Page 170 of Immune

I glare at him, but he offers no apology. That’s fine. We don’t have time for one anyway.

The walkway doors are just ahead, and so is the second canister, still blinking. It’s too close to the exit. A trap on top of a trap. Beautiful. Absolutely love this for us.

The Runner screeches from above, sounding closer now, and I look up just in time to witness a ceiling panel near the end of the corridor buckle.

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

“Runner in the ceiling,” I snap.

Fletcher’s gaze follows mine. “Canister?”

“I see it.”

“Can you disarm it?”

“What the fuck do I look like to you? You think I have a tiny engineering degree hidden up my snatch?” I growl.

“Dakota,” Fletcher pushes.

“Fine,” I snap once more, right before I sprint ahead.

Kaito calls my name from behind me, but I ignore him, because that’s actually one of my best skills.

The canister is wedged near the door hinge, probably placed to scream the moment anyone tries to open the walkway. I drop to one knee, knife in hand, eyes scanning the wiring. Battery. Speaker. Motion switch. Timer already activated.

The red light flashes faster.

Wonderful.

The Runner hits the ceiling panel above me, and cracks spiderweb across the plaster. Fletcher shouts something. Ewan shouts something else. The words blur together until it’s all just noise.

I slide my knife under the tape, pry the battery connection loose, and yank. Hard.

The alarm dies.

The ceiling panel bursts.

And the Runner drops.

Right before it comes straight for me.

I launch myself sideways, but my bad knee catches. Pain flashes bright enough to blind, and the Runner lands where I was kneeling a split second before and skids, claws scraping sparks off the metal doorframe.

I lift my knife, only I’m too slow. Again. I officially hate that word.

Fletcher is still hauling the pilot. Kaito is too far back. Xeon is pinned by the pilot’s weight. And Ewan is fighting off a Zed with a piece of broken chair. Where the fuck did he even get that?

That’s absolutely not the problem here. The problem is that this is all on me.

The Runner throws itself at me. I roll under its first swipe, feeling claws catch the sleeve of my jacket and tear the fabric away from my injured arm. Fire shreds through the old wound, and my scent punches right out of me, sharp with pain.

Of course, the Runner snaps toward it. Of course NOVAC made even pain into a fucking invitation.

I kick its knee, and it folds. It doesn’t fall, though. Its hand closes around my boot and yanks. My back slams into the floor hard enough to steal the breath out of me, and the Runner uses that opportunity to climb over me.