Fuuuck.He had to let her go.
“I already spoke to Eve, she’s free to watch Halia for a couple of hours, and I promise, I won’t make any other stops along the way. I’ll go straight to Buffalo Dave’s, meet with Connor, and come straight home. You won’t even know I’m gone.”
“Trust me, I’ll know.” Christ, he’d be counting down every second until she got back, but she was right. She had to do this, and he had to let her. No way in hell he wanted something like this to come between them. Little resentments and what-ifs were relationship killers, and he wanted to do this one right.
Summer was his everything, his number one priority, and when it came to her hopes and dreams, he wanted her to know she had his unconditional support. But he couldn’t skip out on the JTT briefing either. They had too much on the go and not enough bodies to get shit done.
“Alright,” he said, his arms tightening around her hips. An automatic reflex at the thought of her going into town without him. “What time do you leave?”
“Two.”
He did the mental math for an hour-long meeting. “That puts you back here around six.”
“I’m a slow driver, so more like seven.” She grinned at his frown. “Before I go, can I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
She lifted the head scans of the three Boston Massacre shooters. “Why do these brains have spiders in them?”
“What?” He looked at the stacked films in her hand.
“Spiders.” She raised the pictures toward the ceiling lights. “See?” She aligned the black smudges, pointing out the spindly legs he hadn’t noticed on the individual sheets, and his own brain damn near exploded with the force of the answer he’d been looking for.
“Holy shit, Summer!”
Her eyes flew wide. “What?”
He took the x-rays from her, bringing them in for a closer look, and yep, puzzle solved. “Jesus Christ, they’re neural fucking implants.”
CHAPTERFORTY
“A neural link?”Hands behind his head, Cody stretched his back while sitting in his chair, the hem of his shirt riding up to expose one-third of a six-pack. “Sounds like you’ve been reading too much science fiction, Doc.”
Jamie shook his head. “I’ve been reading vampire porn, fucknut.”
Cody snorted. “Vampire porn?”
“Yeah, don’t knock it until you try it.” He pointed to the brain scan images projected onto the boardroom’s big screen. “Those are implants. Or at least, they were until someone fried them. Jay, overlay the images.”
With a click of his mouse, Jay placed the X-rays one on top of the other, lining up the black smudges perfectly. “They’re identical,” he said. “The exact same size and shape.”
“Yep, individual brain aneurysms don’t do that. See the spider legs coming out from the damaged medulla? Those are the electrodes. The filaments are so fine, you don’t notice them on individual scans, but when the films are stacked, they become apparent.”
“Holy shit,” Grant said, his focus on the SmartBoard as Jay sharpened the images and zoomed in. “You’re right. They’re implants. They have to be.”
“Are you suggesting the shooters were controlled remotely?” Adam asked, leaning forward as if a closer inspection would reveal the truth. “Is something like that even possible?”
“Yeah, it’s possible,” Jamie said. “Brain-computer interfaces have been implanted in thousands of people over the last decade, and researchers have made significant advances in treating diseases like Parkinson’s. Deep brain stimulation has also proven effective in people with brain injuries and other disabilities. If scientists can control abnormal brain activity—what’s to say they can’t control or alter normalactivities?”
“But why go to that length?” Cody asked. “We’re talking billions of research dollars. Why not just find three disgruntled assholes, pump them full of rage, and toss an automatic rifle at them? It’d be a hell of a lot cheaper and just as effective.”
“They’re testing,” Grant said, and all heads turned his way. “Someone’s trying to create an army of super soldiers.”
“Fuck,” Cody growled. “Johnson’s man, the one we killed in Vegas, he had no heat signature, no reaction to pain. He didn’t even utter a single word or take an extra breath while trying to jam a knife into your eye.”
“Exactly,” Grant agreed. “Think about it. If someone’s figured out a way to chip and control the human brain, why wouldn’t they use that knowledge to create an army of puppets?”
“Or control a sniper,” Chase added, the implication of what he’d suggested sinking in deep among the group around the table.
