Page 73 of Immune

But I don’t.

The hat is warm under my hand now, pressed between my chest and jacket securely. Maine’s. Mine. Safe. At least for the time being.

Above us, boots pound against the stairwell. The three Alphas, of course. And below us, looters are screaming as the Runners collide with them and their bullets.

Kaito looks at me with a silent question in his eyes.

Run? Hide? Fight?

For once, I don’t instantly choose on my own. I press my fingers to my lips and point toward the hallway ahead where shadows and darkness bend around the corner.

He nods without argument or jokes or grabbing and, together, silent as the dead used to be, we crawl deeper into the dark while the park below shreds itself apart.

FIFTEEN

FLETCHER

The rogue Alpha has her pinned to the ground.

It’s the first thing I see when I reach the second-floor hallway with Ewan on my right and Xeon moving quietly behind me. Not the looters outside, not the Rots gathering in the courtyard, or the gunfire splitting open the night and calling every single dead thing for half a mile.

Her. On the floor. Under him. His hand over her mouth and his body covering hers.

My rifle comes up before that thought is even fully formed. Every nasty possibility lines itself up in an orderly little row inside my skull.

Rogue Alpha. Injured but still strong. Found with the possible Omega at the crash. Followed her, maybe? Cornered her, possibly? Definitely tackled her in a dark hallway while we were still three turns behind them.

I don’t fuckin’ like unknowns, and I hate this one the most.

“Off her,” I command bluntly, my voice low and quiet. The kind of quiet that makes men who’ve spent any time around violence either listen or die surprised.

The rogue Alpha’s head turns and I catalog everything about him in rapid succession. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Pale face. Blood through his shirt. Eyes sharp despite the pain. His hand isn’t covering her face anymore, so that means he’s either smart enough to know when to let go or quick enough that he’s already made his point. Still, his body is angled over hers, one arm braced near her shoulder, not pinning her down now butkeeping himself between her and the cracked window. Between her and outside.

My finger settles close to the trigger. Not on it, but close.

The Omega twists under him like a knife with a pulse, one hand clamped tightly around the old cap under her jacket, the other gripping a blade with white knuckles. If she’d wanted him dead, I’m pretty sure he would already be bleeding somewhere new, and that matters a whole lot.

Doesn’t mean I lower my rifle. I wasn’t born yesterday and I wasn’t raised stupid.

“Fletcher,” Xeon says softly behind me.

I don’t take my eyes off the rogue Alpha. “I see him.”

“Then see where he’s looking,” Xeon instructs gently, making my jaw tighten.

Shifting my eyes only half an inch, I follow the angle of the rogue’s body. Through the cracked window, I spot movement cutting across the park. Men. Five at first. Wait, no. Seven. Seven unknown variables. Two near the road, using rusted cars as cover, rifles up and flashlights beaming red light. Yellow cloth is tied around one man’s arm, and another carries the helicopter pack by one strap. One has something long slung over his shoulder that doesn’t belong in the hands of just random, ordinary looters.

My blood turns cold in a way that I trust.

That’s a launcher. The kind built to punch an aircraft out of the sky. I’m talkin’ old military style, maybe even modified. It ain’t clean work, but more field work. The kind of weapon pieced together by people who definitely know enough to be dangerous and not enough to be careful.

“Down,” I order.

Ewan drops without uttering a single joke, and that tells me enough. Xeon lowers beside him, eyes narrowing on the park below. The rogue Alpha slides off the girl slowly, keeping bothhands visible for a moment before he points toward the armed men.

The masked scavenger doesn’t thank him, nor does it look like she even wants to. Instead, she rolls to her feet, cap still tucked tight inside her jacket, blade in hand and shoulders squared with both fury and fear. Her hood has slipped a little, enough for her pale hair to show in thin strands close to her cheek. The old bandana hides half of her face, but it doesn’t hide the way her eyes dart to each of us in order.

Me. Ewan. Xeon.