Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(67)
Zane nodded. “As long as that place is within a hundred yards of my dragyra, I’m fine.”
Levi started to object, and Axe reached out a hand to dissuade him. “Works for me,” he said, “but you know the routine: We need to have a plan—quick, in and out—wait for the cover of darkness, and minimize human involvement—as well as fatalities—as much as possible.” He turned his attention to Levi and Zane. “I don’t suppose one of you had a chance to read the humans’ souls? The SWAT team?”
Levi nodded. “I didn’t catch the guy in the suit…Dan…but the team, there was nothing discernably foul.” He hesitated. “Although…one of the hot-heads beats his wife.”
Jace frowned. “That’s cause enough for me.”
Axe grunted. “Look, we’re talking about Zane’s dragyra here—five days out from the temple. The dragon lords will understand if there isn’t a soul left standing. Just the same, let’s do what we came to do—bring Jordan home and try to minimize the fallout. Are we all in agreement: this waits until nightfall?”
Again, the group stood silent, turning their collective attention to Zane.
Zanaikeyros inclined his head. “Yeah…whatever…bring on the fucking moon.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Later that night, just before sundown, Jordan huddled beneath the soft cotton blanket Dan had given her and clutched the mug of hot chamomile tea in her hands, grateful for his kindness and hospitality.
So far, so good.
Nothing had happened.
She sipped her tea, glanced around the underground bunker, and shivered. It was truly a sight to behold: The entrance was framed by a five-inch-thick, solid steel door, with a ten-gauge outer panel and a twelve-gauge inner plate. There was a biometric lock on the outside of the hatch, next to a five-spoked, polished handle; and there were twenty-two-bolts, spanning all three sides, keeping the door in place. To quote one of the members of the SWAT team, who had long since gone home, along with the van’s unnamed driver, not even King Kong was getting through that door.
Inside the narrow chamber, the judge had everything a person could need to sustain a protracted stay: bunkbeds lined with fresh, clean linens; a galley-style kitchen, heavily stocked with canned goods; and even a miniature bathroom, with a stand-up shower and a tiny commode.
For all intents and purposes, Jordan and Dan were sequestered inside a small, slender apartment, fortified like Fort Knox, and they even had a flat-screen television to watch and a small leather couch to sit on.
So why was she still so jittery?
And why did her heart hurt so much?
“Feeling any better?” Dan asked, seeming to read her mind.
Jordan shrugged. There was no real way to answer that question—correction; there was no honest way to reply. So far, she had managed to evade most of his cross-examination, at least those questions that would expose Zane as a dragon—a dragyri—and The Pantheon as his home. There was just no way Dan would buy it, and if she told him the truth—the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—he would think she had gone insane. And instead of hiding out inside a comfortable basement bunker, she might find herself locked up in a padded room.
But there was more than that going on, something Jordan could not explain: She still felt disloyal—disjointed—like she was somehow dishonoring Zane.
And none of it made any sense.
So she’d danced around the root of the subject for the last six hours, pirouetting like a ballerina on a backlit stage, giving Dan halfhearted answers, outright lies, and clever, nonsensical diversions—partly for herself, and partly…for Zane.
“He’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen…”
That hadn’t gone over so well.
“He’s connected to a virtual empire of…criminals…”
What the hell did that even mean?
“And he has access to resources beyond your imagining…”
Yeah: fire, telekinesis, and wings.
“Taking him on would be like taking on an army, a foreign government, or the head of the mob…”
Ever tried to wrestle a seventy-pound python with one hand tied behind your back and one foot chopped off?
There had been so very little she could reveal.
Needless to say, Dan had grown increasingly frustrated, and Jordan had grown increasingly withdrawn.
“But why couldn’t you get away?” he’d repeated. “Why didn’t you call someone? Don’t you think we could have arrested him, stopped him? Wouldn’t that have been the safer play? What are you still so afraid of, Jordan? You’re sitting in a vault.”
Although playing dumb was not Jordan’s strong suit, she had met each question with a small variation of the same explanation, coupled with an exasperated sigh: “It’s impossible to explain. I just can’t explain it. I’m sorry—I wish I could explain…”
And eventually, as she’d hoped, Dan had stopped asking the difficult questions.
He had also sent the SWAT team and the driver home, replacing them with a private guard of seven highly skilled—and heavily armed—men. He believed the private security team, along with the judge’s state-of-the-art security system, would be more than enough to keep them safe…just so long as they remained in the bunker.