Battle Bond: An Urban Fantasy Dragon Series (Death Before Dragons #2) - Lindsay Buroker Page 0,70

never met one that was a killer and deserved a death sentence. In short, I’d never been sent out after one.

I tapped my translation charm and willed it to activate.

“They got Teenah. We have to help.”

“How?”

“Go pick her up and get her out of here.”

“They’re shooting all over the place over there.”

More gunshots erupted from the truck beds.

“Get ’em, get ’em!” one of the drivers urged, yelling through the open slider window to his gun-happy buddies.

Two of the men leaped out and ran into the woods. What were they going to do? Cut off the goblin’s head and mount it above a fireplace?

I pulled out Fezzik, visions of stalking down the road and opening fire on them filling my head. More sane visions of staying in the trees and shooting out their tires from behind cover replaced them.

I ran parallel to the road, leaping brush and logs, landing as lightly as I could, not that they’d hear me over their yammering and shooting. Once I was close enough, I found a stout red cedar to hide behind and leaned out. Though I was tempted to randomly rain fire on their trucks—and maybe sink a few bullets into their asses—I calmly and methodically aimed for their tires.

Still firing their own weapons, it took them a minute to even realize they were being shot at.

“Shit,” one of the drivers called out the back. “One of you jackasses hit my tire.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I’m losing tire pressure.” The driver pointed to some warning indicator on the console.

“You probably ran over some glass.”

“My tires are losing pressure too,” the driver in the second truck hollered.

Man, these guys were geniuses.

“It’s the goblins,” one of the men in the bed said. “They must be shooting back at us.”

“You said they wouldn’t have guns!” All of the men in the truck beds dropped to their bellies, only their heads and rifles visible over the sides as they fired into the woods again.

My senses told me that the goblins had managed to get their comrade and were carrying her out of the area, but the idea that these guys had come out here to hunt prey that couldn’t fight back—intelligent prey, not animals for the dinner table—pissed me off.

I fired again, this time aiming for their rifles. My shots knocked two guns out of their hands before the rest of the men spun in my direction.

“Over there!”

They finally returned fire in the right direction. I ducked behind the tree and touched my charm to call Sindari. Their bullets flew all over the place. None of them had seen me or knew exactly where I was.

You’re supposed to summon me before you enter into a firefight, Sindari said as he finished forming, the silver mist fading.

Is that how it works? I do struggle with order-of-operations problems.

You must have been a pox to your mathematics instructors. Shall I go rip off the legs of the men firing vaguely in our direction?

As tempting as that is, I doubt the police would appreciate it if we mutilated poachers in the woods. Especially goblin poachers. As far as I knew, it wasn’t a crime to shoot magical beings, since the government didn’t acknowledge they existed or give them rights. I thought of my mother pointing out that this kind of thing wasn’t uncommon down in Oregon. Maybe it wasn’t here, either. I just hadn’t known because I lived in the city. But do me a favor and scare them, will you?

Gladly.

Bonus points if they wet themselves.

I’ll give them my special roar.

I knew you knew your roar could elicit that response.

Sindari grinned back at me, inasmuch as tigers could grin, as he bounded toward the road.

His innate stealth kept the gunmen from seeing him until he sprang into the bed of one of the trucks, knocking men and their rifles over the side. He must have kept his claws retracted, because nobody screamed when he struck them with his powerful limbs, but the men did shriek and yell at the drivers to get them the hell out of there.

I trotted out as the trucks rumbled down the road, the poachers who’d been knocked out running after them. Sindari sprang from the roof of one truck to the bed of the next, knocking over more people. They couldn’t shoot at him without risking hitting each other, though that didn’t keep a few from trying. They weren’t even close to fast enough to graze Sindari with a bullet.

I could have shot out more of their tires—the ones I’d