Page 63 of Immune

Or, it did until he rasps, “Water.”

Fletcher adjusts his hold on the man and grumbles, “Soon.”

I eye the man over his shoulder and grimace before pointing out, “Now would probably be better. Like, before he becomes a very tragic and grim backpack you’re hauling around.”

“We stop when we have a defensible position,” the Southern bastard drawls bluntly.

I nod like that’s perfectly acceptable, muttering under my breath, “Oh, lush. Love a defensible position. Actually, I’m a big fan. Would marry one if it had decent legs.”

I’ll be damned if Xeon’s lips don’t twitch a little. An almost-victory. I’ll take it.

We cut through the truck gap and into the courtyard where the grass has gone completely nuts, shoulder-high in some places, with old washing lines dropping between crackedconcrete posts. Rots are ambling near the far wall, drawn by the crash but absolutely buggered by the fencing. Three of them are pressed against a locked gate, fingers hooked through the metal mesh and groaning at absolutely nothing. Sad little sods.

Fletcher signals right and we move around them. While we go, I listen closely once more to my surroundings.

Right there. Above us again, the smallest shift of weight. Oh yeah, our shadow is good. Very good, that’s for sure. But nobody can stay silent forever. Not with an injury or fear or carrying a grief so loud I can practically hear it from all the way down here.

My fingers crush the hat again, understanding enough to feel sick about it.

“Stop touching it,” Fletcher commands without even looking at me.

I drop my hand and pout. “I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“Oh, my bad,” I grumble, rolling my eyes at the big bastard. “I didn’t realize we’d entered the part of the day where my pockets are now under military observation.”

“Everything is under observation,” he counters, as if I should know that by now.

I huff. “That doesn’t seem the least bit healthy, just so you know.”

Xeon glances at my jacket and very softly asks, “You still have it, right?”

“The hat?” I ask, just to be sure that’s what he’s talking about. When he only answers with his eyes, I nod. “Yeah, mate. Still got it.”

That’s when Fletcher finally graces me with a look, bluntly asking, “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Fletch,” I start, irritated by the question, because it should be very fucking obvious why Igrabbed it. “Maybe because the Tiny Terror wielding a knife looked like their heart fell out of their arse the moment the hat landed on the ground. Pretty sure I’ve never seen a soul shatter right before my eyes until that very moment.”

“They’ll come for it,” Fletcher argues, ever the pessimist.

I nod like he’s dull. “Yeah. I know.”

“That makes it bait,” he shoots back, and my face falls when the words sit between us heavily.

Bait. It takes less than a split second for me to absolutely hate that word. Not even because he’s wrong, because he kind of isn’t, but still. I don’t like it. So, with a bit more attitude than I intended, I grouch, “I didn’t grab it as bait.”

Fletch’s expression doesn’t change, nor does his voice as he bluntly snarks, “Don’t matter none if you did or not. Doesn't change what it is.”

Xeon peers up at the balconies again, calm and sad in a way only Xeon can manage while wielding a gun and helping carry a possibly dying pilot. Quietly, he says, “If they come for it, we don’t trap them.”

Fletcher says nothing.

“Fletch,” Xeon pushes, the nickname said even quieter. Carefully. Like a hand near a knife instead of on it.

The scarred fucker clenches his jaw only once before he bluntly retorts, “I haven’t made it a habit of trapping civilians.”

“No,” Xeon agrees. “But this one is already terrified of us as it is.”