Kira Holland
16:38 EST
November 4, 2030
I-40 East Bound
West of Knoxville, TN
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Grumbling, I leaned back in my seat, watching the rest of the fleet pull into the rest area like a parade of overburdened, disgruntled mammoths. Two hours. That’s all we needed to get to Knoxville, but no—this damn box van had to throw a tantrum. Sparks flew, tires exploded, and now here we were, stranded with a trailer that looked more like a battlefield relic than a transport vehicle.
I slapped the dashboard lightly. “We were so close, girl. Why now?” Not that my truck had any answers.
The radio crackled, and Lyra’s voice came through with all the subtlety of a freight train. “Kira, you alive back there, or did your rig finally surrender to this circus?”
“Still breathing, unfortunately,” I muttered, flicking the radio off before her sarcasm could hit a nerve.
The last ten minutes had been a whirlwind of noise, sparks, and curses, but honestly? Yesterday was worse. A luna damned nightmare was putting it lightly. It had taken us an entire day to load all the side dishes for this overly ambitious Thanksgiving celebration, and the Walmart distribution center staff had made sure to make it as painful as possible.
Both Jake and I had been forced to play mediators, using our Omega abilities to keep tempers from boiling over. It wasn’t easy. By the end of it, I felt like I’d been wrangling feral cats all day—exhausted and scratched to hell emotionally.
Lyra? She’d been ready to rip someone’s head off. Charlotte? She nearly had a breakdown when her trailer decided it didn’t want to dock right. Poor thing spent nearly an hour fighting with it while Tyler—who could out-back any of us on a bad day—tried to help. The culprit? Misaligned trailer axles. It wasn’t her fault, but that didn’t make the day any easier.
Then there was the Abel-and-Ironfist incident. Those two nearly shifted on the spot when some idiot warehouse worker had the audacity to berate Azura. I don’t blame the guy for pissing himself when they appeared out of nowhere, their eyes glowing with barely contained fury. Cain had been too preoccupied fixing his trailer to get involved, but the message was clear: don’t mess with Dragon Fleet.
Then there was the Saint Louis weigh station—a special kind of hell reserved for people like us. Every single truck was scrutinized and subjected to a level one inspection. For anyone unfamiliar, a level one inspection is essentially the DOT’s way of saying, We’re going to crawl up your exhaust pipe with a flashlight and a clipboard. They wanted paperwork, credentials, permits, and then a top-to-bottom inspection of our trucks and trailers.
We weren’t sweating the trucks—those were pristine, thanks to the pride we all took in our rides. But the trailers? Those were a whole different story.
Mac did her best to keep them in decent shape. I mean, there’s only so much even a miracle worker can do with a rolling disaster. These things were relics that had no business on the road. Still, she worked her ass off to polish those turds just enough to keep us moving.
The officers were especially ticked about the weight. Every single rig was over the standard eighty-thousand-pound threshold. Fortunately, Steve had the foresight to arm himself with documentation straight from President Clark and the Secretary of Transportation, permanently exempting us from that limit. Not that it stopped the DOT from being jerks about it.
They saved their best harassment for Lyra. With that ten-foot-wide monstrous bulldozer blade mounted on the front, they lost their collective minds. The lead officer kept droning on about safety hazards and how something like that “shouldn’t be legal”.
It wasn’t until Major Pixiewolf got fed up and called General Zaraki that things turned around. That one-sided phone conversation? Pure entertainment. The General absolutely shredded the lead officer, his voice loud enough to echo through the station. By the time he was done, not only did the DOT have the Secretary of Transportation on the phone, but they were practically falling over themselves to apologize. Every truck left that weigh station with shiny new level-one pass stickers.
I leaned back in my seat and glanced over at Icetail. The dragon looked about as done with this trip as I felt. He was rubbing his temple, his long, blue-tinted fingers pressing into his temples like he was trying to keep from snapping.
“Are you holding up okay?” I asked.
“No,” he grumbled, his voice carrying the kind of exasperation that only comes from hours of pure nonsense. “This is the worst mission I’ve ever been on, and that’s saying something.”
I snorted. “Hard to argue with that.”
Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. Mac was storming over, her expression sour enough to curdle milk. Sparks practically ignited off the tips of her hair as she approached the trailer, looking like she was about to go nuclear.
Climbing out of my truck, I met her at the back. She took one look at the damage and let loose a string of curses that would’ve made a sailor blush. Now here we were, parked on the side of I-40 dealing with yet another trailer catastrophe. This time, it was my rig’s turn to throw a tantrum. Two tires had blown, leaving the back end mangled beyond recognition. The mudflap and taillights were shredded, and the rims looked like they’d been chewed up by a metal-eating dragon.
“What the hell did you do, Kira?” she barked, her hands on her hips.
“Don’t look at me!” I shot back, throwing up my hands. “Blame the shitty trailers!”
Mac muttered something under her breath before shouting toward the front of the convoy. “Lyra! Back the FRS over here! This mess is going to take all day if I don’t get some real tools.”
Within ten minutes, Lyra had maneuvered the Forward Repair System next to my truck, and Mac was rummaging through her equipment with all the grace of an angry bear. Every clang of metal against metal seemed to fuel her frustration as she yanked out tools. Finally, her head popped out from the trailer.
Stolen novel; please report.
Mac wasted no time once the Forward Repair System was in position. She climbed up onto the FRS like she owned it—which, honestly, she kind of did—and yanked open the main side panel with a satisfying clang. Sparks flew as the unit powered up, the hum of machinery filling the air like a mechanical symphony.
“Alright, folks,” Mac barked, pulling her welding helmet down over her face. “We’ve got two shredded tires, a mangled mudflap assembly, and a taillight system that’s about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Time to work some magic. Kira, grab the hydraulic jack. Flamewing, bring me the spare wheels, yesterday. Crookedfang... stay away from my FRS! Let’s move, people!”
I shook my head, biting back a grin as I went to grab the jack from the FRS. Mac in full repair mode was a sight to behold—part drill sergeant, part wizard, and all attitude.
By the time I returned, Flamewing and Icetail had rolled the spare tires into place. Mac was already crouched by the trailer, torch in hand, cutting away the twisted remnants of the mudflap hanger. Sparks showered onto the pavement, dancing like miniature fireworks.
“Careful, Mac,” I teased, setting the jack under the trailer’s frame. “You’re gonna set yourself on fire one of these days.”
“Ha! Please. I’m fireproof,” she shot back, her voice muffled by the welding mask. “Now shut up and lift this beast. We’re burning daylight.”
I cranked the jack, raising the trailer high enough to give Mac and the others room to work. She slid out from under the trailer, her face streaked with grease and soot, and handed the torch off to Raptor.
“Your turn. Cut off the rest of that bracket. And don’t fry the wiring this time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Raptor muttered, pulling on a pair of gloves. “One time, Mac. You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Not if I live to be a thousand,” she quipped, already moving to inspect the taillight assembly. “Tyler, get me the new wiring harness from the FRS. Kira, you’re on tire duty. Start swapping those rims.”
With a nod, I grabbed the impact wrench and crouched next to the first tire. The old lug nuts were rusted to hell and back, and it took every ounce of strength I had to break them loose.
Behind me, Icetail leaned against my truck, watching the chaos with a bemused expression. “You werewolves really enjoy making things harder than they need to be, don’t you?”
“Unless you’ve got a better idea, Icetail,” I grunted, wrenching the last nut free, “how about you keep holding that truck up with your intimidating stare?”
He snorted, the sound somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Fair enough.”
As the team worked, the repair site buzzed with activity. Flamewing and Tyler hauled parts back and forth between the FRS and the trailer, while Mac orchestrated the entire operation like a general commanding her troops. Every now and then, she’d stop to bark orders or grumble about the quality of the replacement parts, but progress was steady.
Three hours later, the trailer was looking much better—or as close to it as Mac could get. The new wheels were in place, the mudflap assembly had been reconstructed, and the taillights glowed like they’d just rolled off the assembly line.
Mac stood back, hands on her hips, and surveyed her work with a critical eye. “Not bad,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a rag. “Not bad at all. Kira, take her for a spin and make sure she’s roadworthy.”
I nodded, hopping into the cab and firing up the engine. The truck roared to life, and with a hiss of the air brakes, I pulled out of the parking area and onto the empty stretch of road. A quick loop confirmed that everything was holding up fine—no wobbles, no sparks, no horrifying noises.
When I parked back in the rest area, Mac was waiting, her arms crossed and a satisfied smirk on her face.
“Well?”
“She’s good,” I said, hopping down from the cab. “You’re a damn miracle worker, Mac.”
“Damn right I am,” she replied, tossing the rag onto the FRS. “Alright, folks, let’s pack it up and hit the road. Knoxville isn’t gonna wait forever.”
As the team scrambled to break down the repair site, Icetail gave me a knowing look. “Three hours to fix what should’ve been scrapped years ago. You werewolves are stubborn.”
“Stubborn’s just another word for resourceful,” I replied with a grin.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “If you say so.”
Within minutes, the fleet was rolling again, the sun dipping low on the horizon as we headed east. Knoxville was finally in sight—and not a moment too soon.
The last stretch to Knoxville felt like the longest two hours of my life. The fleet rolled along in unison, the rumble of engines blending into a hypnotic drone that did little to keep my eyes from drooping. Icetail sat beside me, his normally sharp demeanor dulled by the exhaustion we all shared.
“Bet you never imagined your glorious dragon self babysitting a fleet of trucks and beans,” I teased, keeping my eyes on the road.
He let out a dry chuckle. “Babysitting dragons is one thing. Babysitting werewolves and their infernal machines? That’s a unique form of torment.”
I laughed, the sound cutting through the heavy tension that had settled over us. Despite everything, it was a relief to know we were almost there.
Up ahead, the glowing lights of McGhee Tyson Airport finally came into view, the air buzzing with the activity of an airbase that never seemed to sleep. The sight brought a renewed sense of energy, and the convoy picked up speed as we approached the gates.
“Home stretch,” I muttered, gripping the wheel a little tighter.
As we pulled into the staging area, I caught sight of the Chaos Reckoning looming in the distance, its massive dark hull bathed in the glow of floodlights. Around it, a small army of forklifts and ground crews scurried like ants, preparing for the chaos we were about to add to their workload.
The moment we came to a stop, the comms crackled to life with Lyra’s unmistakable voice. “Alright, everyone, you know the drill. Let’s get this shitshow unloaded before someone decides we’re the reason for all their problems. Mac, you’re in charge of organizing the drop. Kira, park it and report to the staging area. We’ve got an ops meeting in twenty.”
“Roger that,” I replied, shutting down the engine and stretching as I climbed out of the cab. Around me, the rest of the fleet was already springing into action, drivers hopping down from their rigs and heading to their assigned posts.
Mac had the FRS trailer unhooked and operational in record time, directing forklifts with a level of precision that would make an air traffic controller jealous. Dragons, werewolves, and humans worked side by side, unloading crates of greenbeans and supplies with a rhythm born of practice and pure determination.
Icetail, to his credit, stayed out of the way, leaning against my truck with a look that screamed done with this shit. “I’ll leave the grunt work to the professionals,” he said, waving off my unspoken question. “You’ve got this.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” I shot back, rolling my eyes before making my way to the staging area.
The airport was a hive of activity, every corner bustling with movement as units from all over the Free States converged for this grand Thanksgiving spectacle. Soldiers, airmen, and support staff moved in a coordinated chaos that was somehow both maddening and awe-inspiring. The scale of the operation was unlike anything I’d ever seen.
I spotted Lyra near the edge of the tarmac, clipboard in hand and a scowl etched into her features. She was barking orders at anyone within earshot, her voice cutting through the din like a blade. When she saw me approach, her expression softened just enough to let me know she wasn’t completely pissed.
“Took you long enough,” she said, handing me a second clipboard. “Here’s your assignment. Make sure your team knows where to report. We’re on a tight schedule.”
“Don’t we always?” I replied with a smirk, taking the clipboard and scanning the details. It seemed straightforward enough—get the supplies unloaded, account for every last crate, and prep for the upcoming review.
By the time I returned to my truck, the unloading was nearly complete. Mac stood off to the side, arms crossed and a satisfied grin on her face as she watched the last of the crates disappear into the waiting forklifts.
“Nice work, Mac,” I said, clapping her on the shoulder. “If we survive this, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Damn right you will,” she replied, flashing me a grin. “But don’t think this means I’m done. Those trailers are still a disaster, and I’m planning a very special funeral for them before we leave”
“I look forward to it,” I said with a laugh, climbing back into the cab.
As the last of the fleet parked in formation, I couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. We’d made it. Barely. But we were here, and for now, that was enough.
Knoxville might not have been ready for Dragon Fleet, but we sure as hell were ready for them.