Page 110 of Dragon 7

The sickle blade caught the edge of the fuel housing.

Akiro yanked.

Totoro lurched in my grip. The fuel tank groaned. I braced my feet on the bottom step and pulled back, and for one full second we were locked in a tug-of-war with my flame torch between us.

Akiro twisted and whipped the kusarigama away, ending the tug-of-war. Then he swung it from the side and hit the fuel housing with a hollow metal punch that vibrated through my ribs.

No.

The tank dented inward. A thin line of gel fuel leaked from the seam and ran down the barrel.

"There goes the breath of the Dragon!" A deranged smile spread across Akiro’s face. "Now watch the whole beast begin to suffocate."

The flame sputtered.

Goddamn it.

“Welcome, brother! I like your cute little mask.” Akiro hit Totoro again. Same spot. The valve cracked. Fuel poured free, thick and gel-like, sliding across the metal and dripping to the stairs.

Totoro died in my hands. The flame went out. The barrel went dark. The last wisp of heat rose from the nozzle and disappeared.

“You should have told me that this would be a masquerade ball!” Akiro laughed. “I thought this was war!”

I released Totoro and let the dead torch clang to the stairs. Now I would have to battle with my guns and hands. “Come here, Akiro! I want to show you my mask’s detail!”

“I would.” Akiro swung the ball back to him and kept it ready to attack. “But. . .it appears my ride is ready to leave.”

“But let’s have one last dance!”

“Sorry, brother. I only dance with women.” Akiro winked. “I’ll leave the weird stuff to you and Hiro.”

Behind Akiro, the plane's engines screamed louder. The propellers roared. The body of the aircraft shuddered as the power climbed. They were preparing for takeoff.

Goryū. I pulled both silver guns from my holsters and flipped the switches to both—bullets and fire. Nyomi's blood was still on the barrels dried dark against the silver, and that upped my energy. This plane cannot rise.

I will try to harm it.

More men spilled out of the plane, raced around Akiro, and began to come down the stairs.

Goryū rose from the hull in a column of churning black smoke. His wings spread wide, and the moonlight disappeared behind them. He climbed thirty feet above the plane and then dove, driving himself down across the left engine nacelle with shadow-fire pouring from every inch of his body.

The engine coughed. The propeller on that side stuttered, caught, stuttered again. A thin trail of dark smoke leaked from the housing.

But that was it.

Everything kept on going.

Come on, Goryū.

He circled and hit the engine again. More shadow-fire. More smoke from the housing. The propeller jerked and slowed.

I am getting tired.

The right engine compensated. The plane rocked sideways on its wheels but held. The propellers on the working side spun harder.

Goryū had been weakening men since the first mines were placed. He had frozen Akiro twice. He had scouted the plane's interior. He had poured fire on an engine.

I was learning that every use would cost him energy, and I could feel the exhaustion now—a thinning in the bond, a dimming of the gold behind his eyes, a heaviness in my own legs that belonged to him.