Talon

I threw myself to the side as the dragon’s head shot forward, jaws snapping shut in the spot I had been. Quick as a snake, it whipped its neck around and lunged again, teeth that could shear through a telephone pole coming right at me. I avoided the six-inch fangs, but the massive horned head still crashed into my side, and even through the combat vest, pain erupted through my ribs. The ground fell away as the force hurled me into the air, the world spinning around me, and I rolled several paces when I struck the earth again. Clenching my jaw, I pushed myself to my elbows and looked up...

...into the crimson eyes of my enemy.

The dragon loomed overhead, dark and massive, its wings partially open to cast a huge shadow over the ground. I stared into its ancient, alien face, saw myself reflected in those cold red eyes that held no mercy, no pity or understanding—just raw hate and savage triumph. It took a breath, nostrils flaring, and I braced myself for the killing flames. There was no fear, no remorse. I was a soldier of St. George; to die honorably in battle against our oldest foe was all I could hope for.

A single shot rang out from somewhere in the jungle, the sharp retort echoing loudly even in the chaos. The dragon lurched sideways with a roar, a bright spray of blood erupting from its side as the armor-piercing .50-caliber sniper round struck behind its foreleg, straight into the heart. The precision perfect shot that Tristan St. Anthony was known for.

The blow knocked the dragon off its feet, and the ground shook as it finally collapsed. Wailing, it struggled to rise, clawing at the ground, wings and tail thrashing desperately. But it was dying, its struggles growing weaker even as the soldiers continued to pump it full of rounds. From where I lay, I watched its head hit the ground with a thump, watched its struggles grow weaker and weaker, until it was almost still. Only the faint, labored rise and fall of its ribs, and the frantic twitch of its tail, showed it was still clinging to life.

As it lay there, gasping, it suddenly rolled its eye back and looked at me, the slitted, bright red pupil staring up from the dirt. For a moment, we stared at each other, dragon and slayer, caught in an endless cycle of war and death.

I bowed my head, still keeping the dragon in my sights, and murmured, “In nomine Domini Sabaoth, sui filiiqui ite ad Infernos.” In the name of the Lord of Hosts and his son, depart to hell. An incantation taught to all soldiers, from when they believed dragons were demons and might possess you in a final attempt to remain in the world. I knew better. Dragons were flesh and blood; get past their scales and armor, and they died just like anything else. But they were also warriors, brave in their own way, and every warrior deserved a final send-off.

A low rumble came from the dying dragon. Its jaws opened, and a deep, inhuman voice emerged. “Do not think you have won, St. George,” it rasped, glaring at me in disdain. “I am but a single scale in the body of Talon. We will endure, as we always have, and we grow stronger even as your race destroys itself from within. You, and all your kind, will fall before us. Soon.”

Then the light behind the crimson orbs dimmed. The dragon’s lids closed, its head dropped to the ground and its whole body shuddered. With a final spasm, the wings stilled, the tail beating the earth ceased and the huge reptile went limp as it finally gave up its fight for life.

I collapsed to my back in the dirt as cheers rose around me. Soldiers emerged from the trees, shaking their weapons and letting out victory cries. Beyond the massive corpse, bodies from both sides lay scattered about the lawn, some stirring weakly, some charred to blackened husks. Flames still flickered through the trees, black columns of smoke billowing into the sky. The crumpled remains of the jeep smoldered in the middle of the field, a testament to the awesome power of the huge reptile.

The firefight with the guards had ceased. Now that their master was gone, the last of the enemy was fleeing into the jungle. No orders were given to track them down; we already had what we’d come for. In a few minutes, another crew would chopper in, clean up the debris, raze the hacienda and make all the bodies disappear. No one would ever know that a monstrous, fire-breathing creature of legend had died here this afternoon.

I looked at the lifeless dragon, crumpled in the dirt while the squads milled around its body and grinned and slapped one another on the back. A few soldiers approached the huge carcass, shaking their heads at the size, disgust and awe written on their faces. I stayed where I was. It was not the first dead dragon I’d seen, though it was the largest I’d ever fought. It would not be the last.

I wondered, very briefly, if there would ever be a “last.”

Dragons are evil; that was what every soldier of St. George was taught. They are demons. Wyrms of the devil. Their final goal is the enslavement of the human race, and we are the only ones standing between them and the ignorant.

While I wasn’t certain about the entire wyrms of the devil part, our enemy certainly was strong, cunning and savage. My own family had been murdered by a dragon when I was just a toddler. I’d been rescued by the Order and trained to take the fight back to the monsters that had slaughtered my parents and sister. For every dragon I killed, more human lives would be spared.

I’d fought enough battles, seen enough of what they could do, to know firsthand that they were ruthless. Merciless. Inhuman. Their power was vast, and they only got stronger with age. Thankfully, there weren’t many ancient dragons in the world anymore, or at least, most of our battles were against smaller, younger dragons. To take down this huge, powerful adult was an enormous victory for our side. I felt no remorse in killing the beast; this dragon was a central figure in the South American cartels, responsible for the deaths of thousands. The world was a better place with it gone. Maybe through my actions today, some little kid wouldn’t have to grow up an orphan, never knowing his family. It was the least I could do, and I did it gladly. I owed my family that much.

My ribs gave a sharp, painful throb, and I gritted my teeth. Now that the adrenaline had worn off and the fight was done, I turned my attention to my injury. My combat vest had absorbed a good bit of the damage, but judging from the pain in my side, the force of the blow had still cracked a rib or two.

“Well, that was amusing. If you ever get tired of the soldier life, you should consider a career as a dragon soccer ball. You flew nearly twenty feet on that last hit.”

I raised my head as a mound of weeds and moss melted out of the undergrowth and shuffled to my side. It carried a Barrett M107A1 .50-caliber sniper rifle in one shaggy limb, and the other reached up to tug back its hood, revealing a smirking, dark-haired soldier four years my senior, his eyes so blue they were almost black.

“You okay?” Tristan St. Anthony asked, crouching down beside me. His ghillie suit rustled as he shrugged out of it, setting it and the rifle carefully aside. “Anything broken?”

“No,” I gritted out, setting my jaw as pain stabbed through me. “I’m fine. Nothing serious, it’s just a cracked rib or two.” I breathed cautiously as the commander emerged from the trees and slowly made his way across the field. I watched him bark orders to the other squads, point at the dragon and the bodies scattered about, and I struggled carefully upright. The medic would be here in a few minutes, taking stock of the wounded, seeing who could be saved. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was seriously hurt, not when many other soldiers lay on the brink of death. The commander met my gaze over the carnage, gave a tiny nod of approval and continued on.

I glanced at Tristan. “Killing shot goes to you, then, doesn’t it? How big was the pot this time?”

“Three hundred. You’d think they’d figure it out by now.” Tristan didn’t bother hiding the smugness in his voice. He gave me an appraising look. “Though I guess I should give you a portion, since you were the one who set it up.”

“Don’t I always?” Tristan and I had been partners awhile now, ever since I’d turned fourteen and joined the real missions, three years ago. He’d lost his first partner to dragonfire, and hadn’t been pleased with the notion of “babysitting a kid,” despite the fact that, at the time, he was only eighteen himself. His tune had changed when, on our first assignment together, I’d saved him from an ambush, nearly gotten myself killed and managed to shoot the enemy before it could slaughter us both. Now, three years and dozens of battles later, I couldn’t imagine having someone else at my back. We’d saved each other’s lives so often, we’d both lost count.

“Still.” Tristan shifted to one knee, grinning wryly. “You’re my partner, you nearly got yourself eaten and you might’ve set a world record for distance in being head-butted by a dragon. You deserve something.” He nodded, then dug in his pocket and flourished a ten-dollar bill. “Here you go, partner. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

* * *

The long campaign was finally over.

And we’d survived.

Or some of us had. The lucky ones. Myself, Tristan and his fellow snipers, and Bravo—my squad—had come out mostly unscathed. However, there were numerous losses within the other squads, especially Alpha, the ones responsible for luring out the dragon. The casualties were high, but not unexpected. A strike that large was atypical for the Order; we were normally sent after dragons in teams, not a whole army. Because of the nature of the raid, the best soldiers from several Order chapterhouses had been pulled in to take out the dragon and its followers, Tristan and I included. The operation had required the full might of St. George, especially because we were dealing with the rare adult dragon, and the Order had taken no chances. We could not let the dragon escape and disappear into Talon. After the battle had been won, the army had dispersed, and we’d returned to our home bases to await further orders.

For Tristan and I, that meant returning to the States and St. George’s western chapterhouse, a lonely outpost deep in the Mohave Desert near the Arizona/Utah state line. The Order had several chapters set up in England, the United States and a few other countries, but this was home for me and my teammates. Those who had fallen in South America were given a hero’s burial and laid within our barren, sprawling cemetery, their graves marked with a simple white cross. They had no family to attend their funeral, no relatives to lay flowers at their grave. No one except their commanders and brothers-in-arms would see them laid to rest.

The ceremony was simple, as it always was. I’d attended many funerals before, watched soldiers I’d known for years buried in neat ranks through the sand. It was a constant reminder and an accepted fact among the soldiers—this was what awaited us at the end of the road. After the ceremony, we returned to the barracks, several cots emptier now, and life in the St. George chapterhouse continued as it always did.

About a week after the raid on the hacienda, Tristan and I were called into Lieutenant Martin’s office.

“At ease, boys.” Martin waved to a couple of chairs in front of his desk, and we took a seat obediently, myself moving a little stiffly as my ribs were wrapped and still tender. Gabriel Martin was a stocky man with brown hair graying at the temples and sharp black eyes that could be amused or icy cold, depending on his mood. His office was standard for most Order chapterhouses, small and sparse, as the Order didn’t believe in extravagance. But Martin had a red dragon hide hanging on the wall behind his desk, his first kill, and the hilt of his ceremonial sword was polished dragon bone. He nodded at us as he sat behind his desk, his lined mouth curved in a faint, rare smile.

“Tristan St. Anthony and Garret Xavier Sebastian. Your names are making quite the rounds among the men lately. First off, I want to congratulate you both on another successful mission. I understand the killing shot went to you, St. Anthony. And, Sebastian, I watched you lead the beast away from your squad. And survive. You’re both among the best we have, and the Order is lucky to have you.”

“Thank you, sir,” we both said at roughly the same time. The lieutenant studied us for a moment, steepling his fingers together, then lowering them with a sigh.

“Because of this,” he went on, “the Order wishes to send you on another mission, one slightly different than what you’ve been used to so far. You are both exceptional in the field—we hope you will do as well in a more...delicate environment.”

“Sir?” Tristan asked, furrowing his brow.

Martin smiled grimly. “Our intelligence has informed us of possible Talon activity taking place in Southern California,” he said, eyeing us each in turn. “We believe they are using this spot to plant dragon sleepers into the population. As you know, sleepers are insidious because they appear completely human, and Talon has trained them to assimilate to their surroundings. Of course, we cannot simply march in and take out a suspect without proof that it is a dragon. The consequences for such actions would be dire, and the secrecy of the Order must be maintained at all costs. But you both know this.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied when he looked at me. He waited a moment, and I added, “What would you have us do, sir?”

Martin leaned back, rubbing his chin. “We have done extensive research around the area,” he went on, “and we believe that a new sleeper will be implanted there soon. We have even narrowed it down to the town, a place called Crescent Beach.” His gaze sharpened. “More important,” he went on, “we have reason to believe that this sleeper will be female.”

Tristan and I straightened. Destroying all dragons was the Order’s holy mission, but the females of the breed took top priority. If we could take out a female—a dragonell—that meant fewer eggs would be laid, and fewer dragons would be hatched each year. Talon jealously guarded their dragonells; there were rumors that most of Talon’s female population was kept locked away for breeding purposes and never saw the outside world. To find one away from the organization was a rare, golden opportunity. Killing it would be a huge blow to our enemies, and another step in winning the war.

“Yes,” Martin said, noting our reactions. “So you both know how crucial this is. Talon’s sleepers begin their assimilation in the summer, observing, blending in and making contacts for the organization. You will both go undercover and be on the lookout for any dragon activity, but, Sebastian, we want you to get in close and flush the sleeper into the open.”

I blinked. “Me?” I asked, and Martin nodded. Tristan sat up straighter; even he seemed stunned. Go undercover? I thought. To a normal town, with civilians? How? I know nothing about...that. Being normal. “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

“Granted.”

“Sir, why me? Surely there are others more qualified for this kind of work. I’m not a spy. I’m just a soldier.”

“You’re one of our best,” Martin insisted quietly. “Killed your first dragon at fourteen, led a successful raid on a nest at sixteen, more kills under your belt than anyone your age. I’ve heard what the others have been calling you lately—the Perfect Soldier. It fits. But there is another reason we chose you. How old are you now, Sebastian?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“Most of our soldiers are too old to pass for a teen in high school. That, or they’re not experienced enough. We need someone who will fit in with a group of adolescents, someone they will not suspect.” Martin leaned forward again, regarding me intently. “No, when the captain asked who was the best to send for this job, even though I’d rather keep you both in the field, I recommended you and St. Anthony.” His hard black eyes narrowed. “I know you won’t disappoint me, or the Order. Will you, soldiers?”

“No, sir,” Tristan and I answered together. Martin nodded, then picked up a thick manila file and regarded us over the edge. Briskly, he tapped it against the surface of the desk three times, then held it up.

“Everything you need to know is in here,” he said, handing me the folder across the desk. I took it and flipped it open to reveal fake birth certificates, social security cards and driver’s licenses on the first page. “You have seventy-two hours to memorize everything in that file, and come up with a plan for exposing the sleeper. When you find it, take it out. Call in reinforcements if you have to, but make sure it does not escape.”