Page 189 of Immune

It’s on sight that I don’t trust her. And not because she looks mean, even though something tells me she could be if she wanted to be. But it’s because she looks competent, and competent people know how to ruin your life while holding a clipboard.

Her gaze moves over us quickly, cataloging wounds, weapons, postures, and threat levels. When her eyes reach me, they pause.

I keep my chin down.

Small Beta boy.

Small Beta boy.

Small Beta boy with a very unfortunate height problem and a perfectly reasonable desire not to be sniffed out by strangers.

The woman stops a few feet away before introducing herself. “I’m Valeria Reyes. Acting perimeter lead.”

Acting. So that means there’s someone above her. Great. A fucking hierarchy. Just my favorite kind of ladder to be pushed from.

“Fletcher Rhodes,” Fletcher says, and it’s the first time I’ve heard his full name in all the time I’ve known the guy. The woman looks at him like the name means absolutely nothing to her, though. That’s good. Or bad? I don’t actually know. It’s hard to tell. “This is Ewan Wells, Kaito Kanai, and Xeon Song.”

Huh. Song. He’s Korean. I mean, not that names really mean much of anything anymore, but some things still hold on like ghosts who can’t quite be put to rest.

Fletcher gestures to each of them, then at the pilot. “Pilot needs treatment. We were bringing him here before Vector boxed the route.”

Valeria’s face hardens at the word Vector, and there’s that recognition I’ve been waiting for. The fear tucked under discipline.

“What did they hit?” she asks.

“Helicopter,” Fletcher tells her. “Came down east of the residential towers.”

Another guard curses under his breath, but Valeria ignores him, instead asking Fletcher, “Cargo?”

My skin prickles at that, but Fletcher doesn’t look at me. Good man. He continues to look at the pretty but kind of scary-looking woman as he says, “Recovered some.”

“Some?”

“Enough to know Vector wants it.”

Her eyes sharpen. “Where is it?”

“Secure,” Fletcher tells her, his voice curt and direct. I have to say, I almost admire the response. Inwardly, of course. I’m not a total idiot.

Valeria’s attention then sweeps over all of us again. This time, her gaze latches onto my backpack, my torn sleeve, and the hand I haven’t fully moved away from my side. She jerks her head toward me and asks, “What about him?”

Him.

Oh yeah, that’s good. I love a bad assumption, especially if it keeps me breathing for another day.

Fletcher answers, “Survivor.”

“Name?”

Everyone goes still in that small way people do when they’re trying not to look at me, so I answer before anyone can make it weird. “Kota.”

My voice comes out rough behind the bandana. Low. Practiced. Incredibly unfriendly.

Valeria watches me. “Just Kota?”

“Just tired, actually,” I answer shortly.

One of the guards snorts, but our girl Valeria doesn’t. Instead, her eyes dip to my arm and she comments, “You’re bleeding.”