dEaDINBURGH: Origins (Din Eidyn Corpus Book 3) by Mark Wilson Page B

on and off for the two hours we’ve been inside the Kirk. Probably Lt Colonel Melville, wondering what the hell’s happened to us.
    Harry places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze.
    “You’ve known me too long to think that that’s an option, Cameron. Let’s get these people secure and then we’ll make our way to Beta Location.”
     
    I don’t turn around. He keeps his hand on my shoulder as I flip through a mental slideshow of the missions we’ve shared over the years.
    Syria, Iraq, Iran, Libya, Ukraine, Kiev, Kosovo, Afghanistan.
    ISIS, Taliban, Al Qaeda.
    Rescues, assassinations, reconnaissance, evacuation.
    Hundreds of instances where Spike, James and I performed our duty and did what was ordered, and more. We had formed a true brotherhood, one forged in the fire of combat and tempered by repeated reliance on each of the men we’d grown so close to.
    We’d saved each other’s lives dozens of times over. We’d bled together and we’d held each other through the most gruelling of experiences. More than once we’d said our goodbyes, expecting to die, and cried our tears of relief and grief together on pulling through. We all knew with certainty, to the marrow of our bones, that we owed our survival to our brothers.
    We’d talked each other through the worst of the mental fallout that blasted each of us in different ways following missions. Each bout of PTSD, depression or survivor’s guilt, threatening to end us more effectively than any bullet or enemy, but never able to hold us in its power for very long, simply because each of us had the others. Truly, the only enemy that ever mattered to us was our own minds at times and only our brothers understood enough to pull us out from the darkest crypts our thoughts could create for us. Only our brothers had been with us for every beat.
    I trusted each of them with my life and would give my own to save either of theirs.
    James, the link between us. Harry and I felt an almost overwhelming need to protect James Shephard at times, not that he needed it. Far from it. James just brought that out in people. He’s one of those men who inspire others with his bravery and willingness to be first to step in. James, our strategist. The man who always saw it as his role to keep everyone from harm, and his fault when Harry or I were injured.
    I’m the munitions guy.   I can shoot. That’s it. I’m not bad in unarmed combat, but arm me and I’ll shoot the baws off of a midge.
    Spike is the all-rounder. Knives are his speciality; he moves like a shadow, like flowing mercury. The stealthy one, the silent killer. He’s the sharp edge to our blade and has saved mine and James’ lives more times than we can count, despite being officially under our protection.
     
    “Okay,” I tell him. “Let’s get on with it then.”
     
     

     
     
    Sliding my eyes over the faces of each of our volunteers, searching their eyes for signs of panic, I relax slightly. They’re all scared but they’re holding it together. A kid named Jenny, who looks around twenty years old and is part of the third wave, catches my eye and gives me a firm nod to let me know she’s ready. She’s dressed in a leather jacket, with a layer of magazine cover taped tightly around her forearms. This won’t protect her from the hundred and sixty-odd pounds of pressure from a human jaw, but might help in preventing the skin being broken and the pathogen transmitted. If it is a pathogen.
    Each one of the volunteer team has taken a similar step to protect themselves from bites. Newspaper, cardboard, bits of carpet – anything that may protect but not restrict. All have at least one improvised melee weapon in hand. Jennifer’s sister is up on the balcony, looking down at her older sibling, fear and worry plain on the girl’s face.
    Someone else catches my eye, a middle-aged bloke this time. His eyes are large, filled with building terror and darting back and forth between his three kids and