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