Line of Fyre (Alien Dragon Shifters Book 2)

by Cara Bristol

  The elevator opened, and Helena exited, nodding at a maintenance worker pushing a cart down the hall. Outside her door, a retinal scanner verified her identity before admitting her.

  Inside, she slumped, expelling her breath in a silent whoosh. She couldn’t stay here—her apartment wasn’t safe—but she allowed herself a moment to celebrate the good news.

  Rhianna was alive! Until the vid-con, she, along with everyone else, had believed her dead. Against the odds, she’d survived—had discovered the bomb in her communication device. Although happy with Prince K’ev with whom she’d bonded, she was fiercely, justifiably angry.

  We betrayed her. I betrayed her. The fact she had managed to slip her a secret message warning her of the bomb did little to mitigate her culpability, even though sending Rhianna to Draco had offered the sole chance to save her life. If she hadn’t gone, Biggs would have had her killed. Helena didn’t doubt he would have followed through on his threat. She had racked her brain for a way to save Rhianna’s life but could only come up with a long shot. Slip her a message and pray she found it in time. She had, but now Biggs suspected Helena had warned Rhianna.

  He’ll be coming for me. Telling her father wouldn’t do any good because even if he believed her, he couldn’t arrest Biggs on her say-so—there had to be evidence. It was her word against his. If the president took him into custody, the chief special advisor still could have her eliminated. His enforcers were everywhere.

  There was no place on Earth he couldn’t reach. But Rhianna had provided Helena with an escape plan.

  Ring. Ring.

  Her gaze snapped to the phone. Nobody used that line. In the past, she’d been summoned to emergency briefings in the middle of the night, but since being shut out of high-level discussions, that didn’t happen anymore.

  Ring. Ring.

  Please, don’t let it be Biggs. She pressed a hand to her churning stomach and picked up the phone. “This is Helena.”

  “This is Patsy.”

  She sank into a chair. “Hi, Patsy. What’s going on?” She affected a cordial but impersonal tone in case others were listening in.

  “I called to say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye?”

  “I’ve been terminated.”

  “Terminated? What are you talking about?” Damnit! Damnit! She’d feared this might happen. Patsy had been slipping her tidbits of information and had been the one to alert her to the hail from Rhianna. If not for Patsy, she wouldn’t have attended the vid-con, might never have learned her friend had survived.

  “I’ve been told my services are no longer required.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She felt sick.

  “They’re coming to escort Henry and me topside in a few moments.”

  “Your brother?” Henry Winslow worked for the Secret Service.

  “Yes. He was fired, also.”

  “Where will you go?” With the threat of immolation still a possibility, no place above ground could be considered safe. On the other hand, with Biggs in control, Bunker One was the most dangerous place on the planet.

  “Henry owns a cabin in Montana. When relations with Draco started to unravel, he made plans.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She and Patsy had become close, and the woman had been enormously helpful. I’m the kiss of death. Everybody who helps me gets drawn into the line of fire.

  “It’s not your fault. It was my mistake. You’re the president’s daughter and a member of his strategic council; I assumed you should be notified of Rhianna’s call.”

  To anyone listening in, the falsehood would sound plausible; however, Patsy had been aware of Helena’s marginalization. Back when they were free to talk, they had discussed the disturbing trend they’d seen forming.

  “You believed you were following the rules,” Helena continued with the lie.

  “Is Rhianna okay?”

  “She’s healthy and safe,” she replied. There was so much more she wanted to say but would never get the opportunity because communications were monitored, and tomorrow she would leave Earth. Now an ex-staffer, Patsy had lost her security clearance. Revealing classified information would violate national security and incur the wrath of Jackson Biggs. However, after the debacle with Rhianna, Helena wished to avoid repeating mistakes. The worst thing she’d ever done was not tell Rhianna the truth. She hated to allow Patsy, who’d be thrown topside, to live in fear of an imminent attack. Of course, anything could happen with Biggs at the helm—but, at least for the time being, a planet of nations had stepped back from the brink of annihilation.

  Screw Biggs. I’ll be gone tomorrow. Rhianna had beaten the odds by going to Draco. Helena would roll the dice and hope she could get away before his enforcers picked her up.

  “According to Rhianna, King K’rah has withdrawn the declaration of war, and, instead, is demanding other concessions to demonstrate our commitment to peace.”

  “That’s great news—uh, what kind of concessions?”

  “He has given us the opportunity to send another woman to become the consort/concubine of one more of his sons—Prince T’mar. A Draconian ship will arrive on Elementa in a week. The woman is supposed to rendezvous with the ship.”

  “Is the president going to do it?”

  “No. We’re continuing with colonization of Elementa. A ship leaves tomorrow with more settlers and supplies.” She crossed her fingers Patsy would pick up on the slight emphasis—but their listeners would not—and would realize she planned to be on that spacecraft. She didn’t want Patsy to worry about her when she vanished.

  “Did the president turn them down outright?”

  “Rhianna and Prince K’ev disconnected the transmission before he could.”

  “So when they find out we didn’t accede to their request, we could be back where we started—expecting an attack.”

  “Unless somebody arrives on Elementa, I fear that will be the case.”

  “I’m going to miss you,” Patsy said. “Will you be okay…here alone?”

  Okay was their code word for safe. Had it been a casual question, she would have asked, will you be all right? After Biggs had isolated Helena, and the president’s assistant had begun sneaking her information, Patsy had suggested they develop a code system.

  “Of course.” She faked a titter. “I won’t be alone. I have my father, and there are hundreds of staff and government officials in Bunker One. Don’t worry about me. If you think you’ll be okay at your brother’s place, go with him. Don’t waste time. The large threat posed by the dragons still exists, maybe worse than ever.” They’d both said way too much.

  “I understand. And don’t you worry about me. I’ll be okay with my brother. In fact, he just arrived along with the escort,” she said.

  Once terminated, ex-staffers weren’t allowed to roam unattended; they were treated as potential saboteurs. She felt relieved Patsy would be with her resourceful now ex-secret service agent brother, but she’d miss her. A lump formed in her throat with the realization they would never see each other again. “Take care,” she choked.

  “Stop it. You’ll make me cry.”

  “You’re right. We’re both going to get through these difficult times.”

  “You bet we will! The sun will come out tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Orphan Annie.”

  “Hey, all we need is a Daddy Warbucks.”

  She tried to laugh but failed; the situation was far too dire. “I wish you all the best. If we never see each other again, please understand how much I value your friendship, how much it means to me.” She’d had two good friends, and she’d managed to hurt both of them.

  Her going to Elementa then to Draco to become Prince T’mar’s concubine would be the best thing for her friends and family because it would remove her from Biggs’ reach. He’d be unable to use her as a pawn, and her father would be free to work toward a peace settlement.

  “You have so much to offer the world. I’ve always respected and admired you for the way you speak
your mind and take a stand against injustice. How could I not be your friend?”

  The praise pierced like a barbed dart. She’d tried to take a stand but failed to do enough. Her message had saved Rhianna’s life, but it was almost a little too little, a little too late.

  “I don’t deserve your admiration, but thank you,” Helena said. “Be safe.”

  “I will. You, too.”

  * * * *

  A maintenance worker stood on a ladder replacing a lightbulb when Helena emerged from her apartment the next day.

  “Good morning, Ms. Marshfield!” he said cheerfully. “You’re up and around early.”

  Was it a casual observation, or did her behavior seem odd to him? Was he even a maintenance worker? Was it her imagination, or had this hallway been subject to unusually dedicated maintenance? Somebody always seemed to be around—vacuuming, cleaning the carpet, touching up paint.

  She often hit the Bunker One gym early, but never by 4 a.m. However, she had to be on the spacecraft before its 0:600 launch and had a stop to make beforehand.

  “Got a lot of meetings today. Trying to get a jump on some work.” She tightened her grip on her handbag. “You’re working early.”

  Every second she lingered gave Biggs’ men another second to apprehend her. Fear screamed at her to get out fast, but she forced herself to stop and chat. It would raise suspicion if she didn’t.

  Even if she got out of Bunker One, she had no guarantee of safety. She could be waiting in line, and she’d feel a tap on her shoulder. Or, she’d get into a cab, and the windows and doors would seal…

  “Normal shift, Ms. Marshfield,” he replied. “We get our work done off hours so we don’t get in the way of important stuff.”

  “Everyone is doing important stuff,” she said. “We all contribute. We’re all working to make our planet safe again.” She offered a platitude expected of the first daughter.

  “Thank you for that,” he said.

  “Well, uh, have a good day,” she said.

  “You, too.”

  Staying alive would make it a good day.

  A few paces down the hall, she halted and peered over her shoulder. “Was that light out? I got in pretty late last night, and I don’t remember it being burned out.”

  “We replace them on a regular schedule so they don’t burn out.”

  “Ah! Got it. Well, carry on.”

  Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe this degree of maintenance was normal. She hadn’t given it much notice before, hadn’t checked out other residence areas to compare.

  Cognizant of the worker’s scrutiny, she tried to walk normally, not hurry but not dawdle. She prayed her clothing didn’t appear as out of place as it felt. Would he remark to his fellow workers, “Have you noticed how chunky the first daughter is getting these days?”

  She hadn’t dared pack a suitcase because it would draw too much notice, so she’d donned as many articles as she could. Even the most lightweight fabrics bulked up when layered. Beneath her swirling skirt and belted floral blouse, she wore a cotton/poly sheath dress, two pairs of moisture-wicking running pants and matching T-shirts, yoga shorts and a tank, five pairs of bikini panties, and two sports bras. She’d omitted all jewelry in case she set off the metal detector, which would result in a pat down. There could be no hiccups; the plan had to go smoothly.

  She wished she could have worn athletic shoes, but those would have stood out, so she’d settled on black flats. She hoped to grab a pair of sneakers at the drugstore if they still had merchandise. She hadn’t been topside in months, but, according to reports, stores were picked bare.

  Her bag would be searched like everyone else’s when she exited Bunker One, so she couldn’t take anything signaling she wouldn’t be back. In her purse she carried a hairbrush, some feminine hygiene products, a little bit of makeup, a bottle of pain reliever, and a canister of tear gas and a pocket knife only allowed because she was the president’s daughter. She felt more secure for having the latter two items, although she was under no illusions they’d offer any protection against a fire-throwing dragon the size of a bus—or against Biggs’ trained, lethal enforcers.

  Toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, socks, and the like, she hoped to acquire at the drugstore.

  She’d printed out a hard-copy photo of her father and an old one of her mother, which she’d taped into a small notebook. She had a lot of photos in her phone, but since the device could be used to track her, she would toss it as soon as possible.

  Carrying a handbag broke with her usual routine, but few people were about. By the time anyone of import viewed the security feeds, she would be long gone.

  * * * *

  “Four hundred sixty-two dollars and ninety-five cents,” said the Drugs & More clerk.

  “For sneakers, a T-shirt, and a few toiletries?” She stared at the tiny pile of merchandise. Shelves had been as bare as she’d feared. The shoes were a half size too small, and the orange T-shirt was so hideous it had been left behind during an apocalypse. She had scored a three-pack of granny panties, a couple of toothbrushes, toothpaste, an off brand of all-in-one shampoo and conditioner, and a battered box of tampons. The colony on Elementa probably had those necessities, but she felt better having her own.

  The guy shrugged. “Times are hard. Take it or leave it.”

  She pressed her lips together, hating that he could get away with price gouging. “I don’t suppose you’d take a credit card?” As soon as she paid, Biggs would have a record she’d been here, but better he thought she visited a drugstore than a spaceport. Her cash would be needed for bribes.

  “Actually, I’d prefer it. We don’t keep a lot of cash. Since this mess started, we’ve been robbed four times.”

  He should talk about robbery! “How rude of them to try to take advantage.”

  His face tightened. “Are you gonna buy the stuff or not?”

  She shoved her card into the reader, releasing a silent sigh of relief when APPROVED popped up on the screen. No one had deactivated her account yet. She tucked the card back into her wallet.

  “Would you like a plastic bag?”

  “Yes.” She huffed.

  “That will be another five dollars.”

  That was the last straw. She shifted her gaze to the tampons then affected her best I’m-about-to-lose-it PMS glare. “Do you really want to fuck with me?”

  They glowered at each other across the counter for a long moment, and then he caved.

  “I guess I could throw one in for free.”

  He bagged the purchases; she grabbed the sack and stalked toward the exit.

  “Thank you for shopping at Drugs & More,” he called.

  “You’re welcome. You’re a real humanitarian.” She flipped him the bird as she stomped out.

  The sun had risen to top the buildings towering over a nearly deserted boulevard. She was swiping through her phone to call an Uber when a lone taxi came cruising down the street. She hailed it, and it swerved to the curb. Good luck? Or misfortune? Was he a cabbie or did he work for Biggs? A mere twenty minutes had passed since she’d left Bunker One, walked two blocks, and caught an Uber to Drugs & More.

  Could she trust this guy?

  I’m acting paranoid.

  It’s not paranoia if they are out to get you.

  She leaned into the front passenger-side window. He appeared to be thirty-fiveish. His hair brushed the neckband of his T-shirt, and scruff darkened his jaw. Not all of Biggs’ men wore suits. If you needed to make a hit look like a mugging, you didn’t send a guy in Armani.

  “Need a ride?” The cabbie’s wide, white grin revealed a twisted incisor. For some reason, the imperfection and the stud in his left earlobe reassured her.

  “To the spaceport. Can you tell me how much?” she asked to feel him out and ascertain if she could trust him. The fare didn’t matter. Whatever it cost, she had to pay it.

  “Seventy-five bucks give or take five.”

  “I’ll give you one fifty if you’
ll take me off meter.” If anyone tracked him down, his GPS would reveal he’d been to the spaceport, but it wouldn’t show as a fare on his meter. And since he was already here, there would be no record of her calling for a ride.

  “Hop in.”

  “Thank you.” She scrambled into the back seat.

  They drove in silence. She liked that he wasn’t chatty and didn’t ask any questions, but she ended up breaking the silence with an observation. “Traffic is light.” Few cars were on the street.

  “It’s been like this since the declaration of war. Everyone’s in hiding.”

  “Why aren’t you?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I have a feeling if the dragons attack, hiding in a basement isn’t going to save me. I figure I may as well try to earn a living until it happens. I’m an independent. I’d just bought my cab before the shit hit the fan. Now people are too afraid to come out. Your fare today? That amounts to four or five days’ wages for me. He peered at her in the rearview mirror. “You’re not going to stiff me, are you?”

  “No! I would never do that.” She admired him making the best of a bad situation. Trusting her gut he would deliver her to the spaceport with no shenanigans, she rolled the window down and tossed out her cell.

  “Was that your phone?” His shocked gaze met hers in the mirror.

  “Piece of crap. Doesn’t work.” She rolled up the window.

  His eyes widened. “Hey, you know who you look like? Helena Marshfield. The president’s daughter.”

  Shit.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot.” She twisted her mouth into a self-mocking grin. “It gets me great tables at restaurants.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll bet.”

  “Of course, with the situation being what it is, I imagine anybody could get a good table at a restaurant these days—if they’re open.”