The security guy’s head whips around. He sucks in a breath.
Then he’s rushing in that direction, his weapon raised. His boots pound against the debris-strewn floor as he moves away from me.
“Got you now,” he mutters.
Good!
Relief floods through me, but I don’t waste time celebrating. I slide out from under the desk as quietly as I can, my twisted ankle protesting, but it isn’t as bad as it was before. I don’t think I hurt it too badly.
I scan the room quickly, looking for something I can use as a weapon. My eyes land on a pile of debris swept into the corner near what used to be the waiting area. Among the shattered drywall, broken ceiling tiles, and twisted metal brackets is a broken piece of wood. It looks like it may have formed part of the wall and is about two feet long. One end is jagged and splintered where it snapped. The other end is solid.
Perfect.
I go over to it as fast as I can, then I grab the makeshift club, testing its weight. It’s heavier than I expected, but I can manage.
Above me, the dragon battle continues. There’s a screech that makes my teeth ache.
Footsteps echo from the treatment room area. The guard is coming back.
I position myself to the side of the door, my back pressed against the wall. My palms are slick with sweat around the wooden beam. My heart is in my throat.
The guard steps through, his rifle sweeping the room.
“Where are you?” he calls out, irritation creeping into his formerly calm voice. “I’m losing my patience here.”
He takes another step forward, and I swing the beam with everything I have. Every ounce of fear and rage and desperation goes into that strike.
The wood connects with the side of his head with a sickening crack.
His gun goes off, the shots deafening in the enclosed space. The bullets go wild.
Just then, several guards run in, and two of the three take bullets before they can react. They go down in a heap, one clutching his leg, the other his shoulder.
The third guard opens fire on me.
I dive to the side, my body slamming into the floor behind what’s left of the reception desk. The bullets tear through the space where I was standing just a heartbeat before. Chunks of drywall explode. The desk splinters.
Pain lances up my side where I landed.
I crawl forward, trying to put more distance between myself and the shooter. My breath comes in harsh gasps. My vision swims.
The guard advances toward me. His gaze is locked on me. He’s not rushing. He knows he has me trapped.
He lifts his weapon, taking aim.
This is it.
I close my eyes.
The ceiling above us caves in completely, and suddenly, there’s a dragon where the guard was standing just moments before.
“Grim,” I gasp.
His dragon’s head swivels toward me, those slitted eyes locking onto mine.
He reaches for me, his talon closing around my torso. Then he’s lifting me, pulling me against his chest as he prepares to take off.
“Wait!” I shout. “Stop! I need to get my phone.”
