Page 24 of Forged in Fire

Breathe. In.

Just fucking breathe, dammit!

They’re talking… arguing, from the looks of it. The armed guards still surrounding them.

Take the shot now. Clean elimination while they’re distracted. Get out before anyone identifies the shooter.

My crosshairs settle back on the target’s center of mass. Standard protocol. Simple execution.

Do the job and get out.

But my finger won’t pull the trigger. All I can think of is that they have her surrounded. Assault rifles aimed at her.

Her voice carries across the distance—small, confused. I don’t like that at all.

He turns to her, light catching his face. Features like hers, but more masculine. They’re related, no doubt about it… twins? What are the odds?

I lower my rifle, shake my head, wipe my eyes with the back of my arm, before focusing again.

This is un-fucking-believable.

He’s talking some more. Whatever he’s saying is upsetting her because those dark shapes are twisting, joined by fire, though I can see she’s restraining it. Dragon, yes. But something more.

What the hell is she?

“Why?” she chokes out.

He says something to the guards, then adds, “I’m sorry, Iris.”

Iris.

Her name fits like a missing piece slotting into place in my soul.

My crosshairs drift between the target and the operatives surrounding her. Clean shot on the primary objective. Mission parameters satisfied. Get out and collect payment.

Finish the job. Walk away. None of your business what happens to her after.

But I can’t. I fucking can’t. She doesn’t deserve this. I don't know how I know it; I just do.

My finger settles against the trigger. Target acquired. Perfect conditions.

The lead guard shifts position, rifle trained on her chest. Professional stance. Finger on trigger. Ready to fire on command.

This is wrong.

Another operative flanks left, cutting off potential escape routes. They’re not taking chances.

Not my problem. Complete the mission.

But my crosshairs drift from the target to the guard closest to her position.

What the hell am I doing?

Everything I’ve been trained for, everything the Guild has drilled into me for years, screams to eliminate the primary target and get out. Mission first. Always mission first.

But she’s in trouble if I don’t act.

My dragon blood burns hotter, responding to something I don’t understand. Some primal recognition that goes deeper than programming or professional obligation.