Page 18 of Forged in Fire

I change the angle of my scope, picking up his heat reading again. He’s standing at the far end of the structure.

And she’s moving toward him. My goddamn target. On the night I’ve lined up everything precisely. She’s going to screw it all up.

She stops when she reaches him, and now they appear to be talking.

No, goddammit!

This is a fuck-up. A complete shitstorm of a fuck-up.

I lower my rifle for a second, swiping the back of my wrist over my eyes, where sweat burns.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

I roll my shoulders and raise my rifle again, focusing down the sights.

Movement in the building draws my attention back to business. Both signatures shifting toward what looks like an exit. I track them through thermal imaging, adjust position to maintain optimal firing angle.

The door opens.

My target emerges first—exactly matching the profile I’ve committed to memory.

Perfect. Clean shot. Eight hundred meters, well within my effective range.

My finger finds the trigger. Breath control kicks in automatically. Steady heartbeat. Professional calm settling over my nervous system like armor.

Then she steps into the moonlight.

Auburn hair catches the light like copper wire, flowing past her shoulders in waves that seem to generate a minor heat wave. She moves with unconscious grace—cautious though. As if unsure of where she’s headed.

The compulsion in my chest doesn’t just intensify—it explodes. I suck in a sharp breath and force myself not to jerk to my feet.

Raw emotion tears through my ribcage, demanding action I don’t understand. My dragon heritage recognizes something my conscious mind refuses to process. Something that makes every instinct I’ve spent decades suppressing roar to life.

What the actual fuck?

Shock waves ripple through my nervous system. I have to force my breathing to steady as my pulse skyrockets.

She’s something different.

Dragon.

Not just dragon-touched like me—pure bloodline. The genetic apex that commands automatic loyalty from lesser dragons. Which is basically what I am, if I’m honest with myself.

That must explain the compulsion. The way my hands shake. The reason my professional detachment is cracking like ice under pressure.

Through the scope, I watch the target gesture toward the equipment staging area. She follows, but something in her posture suggests wariness. She doesn’t move like a prisoner. But she’s wary.

Although she’s not seeing the bigger picture like I am.

Additional heat signatures moving into position around the staging area. Six armed contacts taking positions that would allow them to converge on the open space where the target’s leading her.

Classic trap formation.

She’s walking into an ambush, and she doesn’t know it.

Not your problem, Barlowe.