Page 187 of Immune

The compound walls rise over us, tall enough to block the sun from this side of the street. For a second, Dakota falls into their shadow and disappears under the brim of her hat. My chest tightens, but not with panic. With purpose.

Dangerous thing, purpose. It can make a man noble, or it can make him fuckin’ cruel.

I keep my voice low. “There are guards above. Gate ahead. Blind corner on the right. Signs of recent movement outside the wall. We don’t know their rules yet.”

Dakota looks at me, but I don’t tell her what to do. I let the facts float between us until she finally nods. “Then we don’t let them decide the shape of us before we get inside.”

Something in me goes still. Not soft, and not sweet. Still. Because that’s exactly it.

The shape of us.

This battered, bleeding, half-formed thing we’ve become on the road. Not a pack. Not yet. Maybe never in any way I’ll ever understand. But something. Something I don’t want those walls to split apart.

Ewan shifts behind us. Kaito breathes through his pain. Xeon adjusts his hold on the pilot. And at the top of the nearest watch post, a guard sees us. His rifle comes up as he shouts, “Hands where I can see them!”

Every muscle in me begs to step in front of Dakota, but I don’t. I move a half step closer to her side instead. It’s close enough to cover, but not enough to cage, and Dakota notices. Of course she does.

Her eyes flick to me for half a second, then back to the guard. Slowly, very deliberately, she raises one hand. Not both. Never both.

I almost smile, but then the compound gate groans.

Locks shift.

Chains scrape.

And as the first face appears between the bars, I realize the walls were never the part that had me the most worried.

It was what people become once they’re standing behind them.

THIRTY

DAKOTA

The gate opens like it actually hates us.

Metal groans and chains scrape. Locks shift one after another from the other side, too many of them, and each sharp sound crawls under my skin and rattles old instincts awake.

Open gates should feel good. This one, though? This one feels like I’m facing the end head-on. Like I’m facing a mouth that is ready to swallow me whole.

“Hands where I can see them,” the guard calls from above. He has a rifle trained on us from the watch post, and another guard stands behind the bars with one hand on the gate mechanism and the other on his sidearm. Two more appear along the wall, their weapons angled down and faces half-hidden behind masks and hard expressions.

Not Vector masks, though. Compound masks. Which doesn’t comfort me as much as it probably should.

I keep one hand raised. Only the one, though. The other stays low, near my thigh, close enough to my knife that I can pretend the distance doesn’t even matter. Fletcher notices, because of course he does, but he doesn’t tell me to raise both hands.

He stands next to me instead of in front of me, rifle lowered but not dropped. Ewan holds both of his hands up, palms open, and mouth shut for once. Kaito looks one stiff breeze away from falling over and still somehow manages to look dangerous. Xeon keeps the pilot upright with quiet strength, his face calm despite the barrel aimed at his chest.

The guard behind the gate looks us over.

Four Alphas.

One injured pilot.

One small masked survivor tucked among them like a little suspicious afterthought.

His gaze lingers on me for a little too long, but that’s no surprise. Most men’s eyes always do, but not always because they know. Sometimes it’s because they want to know, and sometimes it’s because a body buried under layers makes people curious in the same way locked doors make people stupid.

“State your business,” the guard commands.