Trigger by Courtney Alameda Page B

Elite for a decade. It didn’t matter that Delgado’s two kids were sophomores in the academy, like me. Luis and Gabriela were still in class, thinking nothing was wrong with their world. Someday, I might be in their shoes, listening to a lecture on corps history while Dad lay dead on a tunnel floor somewhere. A tremor wormed up from the soles of my feet and bit into my heart. Almost every commander in chief of the Helsing Corps died in the field. Someday, Dad’s number would come up.
    Not today.
    â€œHow did this happen?” I walked forward, my gaze stuck to the triangle-shaped wounds in Delgado’s chest.
    â€œThree scissorclaws took advantage of a tunnel intersection and surprised us,” Carroll said. A finger of cold air slid under my collar and traced my spine— scissorclaw . “Smarter than any I’ve seen before. We killed two”—he motioned to a pair of body-bagged lumps in the corner, ones too big to be human anymore. Red biohazard symbols were stamped on the bags beside the Helsing H insignia . “The last one—the big one—is responsible for the captain. Never seen one so smart. The goddamn thing set traps for us.”
    I glanced at Ryder: One corner of his lips twitched, his nostrils flared, and his breath hitched, all products of the same morbid adrenaline rush that swept my own veins. Fight or flight. We reapers preferred fight.
    Dad rose and cleared his throat, as if emptying out any emotion. “Johnson, Nunes, get the bodies back to Dr. Stoker at HQ and keep this quiet. I will inform the families personally. As for the rest of you, I want this monster dead by dawn.”
    â€œSir.” Our voices echoed in the tunnels.
    â€œMicheline and I will take point—she’ll spot the necro before any of you.” Dad rose and turned to the canine handlers. “Give her one of the dogs.”
    The men exchanged glances. “They won’t obey a different handler, sir; these dogs are—”
    â€œDo it,” Dad said, his tone sharp. One handler handed me the leash to a black German Shepherd named Brutus. The dog wore a stab-proof vest over his sides and chest; his withers were marked with the same insignia tattooed on everything belonging to Helsing, including its reapers. Brutus even had a lamp strapped to his head.
    I threaded my left hand through the leash’s loop and wrapped it tight around my wrist. I’d need my right hand for the Colt at my hip.
    The handler knelt down, offering Brutus a bloody cloth with the necro’s scent. The man’s lips were pursed tight, almost white. When he didn’t make eye contact with me, I figured he didn’t approve of the order but had enough sense not to disobey.
    I glanced up at Dad. “Ready?”
    He nodded, stripping the rifle off his shoulder and pumping a cartridge into its chamber.
    â€œBrutus, such ,” I said. Track —all our working dogs were trained with German commands.
    The dog leapt forward, tail wagging, the only cheerful member of our crew. Everyone else was sober with the blood of our dead on our boots; steely with fingers on feather-light triggers; silent with the stress of stalking a killer.
    Dad walked on my right side, his rifle tucked against his shoulder, Helsing ink visible on his hand. Our reapers had the Helsing insignia tattooed under their left index knuckle, but Dad’s was outlined in a paper-thin red line. That line meant commander. The buck stops here. Boss. My lack of one meant expectations , scrutiny , and most importantly, heiress presumptive. If I failed to pass muster, one of my younger brothers would inherit the corps instead.
    I didn’t intend to let that happen; I was the eldest. Leading the corps was my responsibility, and like the generations of Helsings who’d come before me, reaping the dead was my life.
    Brutus led us into a warren of tunnels, tugging me through turns and corridors, his nose to the ground. Ryder