Stealing the Dragon

Chapter One

San Francisco, present day

Cape Weathers just wanted to know what time it was before he died. It wasn’t much of a prayer, but it was all he could manage on short notice.

Cape was on his back, looking up at the clock tower as the Russian tried to strangle him. He could feel his larynx start to collapse as the gangster shifted his weight and tightened his grip, all three hundred pounds of him crushing the air from Cape’s lungs.

Broken ribs stabbed as he tried to breathe. His vision started to fade, and Cape knew he’d black out any minute. Then he’d be dead. But he could still see the clock tower jutting upward into the fog, and he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to hear the bells ring one last time.

He also wanted to kill the son of a bitch that was strangling him, but Cape had learned to set realistic goals.

Cape managed to free his right arm and swung frantically, trying to get an angle on the giant’s head. The Russian spat in his face and squeezed harder. Cape heard a wet cracking sound and figured he’d lost another rib. He fought the pain and kept punching, telling himself this would be over soon, one way or another.

An audible crunch and sudden pain in his throat, his attacker relaxing his grip as if Cape had just died.

Maybe he had.

Cape snapped his head back, away from the hands, banging the back of his skull against the pavement. White spots flashed as he watched the Russian’s head flop to the side, eyes rolling back, the thick tongue drooling blood across Cape’s chest.

The barbed tip of an arrow protruded through the Russian’s neck, the wooden shaft slick with blood. It had struck the back of the neck and penetrated far enough for the tip to pierce Cape’s throat a fraction of an inch. He held his breath and got his arms under the Russian, heaving the lifeless body across his own until he could sit up.

Cape felt his ribs and found most of them intact. The cracking noises had been arrows hitting their mark. Two more were just below the shoulder blades, their feathered ends pointing back toward the tower. Cape followed their line of sight and saw a lone figure standing on the balustrade above the clock, dressed in ninja black with bow in hand. Even though he couldn’t see a face, Cape knew who it was.

Then the fog swallowed the tower and the figure vanished just as the bells started to chime.

Cape smacked the alarm clock with his right hand and twisted himself awake. The sheets were soaked, his left arm pinned beneath his body, the cold air coming through his bedroom window making him shiver. Forcing himself to sit up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood up, and walked naked to the bathroom.

He didn’t turn on the light, but the morning gray was enough to show his reflection in the mirror. He noticed his sandy hair was damp as he leaned across the sink. Two blue-gray eyes stared back, the lines around them multiplying as he forced a smile. Yeah, still here and in one piece. He gingerly touched the narrow scar on his throat.

When a dream is really a memory, when does it fade away? The scar was almost a year old, but the dream still haunted his sleep.

Cape didn’t mind the scar; it was better than the alternative. But he was really getting sick of that damn dream.