1
Capt. T. K. Reapershoveled cold fake mashed potatoes into his mouth like it was his last meal. Always hungry, keeping his non-dominant arm curled around the plastic, cafeteria-style plate, he scarfed down his entire plate of rations in less than five minutes along with the other men crowded around the too-small rectangular table.
The bottle of purified water he downed in one gulp wasn’t enough to quench his thirst. Just like the food was never enough to take the edge off the gnawing, ever-present hunger in his belly.
His second-in-command, Ward Thornton, aka Thorn, thrummed his thumb on the table. A coping mechanism, no doubt, but it’s steady, low buzz had Reaper curling his toes under the table to keep himself from lashing out. Forks clinked against the men’s plates and rattled in his ears. Even the fluorescent lights overhead seemed to buzz like a hornet’s nest filled with a swarm ready to swoop down and attack.
Reaper grabbed a fork and a small plastic bowl filled with peach cobbler. Damn serving size was no bigger than his palm.
Thorn coughed suddenly, pain shot through Reaper’s head and his hand fisted in reaction.
The loud roar quieted and Reaper felt every pair of eyes in the room turn on him. He uncurled his fist and stared in dread at the mangled metal fork in his hand.
Sweat broke out across his brow. Shep, aka Bolen Shephard, the sergeant who had been on his team for over five years, nudged his knee under the table. “It’s all right. We’re all freaking out.”
Shep glanced at the guards posted at the door behind him before returning his attention to the half-eaten plate of food before him, he answered quietly, “Migraines. Muscle spasms. Fucking light feels like it’s piercing my skull.”
His crisp knee hair grazed Reaper’s skin, the contact like razors raking across his flesh.
Reaper struggled to keep his expression neutral, his head tilted down so that the other set of guards on the wall facing him couldn’t fully read his expression. “You feel it, too?”
He and his team had been separated after volunteering for the testing with Red Water Corporation. As far as he knew, everyone had been kept in separate living quarters, all their basic needs provided for—needs that now included complete silence and darkness and limited textures. This was the first time Reaper had seen the others since Project Mayhem had begun. They had been ushered into the sterile cafeteria one by one, each of them watching the others with quiet intensity, studying their reactions and their leaner physiques. Whatever small percentage of body fat they’d possessed before entering the experiment was gone, and in its place was packed, corded muscle that strained the confines of their Army-issued BDUs.
The team had harsh, almost cruel shadows lining their faces.
“Where’s Quantum and Dawson?” Thorn asked.
Reaper leaned forward, looking for his subordinates and found two empty seats at the end of the bench. “Don’t know. Any of you seen them?”
From across the table, Diggs, special ordinances expert, met Reaper’s gaze, his normally light gray eyes stark and void. He looked like a man who had walked into the underworld and left part of his soul behind. “Haven’t seen either, but I’ve heard Quantum.”
Reaper’s already rock-hard stomach twisted into a titanium device of dread. “What have you heard?”
His pale lips parted, and Diggs answered, “Until yesterday, all I heard were screams.”
The food Reaper shoveled down churned in his stomach. He had led his team right into this experiment, swayed by promises of enhanced strength and physical stamina. He’d been all John Wayne charging into battle, leading his men straight into the unknown. They’d all agreed, but the decision had been on him. He’d trusted the man who had recruited him for the project. The idea of giving his men an edge in battle had appealed to him, especially after the loss of his best friend, Merc, who’d been gunned down on the streets of Baghdad.
Reaper’s one-on-one interactions with the researchers and doctors had yielded almost no information other than that his team was safe and nearby and he could see them again soon, just as soon as any chance of cross-contamination had been ruled out. Cross-contamination ofwhat, Reaper didn’t know and everyone here refused to tell him.
“What do you think’s going on, Cap?” The youngest team member, Specialist Juarez, sat wedged between two larger men, but his smaller fame was no less ripped. Reaper had fought hard to recruit the newcomer to the Special Forces team before they’d gone completely black ops. He’d worked with the soldier in Kandahar Province, and Juarez impressed him with his uncanny ability to read the moves of the enemy and quickly react.
And now the sight of Juarez’s baby face weighed on Reaper like ten tons of steel.
He didn’t know how exactly, but he knew he had to get his team out of this lab. “What else have you heard?”
“A bit of everything,” Juarez said in a hushed voice.
Before Reaper could question him further, the door opened and the lead researcher, Dr. Winters, strode in with her ever-present clipboard clutched to her chest. “How are my subjects doing today?” She walked right up to their table as if they were caged lions on the prowl and sat confidently at the end, assessing each and every man with the same quietly alert demeanor she always seemed to possess.
“Where are Quantum and Dawson?” Reaper asked.
Winters glanced at her clipboard, flipping through a few pages before answering. “They’re safely resting in their quarters, from a negative reaction to the last injection.”
This was the first bit of information Reaper had received about any of his men prior to this dinner, and while every single cell in his body was focused on the doctor, he forced his body to relax and his expression to remain neutral. “What exactly do you mean by negative reaction?”
For the first time since he’d been here, Winters’s demeanor cracked. She sighed and Reaper noticed that her normally perfect bun had a few strands hanging loose. There were uncharacteristic wrinkles in her lab coat and even a couple of more wrinkles around the corners of her eyes. The woman had been a researcher for over two decades, and the good doctor had the role of an objective observer practiced down to a T, but something about her cool, collected demeanor was off today. Reaper pressed for more, sensing the change and homing in for the kill. “What are you giving us? Why haven’t I been allowed to see my men until today?”
He’d been asking this question all along and although his words were as calm as unbroken water, the guards in the rooms shifted instinctively, sensing the growing danger in the room.
