Page 221 of Immune

The pale-haired man slams a shoulder into a guard, but not cleanly or strong enough to be intentional. The act is more like a wounded animal reacting before thought can intervene.

The guard stumbles into the door, and the whole panel rattles in its frame.

Dakota steps back, but not away. More like she’s preparing.

Fletcher notices and mutters, “Kota.”

She doesn’t hear him. Or, she does and simply decides the sound belongs to a world that can wait for a little while.

Valeria looks over at Hale. “Open the door before he hurts himself worse than he already is.”

“Or hurts someone else,” Hale finally relents.

I catch Dakota’s eyes close around her hidden knife, and I shift forward despite the pain that burns through my side. I don’t know what my intention is, whether it’s to stop her or follow her, and that’s becoming a really big problem of mine.

The lock releases a second later. Maybe Mercer enters the code, or maybe it was Valeria. Maybe Hale finally pulled his head out of his ass, understanding that keeping the door shut won’t keep the control inside this hallway.

It doesn’t matter, because the clean mechanical click slices through every voice, and the door opens inward.

Cold air spills out first, followed quickly by the copper tang of blood. Antiseptic and rainwater come next and, underneath it all, so faint I could convince myself I’m smellingthings that aren’t there, I smell something like fresh-cut grass dragged through smoke.

Dakota inhales subtly just as the pale-haired man turns toward the opening door. Not fully, and not clearly, but quickly. Way too fast for someone injured. And way too fast for someone surrounded.

His hands come up. Maybe to block, or maybe to reach. Maybe because survival has eaten the difference out of him too.

Dakota moves.

No hesitation.

No recognition.

No soft, broken whisper of his name.

Just six years of grief, blockers, knives, and old instructions snapping her into motion. She goes for him like he's the danger standing between her and the truth.

And, for the first time since I met her, I’m not quick enough to stop what happens next.

THIRTY-FOUR

DAKOTA

The man moves way too fast, so I hit him first.

There isn’t a single thought in it. No plan. No careful and smart little survival calculation drawn up in the exhausted back office of my skull. There’s only movement, blood, too many hands, a body turning toward the open door, and the swift and relentless animal certainty that if I wait even one more second, something bad will happen. Something terrible.

So I make something terrible happen first.

My shoulder slams into his middle before he can fully face me, and the impact yanks a harsh sound from his chest. He’s bigger than I expect him to be, solid in a way that memory isn’t, and hard under ripped fabric and blood-soaked layers. He’s all muscle and bone and fever-hot survival.

He stumbles back into the metal table, and a medic swears from somewhere nearby.

Someone shouts my name.

Maybe Kota.

Maybe Dakota.

Maybe don’t.