“Well, that was amusing. If you ever get tired of the soldier life, you should consider a career as a dragon soccer ball. You flew nearly twenty feet on that last hit.”

I raised my head as a mound of weeds and moss melted out of the undergrowth and shuffled to my side. It carried a Barrett M107A1

.50 caliber sniper rifle in one shaggy limb, and the other reached up to tug back its hood, revealing a smirking, dark-haired soldier four years my senior, his eyes so blue they were almost black.

“You okay?” Tristan St. Anthony asked, crouching down beside me. His ghillie suit rustled as he shrugged out of it, setting it and the rifle carefully aside. “Anything broken?”

“No,” I gritted out, setting my jaw as pain stabbed through me. “I’m fine. Nothing serious, it’s just a cracked rib or two.” I breathed cautiously as the commander emerged from the trees and slowly made his way across the field. I watched him bark orders to the other squads, point at the dragon and the bodies scattered about, and I struggled carefully upright. The medic would be here 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 tendollar 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 his 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.”