Page 73 of Undercover Shadow

Two seconds.

Then the screen changed.

Shutdown Sequence Initiated.

Neural Interface Disabled.

EMP Components Deactivated.

All AIWS Systems Terminated.

Countdown Canceled.

The laptop went dark. The hum of active electronics faded to silence. Components that had been ready to destroy civilization powered down into harmless metal and circuit boards.

Nightingale stepped away from the terminal, her whole body shaking now that the adrenaline was crashing. She’d done it. She’d saved the world with seconds to spare.

Movement behind us came sharp and sudden.

Ambrose twisted beneath Con’s restraint, his bound hands reaching for something we’d missed. His fingers found his ankle, and metal glinted in the dim light as he yanked a compact derringer from a concealed holster—he’d have two shots, enough to kill at close range if he got them both off.

“No one wins!” His voice cracked with rage and desperation. “If I can’t have what I deserve, no one?—”

A shot rang out. Ash’s bullet struck Ambrose in the chest, and he jerked backward. The small firearm clattered from his fingers, unfired. Red darkened his expensive shirt, spreading quickly through the fabric. His eyes went wide with shock, then confusion, then nothing.

He slumped to the flagstones and went still.

Silence crashed down around us.

Ash’s hand trembled, and his face drained of color as he lowered his gun with his hand. He’d just killed his uncle.

Con’s hand gripped Ash’s shoulder. “You did what had to be done.”

Ash didn’t respond. He just stared at Ambrose’s body.

I caught Nightingale before her knees gave out and pulled her against my chest. She was alive. We were all alive. And AIWS was dead.

“It’s over,” I said into her hair. “You did it. Everything’s over.”

But looking around the room—at McLaren’s body, at Ambrose’s still form, the blood pooled around Dalgleish, at MacLeod weeping against the wall, at MacKenzie, who may or may not still be breathing—I knew it wasn’t over. Not really.

The aftermath was just beginning.

17

NIGHTINGALE

Gunshots still echoed in my ears—sharp cracks that had ended four lives.

I couldn’t look away from McLaren slumped against the terminal where she’d made her final stand, the Damascus codes, her last gift to the world. Blood had pooled beneath her, dark against the stone. Her eyes remained open, fixed on nothing, but I felt like she could still see me. Behind us, I could hear Lex crying while Con murmured something low and comforting. Ash said nothing, but his silence carried more weight than words. He stood over his uncle’s body, the gun still in his hand.

“Leila.” Tag’s voice cut through the fog, and his hands gripped my shoulders. “We need to go.”

I nodded, but my feet wouldn’t move. The drugs MacLeod had injected still clouded my system.

“Now.” He pulled me toward the door, with his arm around my waist, holding me upright when my legs threatened to give out.

But I couldn’t leave yet. I pulled away and moved to McLaren’s body, kneeling beside her despite Tag’s protest. Her hand was still warm when I took it.