Page 9 of Aviatrix

Disheveled. Pale. He looks like hell.

“What does it look like, Colonel?” Eli replies, tone razor-sharp as he drops his hand. “Saving your goddamn ass.”

“Got it!” Gary shouts. “Try it now, Major!”

Eli slams his palm against the console. The launch interface lights up like a Christmas tree.

“You don’t know if those will work,” Lark says, stepping forward, the sound tight with doubt. Or fear.

“We have to try,” I say, locking eyes with him. And for the first time since the hangar, I really see him. The man who used to control every detail of his life. Pressed shirts, polished boots, spotless uniform.

Now, he looks like someone barely keeping it together. Ashy-blond hair unruly. Blue eyes bruised with exhaustion. A five-o-clock shadow that’s turned into a beard.

He looks wrecked.

Not just guilty.

Haunted.

Like he’s carrying around a secret he’s barely keeping from shattering.

“Uh oh,” Eli mutters.

A red light begins blinking on the panel. Fast. Rhythmic. His eyes lock on the targeting interface. The launcher screen is active. The targeting system is moving on its own.

“No,” Gary huffs, pushing past him.

I follow their gaze.

The missile system is online. And it’s locking onto our own jets. Two signatures. Fast, airborne. Scooter. Thea.

“Those are friendly targets!” I shout. “Kill the feed!”

“I can’t,” Eli growls. “They’ve hijacked the system. It’s firing protocol. Autonomous.”

Onscreen, the targeting crosshairs center.

Locked.

I slam my fist against the console.

“Don’t you dare—”

Shrill tone.

One missile armed.

Then another.

The screen blinks red.

TARGET LOCK CONFIRMED.

The launch console flashes. The hangar outside erupts in light. For one breathless second, I wonder if I’ve died.

Maybe I have.

Maybe this is what it feels like watching the people you love go down first.