
Reflexes honed from years of evading punches from older and stronger boys at the group homes kick in. I dodge his lunge and counter with a swift punch to his midsection, followed by a sharp elbow to his masked face. He crumbles to the ground with a grunt. I snatch his knife, turn, and sprint toward the entrance.
“Hey!” an officer grabs me.