"Colonel Higgens, I don't think you fully understand what these men are going through, what is happening to their brains." Dr. Whitney was pursuing what was obviously a longstanding argument between them. "We've already lost several men…"

"They knew the risks," Higgens retorted, glowering at Miller. "This is an important experiment. We need these men to perform. The loss of a few men, while tragic, is an acceptable loss considering the importance of what these men can do."

Ryland didn't look at Higgens. He kept his glittering gaze fixed on Lily Whitney. But his entire mind reached out. Took hold. Closed like a vise.

Lily's head snapped up. She gasped out a soft protest. Her gaze dropped to Ryland's hands. She watched his fingers slowly begin to curl as if around a thick throat. She shook her head, a slight protest.

Higgens coughed. A barking grunt. His mouth hung open as he gasped for air. Peter Whitney and the young guard both reached for the colonel, trying to open his stiff shirt collar, trying to help him breathe. The colonel staggered, was caught and lowered to the floor by the scientist.

Stop it. The voice in Ryland's mind was soft.

Ryland's dark brow shot up and his gleaming gaze met Lily's. The doctor's daughter was definitely telepathic. She was calm about it, her gaze steady on his, not in the least intimidated by the danger emanating from him. She appeared as cool as ice.

He's willing to sacrifice every one of my men. They aren't expendable. He was just as calm, not for a moment relenting.

He's a moron. No one is willing to sacrifice the men; no one considers them expendable; and he isn't worth branding yourself a murderer.

Ryland allowed his breath to escape in a soft, controlled stream, clearing his lungs, clearing his mind. Deliberately he turned his back on the writhing man and paced across the cell, his fingers slowly uncurling.