Page 182 of Immune

Her eyes flick to me under the brim of the faded hat she risked her life to retrieve. She doesn’t look surprised. She looks like she’s measuring.

“Where?” she asks.

I point with two fingers, keeping my voice even. “Clinic sign. Lower bolt’s scraped fresh. Glass near the doorway’s broken inward but clean along the edges. Cloth on the fence doesn’t have weather on it.”

She looks again, and I wait, because that part matters too. Waiting. Letting her decide if I’m right instead of expecting her to take my word just because I’ve got a deeper voice, a rifle in my hands, and a dick between my legs.

After a few seconds, she nods once. “Someone used the alley recently.”

“Yeah.”

“Vector?”

“Could be compound scouts,” I answer.

She gives me a flat look I’ve seen her give Ewan countless times now. “I thought the optimism was copyrighted by that one.”

Then she jerks at the man in question, who is doing everything to act like he’s not listening to the conversation when I know he’s hearing it better and clearer than anyone on this roof.

“Ain’t optimism. Just don’t like picking one problem when I’ve got the chance to have two,” I tell her.

Pretty sure her mouth almost twitches under her bandana, the material shifting slightly. I count it as a win, because I’m apparently starving for poor judgment.

Kaito shifts, his gaze fixed on the compound wall. “If scouts used it, they’re probably watching it.”

“If Vector used it, they might be waiting in it,” Xeon adds.

Ewan sighs. “Wow. The alley has options. Love that.”

The pilot coughs from where he’s propped against the roof edge, his fever worsened. Sweat beads on his forehead, gray under his skin. Whatever he carries, whatever he knows, his body is running out of places to keep it.

Not cargo.

Blood marker.

NOVAC marker.

They can follow reaction.

I look over at Dakota before I can stop myself, only to find her already looking my way, and that tells me enough. Not everything. Not even close. But it’s enough for me to know there’s something she’s holding with both hands inside her chest. Something sharp enough to cut anyone who even attempts to reach for it.

So I don’t reach. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever unless she gives me the handle.

“Open street’s no good,” I say. “Alley’s watched or trapped. Clinic roof might have a back stair.”

Dakota snorts. “Might?”

“Can’t see from here,” I explain, raising an eyebrow.

“Huh. That’s a refreshing bit of honesty.”

“It happens sometimes.”

“Bet it hurts,” she comments.

“Like hell,” I tell her seriously.

And this time, something shifts in her eyes. Not quite amusement, but closer to the place amusement would exist if she actually let it live.