Page 19 of Shadow Blind

All six cameras were still filming, three of them pointed at the dirt and snow and three of them at the dark sky. Was Winchester alive, or had he killed himself, too?

Clark frowned, settling back in his chair. The squad leader’s camera wasn’t moving. He was likely dead as well. While he hadn’t heard a gunshot, Winchester could have used a knife. He’d have to rewind the camera feeds to see how the man had died.

But for now, it was time to shut the test down.

Leaning forward, he hunched over the laptop, exited the camera feeds and laid down a string of passwords. A new window popped up. He entered another string of letters and numbers. Same with a third screen and then a fourth. He’d encrypted this program to hell and back. It would be difficult for someone to hack into that first login screen. Nobody could hack all four.

Seconds later, a fifth screen appeared. Kill switch activation. Yes. No.

He clicked yes.

Please verify. Another login screen popped up. The cursor sat there at the first box, blinking patiently. It was a good thing he had an eidetic memory. A lesser mind would have to keep all the passwords in a notebook—which was never secure. After he typed in the last password, the screen turned red and then blue.

NNB26 prototype has been deactivated.

He went through another series of passwords and screens until he was looking through the atomic force microscope mounted on the top of the NNB26 testing tank. The AFM sent the images through Wi-Fi to the main computer terminal, where the images were recorded and stored and could be accessed remotely.

He assessed the NNB26 robotic structures, which were viewed under a magnification of 1,000,000x. The microscopic bots were matte black and round. Normally, they scurried around like a colony of energetic ants, but currently, none of them were moving. As expected, they’d shut down on implementing the kill trigger—exactly as he’d programmed them to do.

Excellent.

He rubbed his hands together, his smile wider than ever. It was critical to prove that his weapon could be turned off. The video would prove what his new weapon was capable of, but nobody would bid on the technology if it couldn’t be controlled.

He’d have to program each batch of bots he sold with their own kill switch code, but now he had proof the prototype could be deactivated as easily as activated.

Let the bidding begin.

Chapter eight

Day 2

Karaveht, Tajikistan

Hunched over on his knees, with his palms braced on the cold, hard ground, Aiden struggled to breathe. A thick, aching lump sealed his throat, cutting off access to fresh air. Lightheaded, he yanked the balaclava off, wheezed a couple of times and concentrated on the sensation of cold seeping through his gloves. He stared at his fingers as they dug into the ground. They trembled.

He was infected. Like his brothers. His dead brothers.

“Huh.” The raspy sound was part groan, part cough to clear his throat.

Burning, acidic pain washed over his left leg. He looked down. The white and gray camo of his winter BDUs were soaked with blood. Or at least his left thigh was. He grunted as the pain swelled. He must have taken a hit. He should bind and treat the wound.

But apathy stilled his hands. Why bother? He’d be dead soon, anyway.

A faint, urgent voice came from his headset. Instinctively, he reached out and pulled his helmet closer. The voice grew stronger. It was Montana demanding a sitrep.

Heat flashed through his chest, exploding in his gut. His lips tightened. Montana knew exactly what the situation was. He’d had a front row seat for it. Unlike every other op since he’d taken the trident, these new motherfucking cameras were still rolling. A continuous feed from drop-off to exfil. Those had been his orders. What a damn coincidence.

The brass, along with whoever had set them up, had watched five of the bravest, most loyal men on the teams sink into insanity and slaughter each other. The rage churned hotter, thicker.

It was inconceivable. A Special Operator’s creed was bound by loyalty. Your life for your brothers. To create a weapon that bypassed that loyalty and forced an operator to turn on his teammates, to massacre them—his gut twisted, caught between horror and grief.

He should have 86’d those damn cameras as soon as they went skids up, left the bastard behind this setup to stew in the dark.

Another voice from his comm, another demand for a sitrep.

Fuck that. No way was he updating the motherfuckers behind this situation. Nor was he killing himself on camera for their goddamn data collection. He turned his helmet over. The new camera was a thin cylinder mounted to the right side of his helmet. He flipped the tiny power switch from on to off and forced himself to his feet. The pain shifted with his movement, radiating up and down his leg, before sinking back into his thigh in an agonizing rush. He gritted his teeth and shuffled toward the splayed body of Hutch. All his teammates’ cameras needed to go dark. Damned if he’d give the bastards any new insights through those live camera feeds. He hobbled from helmet to helmet, half of which were still attached to his crew’s bloody, fragmented heads, and flipped the cameras off.

By the time he finished, his whole body was trembling. Exhausted, he sank down, landing on his ass, and stared at his hands. They were still shaking. Not a surprise. He was infected. He already knew that. He’d touched the same bodies his brothers had. No, he hadn’t gone insane yet, but it was coming. Maybe the delayed insanity was because his metabolism was different. Or maybe his infectious load had been lighter and slower to spread.

---