The word hung in the air.
Worthless.
Useless.
That was how men like Julian understood people. Not by love. Not by loyalty. Only by utility.
I looked at the black device in his hand.
Then at the tiny green light on its side.
Steady.
Not blinking.
A memory surfaced.
Three months earlier, Julian had complained that the company’s prototype remote switches required two-step activation. The light remained steady until the safety latch was released.
He had only one free hand.
The latch was still locked.
The detonator was not armed.
Julian was bluffing.
I let my body go limp.
The sudden weight startled him.
His grip shifted.
I drove my heel down onto his foot and slammed the back of my head into his nose.
Bone cracked.
The gun fired.
