Page 186 of Immune

The access room is cramped and dim, filled with old maintenance shelves and broken cleaning supplies. Xeon has the pilot upright while Kaito covers the door. Ewan’s head is tilted as he listens like only he can.

“Movement above and behind,” Ewan says. “Not on us yet.”

“Then we move,” I say.

Dakota lifts one brow and I catch myself.

“Door leads toward the clinic side,” I add. “If my read’s right, it should bring us out by the outer perimeter without crossing the alley.”

Her brow lowers, only barely. Approval, maybe? Or less disapproval. I’ll honestly take either.

We pass through the access room and into a narrow back hall. The clinic has been stripped but not destroyed. Cabinets hang open, old posters curl on the walls, and someone painted arrows in black along the floor, all pointing toward the front exit.

It’s too neat. Too useful.

I stop before I step over the first one, and Dakota stops next to me. This time, I don’t need to point.

“Bait?” she whispers.

“Could be.”

“Or old evacuation markings.”

“Could be,” I repeat.

She looks over at me. “You’re doing that annoying two-problem thing again.”

“Feels efficient.”

“It feels like pessimism wearing boots and carrying a rifle,” she contradicts.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t ma’am me.”

“Noted.”

Ewan murmurs from behind us, “Oh god, their flirting is just getting more and more aggressive.”

“We’re not flirting,” Dakota and I say at the exact same time.

Silence answers, then Kaito, dry as the dust that coats the floor, says, “Sure, that was really convincing.”

Dakota makes a sound of pure disgust before pushing ahead, but she checks the floor before every step. I check the walls, offering mutual competence. I mean, there are worse things to build on.

We avoid the painted arrows and cut through a records room instead, then a supply hall, then a broken consultation room with one wall blown out into the back courtyard.

The outer perimeter is right there. Close enough now that I can hear voices on the other side of the barricade. Close enough to smell cooking smoke under the rot and damp I’ve grown used to. Close enough to see the gate mechanism welded from scavenged parts, reinforced with chains and steel bars. Close enough to notice the fresh boot prints outside it.

Not Vector.

Compound.

And a lot of them. Recently, by the looks of things. They knew trouble was coming. Or they bring trouble out here often enough to leave a trail.

Dakota steps up beside me, shoulder almost aligned with mine. Not behind, and not in front. Next to me. Her gaze tracks the boot prints, the gate, the watch post, and the blind corner close to the concrete barriers where the guards dragged that body.

She says nothing, but she doesn’t need to. I see it, too.