Page 250 of Immune

Hale folds his hands over the file. “You’re connected to Dr. Conrad O’Reilly’s research, to Maine O’Reilly’s recovered fieldwork, and possibly to Vector’s tracking system. We need cooperation.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Then how about you try asking nicely.”

“This is nicely.”

“Nah,” I scoff. “This is politely threatening me with really shitty fluorescent lighting.”

Fletcher’s mouth doesn’t move, but his eyes certainly do, and I catch the amusement in them before he banishes it again. I’d be offended, but it’s kind of nice having someone actually appreciate my work.

Hale exhales through his nose. “You might not understand the scale of what exactly is happening here.”

Oh, lovely. There it is. The compound voice. Calm. Heavy. Certain. Full of authority that means shit to me. Men with folders love sounding like the world is too big for anyone else’s teeny-tiny brains.

I lean forward. “I think I fully understand the scale. I lived outside your walls for six years.”

The room falls quiet then, but not because I’m wrong. It’s because no one likes being reminded that their safety has an address. It has a pin stuck in a map on the wall.

Mercer clears his throat. “We can do this without turning her into a prisoner.”

Hale’s eyes suddenly cut to him. “Can we?”

Oh, this fucker.

Before Mercer can answer, the door opens suddenly. There’s no knock or announcement, just a man stepping into the room as if hinges are just things that mean something to other people.

I don’t know him, and that’s the first problem. The second is that he looks at me like he already thinks he does.

He’s broad-shouldered and clean in that compound way I’m starting to distrust, dark hair cropped close to his head and boots that have been polished enough to spit on the apocalypse. His shirt is standard-issue, but he wears it like a second skin, sleeves pushed up and collar hanging open just enough to turn regulation into a mere suggestion he can opt in for.

Two men linger behind him in the hall. They’re not guards, because they certainly don’t stand like guards. They stand like men waiting to be impressed by whatever the hell this asshole does next.

The newcomer’s gaze moves over the room with a casual ownership I don’t like.

Hale.

Mercer.

Valeria.

Fletcher.

Then me.

He pauses there, not long enough that anyone polite could call it staring, but long enough for my skin to pay attention. His eyes meet the brim of my hat, then the bandanaover my mouth, and the line of my throat above the fabric. Then he dips lower, and then back up, only slower this time. Like he’s cataloging details and placing them into boxes while enjoying the process.

My stomach gives a small, brutal twist. Not with fear, but recognition. Because this is a different predator only with the same appetite as all the rest.

“Commander,” he says. “Heard there was a security review.”

Hale’s irritation sharpens to a point instantly. “Davis. This is closed.”

Davis. Oh, great. A name for the walking, talking rash.

“Didn’t look closed,” Davis counters.

“The door was literally closed,” I point out.

His gaze flicks back to me and there’s curiosity there now. That, and a heavy dose of amusement. Worse, there’s interest. It’s the kind of interest that doesn’t ask for permission before it morphs into attention.