Dragon Attack sample
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CHAPTER SIX – Deep Cover Operative
SPECIAL Agent Scott H. Davidson lounged on a battered recliner in the center of the meadow, wearing nothing but cargo shorts, sandals, and sunglasses. Several minotaurs—men, women, and children—worked and played in the area. They avoided looking at him.
He smiled at the sky and lifted a cold beer. The weather in Blue Point was ten degrees below miserable, but here the weather was mild, though it had rained for a couple of weeks. He enjoyed the warmth of the midday sun on his skin, because the weather wouldn’t hold. This place was no vacation resort. If he could retire and visit the beaches of his world, he would never show certain tattoos in public.
Davidson considered touring the maze’s central meadow naked, but was sure the minotaurs would object. The modest creatures thought his cargo shorts scandalous.
Shocking! Newsflash: half dressed man cavorts among monsters.
Minotaurs cherished open space, especially when sheltering in their stronghold, a maze that had taken Davidson a year to master. He learned their customs, language, and history. He understood minotaurs considered shirts optional, but always wore the split kilts of their ancestors. Cargo shorts were like lingerie to them; though he was fairly certain they wore nothing under the kilts.
A large warrior approached empty handed, walking with the peculiar gate of a humanoid with hooves and inhuman legs. No one carried weapons this far into the defensive labyrinth.
“Good afternoon, Half-ton,” Davidson said. “Beer?”
“Are you enjoying the sun?” Half-ton’s tone held no malice. He seemed to like Davidson. Minotaurs were terrifyingly violent when angered, but day to day, they lived like a large family removed from technology.
“I’m enjoying my freedom.”
Half-ton nodded, took a beer from the cooler, and clinked bottles with Davidson.
Beer wasn’t easy to come by in Kior-fel. He brewed it whenever he could find hops. Davidson sipped from the bottleneck, savoring every drop.
Half-ton worked his bull lips around the bottle and finally tipped the neck into his mouth. He started laughing with Davidson as he lowered the bottle empty. “I am making a spectacle.”
Davidson finished his beer, remembering how his first words to Half-ton had been, “I come to spectacle myself before the rabbits.”
“I’m glad you have a sense of humor,” Davidson said.
Half-ton nodded as he chuckled, the baritone sound rumbling pleasantly.
Davidson dropped another of their inside jokes in the minotaur language. “I come to you with no balls. Please feed me the cheese of your mothers.”
Uproarious laughter burst from Half-ton. He caught his breath, but was overwhelmed a second attack of minotaur mirth.
Davidson smiled and joined in, enjoying warmth in his soul.
This dude is the best friend I ever had.
“We need help with the Jeep,” Half-ton said, catching his breath.
“Transmission?”
Half-ton nodded.
Davidson hadn’t brought modern vehicles or even the idea of modern vehicles to Kior-fel, but someone had. When he arrived, the only thing that saved his life was his ability to work on one broken down Army Jeep that fascinated every member of Half-ton’s clan. Once he established trust among Half-ton’s people, he learned the Jeep had belonged to Joshua Prim, but they didn’t know where he was or if he still lived. Half-ton’s current project was to build a customized Jeep using local materials.
The minotaurs wanted more legroom.
Davidson sat up. Blood rushed to his head. He had downed a few more beers than he realized. “I’ll take a look at it, but my specialty is motorcycles.”
“Yes, you have told many stories. I don’t think we could ride them. Hard to shift without toes.”
Davidson took a moment to understand. He had never heard the word for toes, which made sense, since minotaurs didn’t spend much time describing human appendages. The exact translation worked out to ‘chubby round things’.
From across the meadow, a teenage minotaur launched a football at Davidson. He jumped high, caught it with one hand, and tucked it close to his body when he came down. He had introduced footballs. He hadn’t convinced them the rules of the game made sense, but it was a goal he held dearly. Minotaurs were fast once they started moving and couldn’t be stopped. Probably no room for them in the NFL. Hooves would tear the hell out of Astroturf.
“Our patrols tracked the Dragonborn to the Qass. They are beyond our reach,” Half-ton said.
“Really? That sucks.” Davidson had a job to do, but this gig sure felt like a vacation right now. He had given the Bureau a lot. Seven deep-cover assignments in three years, always rush jobs with low chances of survival. He had prison tattoos that didn’t match the theme he developed while working biker gangs. Compromising his design pissed him off more than the broken bones and concussions he suffered in the prison yard.
Now, amid the near perfect blend of Star Wars and Viking themes were the words “Prison Enforcer.” The title had been hard to come by, and he wasn’t sure he would be cleared of the murders he committed. Those days had been the darkest of his career. He had thought the Bureau abandoned him.
That xxxx prison had been hell. Nothing compared to the things he’d done, not even his time in the Army doing black ops. No one trained him to hide a sharpened toothbrush up his ass so he could shank a snitch, but he figured it out.
“Stop scowling,” Half-ton said. “You scare the children,”
Davidson looked at Half-ton, then the children. He laughed.
“That’s a good one, Half-ton. Your babies could probably bench press me with one hand.”
“A good one,” Half-ton said, smiling.
Davidson threw the term ‘a good one’ around generously, but the minotaurs considered it high praise, strange and exotic.
Half-ton led the way through the maze to the workshop, and Davidson spent several hours toiling under the Jeep.
“We have heard disturbing rumors,” Half-ton said.
Davidson slid out from under the Jeep and sat up. Half-ton handed him a shop towel and a beer.
“Thanks.” Davidson wiped his face and took a drink.
“Minotaurs in the Red Lands believe the Darklord will be overthrown,” Half-ton said. “They have a spy of some sort inside the walls of the fortress. This Darklord has ruled the Qass for a long time. Other Darklords have tried to invade our lands and destroy us, because we can resist the Black Crown’s magic. A new Darklord concerns us.”
“Any idea who the usurper might be?”
Half-ton stared out of the workshop at the mountains around them. “I believe it will be Isegurad.”
“Trav-ass Ice-gu-rad? Great,” Davidson said. He stood and tossed the shop towel aside.
Half-ton frowned. “What is wrong?”
“Vacation’s over.”
“Will you help us with the sorcerer?” Half-ton asked. “We have done everything we can to find Joshua, but he disappeared—”
“Travass is more important than Joshua Prim. We have his son as a backup plan.”
“We have always been enemies of Travass,” Half-ton said. “The patrols saw him with three Dragonborn several weeks ago—mean, stupid creatures. Some believe he seeks to control a dragon as well.”
“He has been traveling back and forth between our worlds. I’ll need you and a company of your warriors to travel with me across the Rift.”
Davidson didn’t want to think of Travass and dragons. Dragons were the Armageddon scenario that no one at headquarters wanted to think about. The CIA claimed they had located hundreds of the sleeping monsters. Of course, they also claimed that Clier and all the lands in it, especially Kior-fel were Agency jurisdiction. Davidson had nothing against the CIA. He knew half the deep field operatives well, but he wasn’t being pulled from this mission. Not after everything he had endured.
“I will take you,” Half-ton said.
“This is game time.”
Half-ton shook his head. “No army. War between worlds ends badly. I will ask for volunteers to fill the Jeep.”
Davidson glared at him. When it was clear the minotaur chieftain wouldn’t change his mind, Davidson crawled under the Jeep again.
“I thought that might motivate you to try harder, Chubby Toes.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Davidson spoke from under the Jeep. “I only wish we could travel the same portal to Blue Point. I don’t like the idea of you getting lost in downtown traffic.”
SPECIAL Agent Scott H. Davidson lounged on a battered recliner in the center of the meadow, wearing nothing but cargo shorts, sandals, and sunglasses. Several minotaurs—men, women, and children—worked and played in the area. They avoided looking at him.
He smiled at the sky and lifted a cold beer. The weather in Blue Point was ten degrees below miserable, but here the weather was mild, though it had rained for a couple of weeks. He enjoyed the warmth of the midday sun on his skin, because the weather wouldn’t hold. This place was no vacation resort. If he could retire and visit the beaches of his world, he would never show certain tattoos in public.
Davidson considered touring the maze’s central meadow naked, but was sure the minotaurs would object. The modest creatures thought his cargo shorts scandalous.
Shocking! Newsflash: half dressed man cavorts among monsters.
Minotaurs cherished open space, especially when sheltering in their stronghold, a maze that had taken Davidson a year to master. He learned their customs, language, and history. He understood minotaurs considered shirts optional, but always wore the split kilts of their ancestors. Cargo shorts were like lingerie to them; though he was fairly certain they wore nothing under the kilts.
A large warrior approached empty handed, walking with the peculiar gate of a humanoid with hooves and inhuman legs. No one carried weapons this far into the defensive labyrinth.
“Good afternoon, Half-ton,” Davidson said. “Beer?”
“Are you enjoying the sun?” Half-ton’s tone held no malice. He seemed to like Davidson. Minotaurs were terrifyingly violent when angered, but day to day, they lived like a large family removed from technology.
“I’m enjoying my freedom.”
Half-ton nodded, took a beer from the cooler, and clinked bottles with Davidson.
Beer wasn’t easy to come by in Kior-fel. He brewed it whenever he could find hops. Davidson sipped from the bottleneck, savoring every drop.
Half-ton worked his bull lips around the bottle and finally tipped the neck into his mouth. He started laughing with Davidson as he lowered the bottle empty. “I am making a spectacle.”
Davidson finished his beer, remembering how his first words to Half-ton had been, “I come to spectacle myself before the rabbits.”
“I’m glad you have a sense of humor,” Davidson said.
Half-ton nodded as he chuckled, the baritone sound rumbling pleasantly.
Davidson dropped another of their inside jokes in the minotaur language. “I come to you with no balls. Please feed me the cheese of your mothers.”
Uproarious laughter burst from Half-ton. He caught his breath, but was overwhelmed a second attack of minotaur mirth.
Davidson smiled and joined in, enjoying warmth in his soul.
This dude is the best friend I ever had.
“We need help with the Jeep,” Half-ton said, catching his breath.
“Transmission?”
Half-ton nodded.
Davidson hadn’t brought modern vehicles or even the idea of modern vehicles to Kior-fel, but someone had. When he arrived, the only thing that saved his life was his ability to work on one broken down Army Jeep that fascinated every member of Half-ton’s clan. Once he established trust among Half-ton’s people, he learned the Jeep had belonged to Joshua Prim, but they didn’t know where he was or if he still lived. Half-ton’s current project was to build a customized Jeep using local materials.
The minotaurs wanted more legroom.
Davidson sat up. Blood rushed to his head. He had downed a few more beers than he realized. “I’ll take a look at it, but my specialty is motorcycles.”
“Yes, you have told many stories. I don’t think we could ride them. Hard to shift without toes.”
Davidson took a moment to understand. He had never heard the word for toes, which made sense, since minotaurs didn’t spend much time describing human appendages. The exact translation worked out to ‘chubby round things’.
From across the meadow, a teenage minotaur launched a football at Davidson. He jumped high, caught it with one hand, and tucked it close to his body when he came down. He had introduced footballs. He hadn’t convinced them the rules of the game made sense, but it was a goal he held dearly. Minotaurs were fast once they started moving and couldn’t be stopped. Probably no room for them in the NFL. Hooves would tear the hell out of Astroturf.
“Our patrols tracked the Dragonborn to the Qass. They are beyond our reach,” Half-ton said.
“Really? That sucks.” Davidson had a job to do, but this gig sure felt like a vacation right now. He had given the Bureau a lot. Seven deep-cover assignments in three years, always rush jobs with low chances of survival. He had prison tattoos that didn’t match the theme he developed while working biker gangs. Compromising his design pissed him off more than the broken bones and concussions he suffered in the prison yard.
Now, amid the near perfect blend of Star Wars and Viking themes were the words “Prison Enforcer.” The title had been hard to come by, and he wasn’t sure he would be cleared of the murders he committed. Those days had been the darkest of his career. He had thought the Bureau abandoned him.
That xxxx prison had been hell. Nothing compared to the things he’d done, not even his time in the Army doing black ops. No one trained him to hide a sharpened toothbrush up his ass so he could shank a snitch, but he figured it out.
“Stop scowling,” Half-ton said. “You scare the children,”
Davidson looked at Half-ton, then the children. He laughed.
“That’s a good one, Half-ton. Your babies could probably bench press me with one hand.”
“A good one,” Half-ton said, smiling.
Davidson threw the term ‘a good one’ around generously, but the minotaurs considered it high praise, strange and exotic.
Half-ton led the way through the maze to the workshop, and Davidson spent several hours toiling under the Jeep.
“We have heard disturbing rumors,” Half-ton said.
Davidson slid out from under the Jeep and sat up. Half-ton handed him a shop towel and a beer.
“Thanks.” Davidson wiped his face and took a drink.
“Minotaurs in the Red Lands believe the Darklord will be overthrown,” Half-ton said. “They have a spy of some sort inside the walls of the fortress. This Darklord has ruled the Qass for a long time. Other Darklords have tried to invade our lands and destroy us, because we can resist the Black Crown’s magic. A new Darklord concerns us.”
“Any idea who the usurper might be?”
Half-ton stared out of the workshop at the mountains around them. “I believe it will be Isegurad.”
“Trav-ass Ice-gu-rad? Great,” Davidson said. He stood and tossed the shop towel aside.
Half-ton frowned. “What is wrong?”
“Vacation’s over.”
“Will you help us with the sorcerer?” Half-ton asked. “We have done everything we can to find Joshua, but he disappeared—”
“Travass is more important than Joshua Prim. We have his son as a backup plan.”
“We have always been enemies of Travass,” Half-ton said. “The patrols saw him with three Dragonborn several weeks ago—mean, stupid creatures. Some believe he seeks to control a dragon as well.”
“He has been traveling back and forth between our worlds. I’ll need you and a company of your warriors to travel with me across the Rift.”
Davidson didn’t want to think of Travass and dragons. Dragons were the Armageddon scenario that no one at headquarters wanted to think about. The CIA claimed they had located hundreds of the sleeping monsters. Of course, they also claimed that Clier and all the lands in it, especially Kior-fel were Agency jurisdiction. Davidson had nothing against the CIA. He knew half the deep field operatives well, but he wasn’t being pulled from this mission. Not after everything he had endured.
“I will take you,” Half-ton said.
“This is game time.”
Half-ton shook his head. “No army. War between worlds ends badly. I will ask for volunteers to fill the Jeep.”
Davidson glared at him. When it was clear the minotaur chieftain wouldn’t change his mind, Davidson crawled under the Jeep again.
“I thought that might motivate you to try harder, Chubby Toes.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Davidson spoke from under the Jeep. “I only wish we could travel the same portal to Blue Point. I don’t like the idea of you getting lost in downtown traffic.”
