The cot was stiff and uncomfortable. The room was too quiet, too dark. The air, stuffy. His mind was racing with thoughts. He kept replaying the rescue, the split-second decision to end another man’s life. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken a life—not by a long shot—but that didn’t mean it got any easier. The decision was helped along by the gun pointing at him. It usually came back to disturb him in some way. Not the fact that he’d just ended someone’s life, but that he felt nothing about it. A sad testament to how jaded a soldier can become. What was all the fuss about robots killing robots? But this time, killing this man, an American, an assassin. . . .Tansy was almost glad he’d felt nothing. It wasn’t just a necessary act of war. It was personal. And it wasn’t out of self-preservation so much as it was out of the preservation of Carly. If something had happened to her. . . . He slammed his eyes shut, squeezing them tightly to dispel the thought.
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