Scorched

now she wasn’t so sure. She stared down at the ring, her stomach churning. What if Connor was telling the truth? What if he really was from the future—sent to stop the government from stealing the world’s last dragon egg and thus sparking a worldwide apocalypse? Had her 911 call led the bad guys directly to the prize?

“Trinity? Honey? Where are you? Can you hear me?”

She let out a sigh of relief as she recognized the voice outside. Not the scary men in black she’d feared—or even Connor’s so-called evil twin. Just good old Sheriff Bob, the portly, senior law man who spent more time out fishing with her grandpa than preventing any crimes. Trinity had known the old sheriff her entire life, and he’d always had a kind word to say and a piece of mint gum to share. There was no way he’d be mixed up in some dragon conspiracy.

She started for the door. Connor grabbed her arm, yanking her back. “Don’t go out there!” he hissed.

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “It’s just Sheriff Bob. He’s responding to my call—he probably recognized the cell number. I’ll tell him I’m looking for my grandpa. For all I know maybe he’s been at the police station the whole time, reporting the break-in or something.” Even as she said the words, hope stirred within her. If only it could be true! Everything could still turn out okay.

The barn door groaned as Sheriff Bob attempted to pry it open. “Trinity? Are you in there?”

She opened her mouth to reply. But Connor was too quick, grabbing her hands and yanking her hard against him. His eyes found her own, piercing her with their intensity.

You can’t trust anyone. Even people you think you know.

She gasped as his words blazed through her brain, followed by a jolt of terror and urgency. His terror and urgency, she realized with shock.

Please believe me, Trinity. Everything depends on it.

She stumbled back, breaking their connection, shaken to the core. She stared at him wildly, finding it impossible to still her erratic pulse. How had he done that? Connected their minds with a simple touch. Magic? Some kind of psychic link? A weird futuristic technology?

However he’d done it, the effect remained the same. And she knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he believed everything he’d told her. The time travel, the dragons, the apocalypse—it was all real. All true. And his fear was now hers as well.

“What do we do?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “He’s not going to leave until he knows I’m okay. And there’s no back door to sneak out of.”

Connor considered this. “I’ll hide in the loft,” he told her. “With the egg. You try to get rid of him as quickly as possible. If you run into trouble, I’ll back you up.” He patted the gun he’d holstered to his side.

Trinity bit her lower lip, wanting to argue. Sheriff Bob was her grandpa’s best friend. She couldn’t let Connor hurt him, no matter what. But there was no time to come up with another plan.

“Okay.” She drew in a breath. “But keep your finger off the trigger unless this becomes an epic fail. Upping the body count is not exactly going to help our cause at this point.”

“Agreed.” Connor saluted her, tucking the egg under his arm and starting his climb. Once he disappeared from view, she approached the front door, pulling it open with shaky hands.

“Hey, Bob,” she greeted in her most cheerful, unbothered voice. “What are you doing working Christmas Eve—?”

Her words died in her throat as two men wielding powerful flashlights stepped out from the backseat of the sheriff’s car, where they’d evidently been waiting, purposely out of view. They were dressed identically, in sharp, custom-fitted black suits, their eyes shaded by mirrored sunglasses, even though the sun had set long ago. Trinity’s eyes darted from one to the other, apprehension coursing through her veins. This did not seem good.

The two men didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. They pushed into the barn as if they owned the place, overturning bikes and opening storage chests. Trinity turned to Sheriff Bob, begging for an explanation, but the small-town sheriff just gave her a helpless shrug. He would be no help, she realized. It was all up to her.

“What are you doing?” she demanded of the men. “This is my neighbor’s barn.”

“Homeland Security, ma’am,” one of the men interrupted. He flashed her a badge so quickly she had no idea whether it was legit or had come from a Cracker Jack box. “Perhaps a better question would be what are you doing here?”

Her mind raced to come up with a reasonable explanation on short notice. Then she realized honesty might be the best policy—at least partial honesty. “There were men,” she said at last. “They barged into my house. I freaked out and ran here to hide before calling 911. I think one of them might still be in the house.”

The men looked unsurprised. “No need to be afraid,” the first one said in a voice that told her otherwise. “Those were government agents. We have reason to believe your grandfather may have come into possession of some stolen property. Do you know anything about that?” He gave her a pointed stare.

His insinuation infuriated her. She met his gaze, her eyes fierce. “My grandpa would never take anything that didn’t belong to him,” she retorted. Then she shot a look over at Sheriff Bob. “Tell him,” she demanded. “Tell him he’d never do something like that.”

“Well, yes, the girl’s right about that,” Sheriff Bob blustered, looking nervous and unsure. “I’ve known Charlie Foxx for fifty years. He’s good people. He’d never intentionally—”

“Search the barn,” the first agent interrupted, evidently bored by the glowing tribute for the man he’d been sent to hunt down. He pointed to the ladder. “You check the loft. I’ll finish up here.”

Trinity sucked in a breath, watching the suited man start toward the ladder. In a moment, he’d be up there and Connor had nowhere to hide. He had his gun, but if he shot it, he’d give his position away to agent #2. The barn would erupt into a war zone, with she, most likely, the first civilian casualty.

She had to do something and fast.

Her eyes fell to the sheriff’s revolver, dangling from its holster. Her grandpa was always teasing him about forgetting to secure it. “Someday you’ll shoot yourself in the foot,” he’d say. And suddenly she knew exactly what she had to do.

She started to stagger, waving her arms wildly around her. “Oh God,” she moaned in an overloud voice, attracting the attention of the agents. “I feel dizzy! I think I’m going to—ohhh!”

She threw herself backward, with as much drama as she could muster. As predicted, the chivalrous Sheriff Bob dove to catch her. Not an easy move for a man of sixty-five, clocking in at more than three hundred pounds, but the sheriff, to his credit, gave the rescue his all.

Sorry, Bob, she thought, as she allowed herself to collapse into his meaty grip, letting her arms flop to the side like limp spaghetti.

“Never mind her,” the first agent instructed. “Get moving.”

But Trinity’s fingers had already wrapped around the sheriff’s gun, yanking it from its holster. She leapt to her feet, flicking off the safety, aiming the firearm at the two men.

“Drop your weapons. Now!” she cried.

The agents froze, looking at one another doubtfully. Trinity waved the gun, hoping they couldn’t detect the fact that her hands were shaking like crazy.

“Do you even know how to use one of those?” the first agent asked, evidently not quite buying her “I’m a crazy killer and you should be scared of me” routine. Which wasn’t all that surprising, she supposed, seeing as she’d never actually shot at anything but the zombies in her video games.

“She certainly does.”

Trin looked up in surprise as Connor dropped down off the ladder with an easy grace.

He trained his own gun on the agents and gave them a cocky grin. “In fact, you might have seen her handiwork, back at the museum. Man in black? Head blown to smithereens?” He snorted. “The girl’s completely cracked. If I were you, I’d do as she says.”

The agents exchanged unhappy glances but reluctantly obeyed, gingerly lowering their weapons to the floor before straightening up again. Trin shot Connor a grateful look, a rush of adrenaline surging through her. He gave her a curt nod as he deftly kicked the surrendered guns across the barn and out of reach.

Now get the sheriff’s handcuffs, she heard his voice in her head. She still didn’t know how he was doing that, but now wasn’t the time to ask.

“Bob, I need your handcuffs,” she said in a terse voice, turning to the white-faced sheriff. She held out her hand.