He grabbed my hand, the rich scent of chocolate still lingering on his fingers, and we headed back through the ruins, one miracle lighter, but somehow, impossibly, heavier with hope.
Berlin — July 10, 1948, Saturday
Four days.Four miserable, restless, engine-screaming days. Four days of flying, eating whatever passed for food in the mess, pretending to sleep, and doing everything in my powernotto think about her.
Didn't matter. She was under my skin like shrapnel.
I didn't know why. Hell, I didn't even know what tocallthe thing clawing at me. I'd landed in burning cities, I'd lost half the people I cared about, I'd watched my own hands do things I still woke up sweating from, but this?
This was unbearable.
Maybe it was her absence. Maybe my mind had polished her until she gleamed 'because I hadn't seen her again. Maybe my dragon had decided she belonged to him, and my human half was just along for the ride. Or maybe I was simply losing my goddamn mind.
I hadn't even made it off the tarmac when I saw him—the man in the gray suit. No one wore suits in Berlin unless they wanted to bake, freeze, or get shot. This one looked like he didn't care which.
He stepped out from behind the hangar like he'd been waiting for me.
A shadow that decided to walk. "Captain Griffin?"
I didn't slow. "You need something?"
"Just a moment of your time." His voice was rich American with a Southern accent. He fell into step beside me, hands in his pockets, like we were out for a casual stroll instead of walking through the most heavily contested airfield on earth.
"I'm with Special Activities," he said softly. "You can think of us as… observers."
I snorted, pretending not to know that he was a spook. That he worked for a new organization called Central Intelligence Agency. Not many people knew about it yet but I had my sources. "That supposed to mean something to me?"
"It will." He cut me a sideways glance. "Tell me about the incident."
My stomach went cold.
"What incident?" I asked, keeping my voice bored, lazy, even though my pulse had started a low, furious throb.
The man smiled. Not kindly. "Good. Colonel Jamison said you were smart."
Jamison.
So this wasn't a trap. It was worse: it was sanctioned.
I crossed my arms. "If Jamison told you anything, then you already know there's nothing to report."
"Nothing," the agent repeated. "A damaged plane. Bullet-like punctures. Two pilots who swear they saw nothing unusual."
I gave him my best cold stare. "That's right."
A standoff stretched between us, hot air shimmering on the tarmac, men shouting in the distance, propellers whining. The agent didn't blink.
Finally, he exhaled. "Okay. Fine. I'll be the one to talk."
He glanced around—habit, not fear—then continued in a low voice. "The Russians want Berlin. Badly. They're probing every weakness we have. Air corridors. Supply lines. Morale. If they can push us into firing the first shot, they win. If they can make us blink, they win. If they canaccidentallydown a plane and make it look like our fault…"
His eyes settled on me. "That's how world wars start."
Heat prickled at the back of my neck. "Jamison said the same thing."
"Jamison says what he's allowed to." The agent leaned in. "I'm telling you what he isn't."
The dragon surged under my ribs. Not in anger, just an instinctive reaction to danger and threats. My vision sharpened until I could see every bead of sweat on the man's temple.
