Page 342 of Immune

Vector has been here way longer than tonight.

At the inner access point, Fletcher pauses and raises one fist. There are voices above and then a door. Two men stomp down metal stairs, laughing quietly.

“…shipment moves at dawn,” one says. “Omega first. Drives after.”

NOVAC drives.

My fingers tighten around my knife.

“Commander’s payment better be worth this,” the other mutters.

Payment.

Hale.

Ewan’s eyes go black with rage. The same kind of rage I can feel spreading through my chest like its very own infection.

Fletcher touches two fingers to the ground.

Wait.

I do wait, but only barely.

The first man reaches the bottom step and then I move. I take him by the throat and drive him into the wall hard enough to dent metal. My blade slides between his ribs before he can gasp. Then the second reaches for his gun but Xeon is there. He breaks the guy’s wrist and Ewan catches the weapon before it can clatter against the floor. Maine clamps a hand over the guy’s mouth, shaking with the effort not to shout.

Fletcher leans in close to the guard’s ear and, with a deadly calm I can appreciate, asks, “Where is she?”

The guard’s eyes roll so I take that as an invitation to press my blade against his lower stomach. It’s not enough to kill, but I’d like to consider it enough to promise a memorable education. “Where?”

Looks like he’s decided to understand me a little better than Fletcher. Fear holds that kind of power.

“Processing,” he chokes behind Maine’s hand, the word muffled but audible enough that I catch it. “Second floor. Medical cage row. Please.”

Medical cage row.

Something inside me goes silent. There’s nothing calm about it. We’re past that point. Hell, I don’t think I even know what calm is right now. Fletcher knocks him unconscious with the butt of his knife before I can kill the fucker.

We climb the metal stairs and the warehouse smells grow thicker the higher we go. Smells like blood, disinfectant, rot, suppressants, and old fear.

On the first level, we pass cages. Some are empty and some aren’t. A torn sweater in one, a fucking kid’s shoe in another. Blankets stiff with old scents and restraints bolted to floors. Crates of Omega suppressants are stacked next to scent blockers, shock collars, heat dampeners, NOVAC-labeled drives, stolen medical kits, and cargo tags marked by destination codes.

Collectors.

Traffickers.

Scientists.

Literally just scavengers with paperwork.

Ewan looks like he might be sick while Fletcher’s hands curl once. Xeon doesn’t look away from any of it.

Maine whispers, “Kota saw this.”

No one answers, because we all know. There’s not a single doubt in my mind that she would have understood exactly what kind of hands had taken her.

My bond pulls again.

Up.