Rogers whispered, “You gonna have a problem with this?”
“No, I don’t like it, but I know it needs to be done.”
“He’s solid,” G vouched for me. “He won’t let his feelings get in the way.”
I don’t have feelings, I’m a fucking robot, I lied to myself.
Rogers nodded and prepped Nina’s arm for the shot.
“This one might wake her, so be prepared to cover her mouth so she doesn’t scream,” Rogers warned.
Despite the compassion in his eyes—he didn’t like the idea of hurting her any more than I did—I had to swallow the instinctive urge to tell him that if he hurt her, I’d kill him.
You agreed to this, G’s voice echoed in my head.
Rogers must’ve read the look on my face because he raised an eyebrow.
“I’m good.”
Nina twitched when the cold, alcohol-soaked prep pad touched her skin. Her eyes popped open when Rogers jabbed the needle into her upper arm.
Bile rose in my throat as I used one hand to hold hers, offering what little comfort I could, while the other covered her mouth.
I hate myself for this.
I whispered to Nina that she was safe and everything would be okay as her eyes quickly fluttered shut.
“That’s some fast acting shit,” G whispered.
“I don’t mess around,” Rogers answered.
Rogers prepped the insertion site with another alcohol prep pad, pressed the device against the back of her shoulder, and pulled the trigger.
Nina didn’t flinch.
I sent them to the kitchen and sat with Nina for a minute, holding an icepack to the injection site as I apologized. The apology was sloppy, but since this one was for my conscience and sanity, it didn’t matter. I’d be more elegant when I repeated everything after this ordeal was over.
I had a feeling my apology list would grow before this was over.
Nina would probably forgive me for some things, but this level of betrayal would likely fall into the unforgivable category.
When I walked into the kitchen, Rogers was injecting a tracker into the back of G’s shoulder.
“You’re next,” G said. “You might as well sit and take off your shirt.”
Rogers’ chuckle was barely audible.
Having nothing else to do, I sat and removed my shirt and T-shirt.
A fucking subcutaneous tracker.
Twenty years of combined service between the Navy and the CIA, and this was the first time I’d take part in a black ops mission.
I knew about them, of course; one didn’t serve with JSOC and work for the CIA without knowing that Black Ops teams existed. Or that the government regularly funded their missions. But I’d never participated in one.
I don’t like it.
My fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on my leg.
