A little daunted now, I hurried down another corridor, attempting to put as much distance between me and the six highly trained soldiers as I could.

Some time later I crouch ed, exhausted, behind a stack of pallets, my sides heaving from the last little scuffle. I’d been running from the soldiers for what seemed like hours, and they always seemed one step ahead of me. I’d slip away from one only to be shot by another hiding atop the crates overhead. I’d enter a corridor to find it blocked by two soldiers, and when I turned to run, two more would appear behind me, boxing me in. I was almost completely covered in paint;

it seeped between my scales and dripped to the floor when I moved, looking very much like blood. And each time I was hit, my trainer’s bored, smug voice would crackle in my ear, taunting me, telling me I had failed again, that I was dead.

I had no idea how much time had passed from the last time I’d been shot. Minutes? Hours? I didn’t think it mattered, not with my sadistic instructor keeping track. Curling my tail around myself, I huddled in the dark corner, breathing as quietly as I could and hoping that maybe the “hide and hope they don’t notice you” method would allow me to survive long enough to get out of here.

A small oval object sailed over the stack of crates, hit the wall, and bounced toward me with a clink. I hissed and shot out of the corner before it could go off. Most of the projectiles lobbed at me had been smoke grenades, which, while I didn’t have to worry about things like smoke inhalation, made it very difficult to see in the tight corridors.

Death by paint usually followed as I thrashed around in confusion.

But the last grenade had exploded in a blinding burst of light, and the soldiers had pumped me full of rounds as I’d stood there, stunned.

Not going through that again, thanks.

I darted for another shadowy corner and ran into a bullet storm.

The bastards were lying in wait right outside my hiding spot, and had trapped me inside a funnel of death. Cringing, I closed my eyes and hunkered down as I was bathed in red paint, again.

“Pathetic,” sighed a familiar, hated voice when the ambush was done and the soldiers had slipped back into the maze. “Let us pray that you are not ever hunted by the real soldiers of St. George, because your head would be mounted over their fireplace in no time.

Two minutes!”

Anger blazed, and my fraying temper finally snapped. With a snarl, I turned and lashed out at a pile of crates, ripping a huge chunk of wood from the boxes with my claws.

All right, enough was enough! Why should I be the hunted? I was a freaking dragon. The apex predator, according to Talon. If survival meant not getting shot at all costs, maybe I should be the one doing the hunting.

I crouched, then leaped atop one of the crate piles, landing as quietly as I could. The labyrinth of crates spread out before me, looking much different from up top. All right, you bastards, I thought, lowering myself into a stalking position, my belly scales nearly brushing the crates . We’re changing the rules a bit. This time, I’m coming for you.

I prowled along the top of the maze, keeping my body low and straight and my wings pressed to my back, all senses attuned for the sights, sounds, and smell of my prey. Slithering over the narrow aisles, my steps light so my talons wouldn’t clack and give me away, I felt a savage, growing excitement. This felt natural, easy. The fear I’d had before disappeared, and everything seemed sharper, clearer now that I was on the hunt. I could sense my enemies, lurking in the shadows and darkness, waiting for me. But now, they were the ones in danger.

I caught a whiff of human ahead of me and froze, one claw suspended above the crates. Holding myself perfectly still, I watched a soldier creep along the top of the maze without seeing me, then drop silently into the narrow aisle below.

Crouching even lower, my chin just a few inches from the wood, I stalked noiselessly to the place the soldier had dropped out of sight and peered over the edge. He stood almost directly below, his gaze and the muzzle of his gun pointed at the end of the corridor, where another two soldiers waited, I saw. None of them had noticed me.

Hello, boys. I grinned, and felt my back haunches wriggle as I tensed to pounce. Paybacks’ a bitch.

“Death from above!” I howled, leaping toward my opponents with talons and wings spread. The soldier jerked and looked up, just as I landed on him with a snarl, driving him to the cement. His helmeted head struck the back of a pallet and he lay there, dazed.

The other two soldiers instantly whipped around and raised their guns. I roared, baring my fangs, and went for them, barely avoiding a paintball to the face as I lunged. Bounding toward the first soldier, I leaped sideways, catapulted off the wall to avoid the spray of bullets, and drove my horned head into his chest, flinging him back several feet. He crashed into a stack of crates, which collapsed on top of him, and struggled to rise. The last soldier swiftly backed away as I spun on him, growling, and tensed to pounce.

“Stop!”

The command rang in my ear, but also directly in front of me, and I stumbled to a halt a lunge away from the last opponent. Shouldering the gun, the last soldier reached up and pulled off his helmet and mask, revealing Scary Talon Lady’s face in the dim light. I blinked in surprise and quickly stepped back.

“Finally.” My trainer raked a hand through her hair, long golden strands falling down her back. Her acidic eyes regarded me over the hall. “About time, hatchling. I was wondering if the purpose for this exercise would ever penetrate that thick skull of yours. I was certain we’d be here until midnight, chasing you around the building, before you finally figured it out.”