FORTY-FIVE #2
Pain detonates with the brightest flare of white-hot agony.
It’s all-consuming, locking my body down so tight that my teeth clench together so tight it makes my gums ache.
The pistol slips from my hand and, for one horrible second, I’m right back in the hallway with Davis.
Not because of the electricity, but because of the way my body goes cold under it.
Because of that terrible moment where my skin stopped feeling like skin, my thoughts sharpened into weapons, and something inside me reached for the wheel and swerved left.
Distance.
Pulse.
Weapon.
No.
I bite my tongue hard enough that I taste blood.
Mine.
I am mine.
I hit the ground on my side, arm spasming uselessly, knee screaming, and teeth clamped against the sound trying its best to crawl up my throat. The NOVAC cold flickers at the edge of my vision, trying to turn everything into angles and targets.
I refuse it, not because I’m all noble and shit.
It’s because I don’t know what will happen if I let it take me while there are Zeds bursting into the compound, chemicals, and my bonded Alphas close enough to be caught in the blast radius of whatever the hell my body will decide survival means.
A boot steps close to my face and I sweep my good leg out, taking out the man’s ankle like the menace I’ve taught myself to be.
He falls and I grab the dart gun with numb fingers and jam it against his thigh.
He sees what I’m about to do and his eyes widen behind his goofy-ass goggles right before I pull the trigger.
The dart punches through fabric and his body jerks once. Then his breathing changes, growing fast and panicked.
“Suppressant dose,” one of the others snaps. “Watch cross-exposure.”
Suppressant. Not a sedative like I thought, but a suppressant.
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
Omega suppressant.
Alpha-disruptors.
Shock weapons.
Scent-masking chemicals.
Masks.
Smoke.
Lures.
A whole-ass nightmare kit that has been built around someone exactly like me.
I scramble backward, dragging my bad arm close to my chest. Then I whisper roughly, “Collectors.”
The word tastes like bile, and one of the masked bastards hears me. He tilts his head, but not with confusion. There’s too much amusement for that, and that tells me more than enough.
It’s only then that my fear finally catches up with the rage. It slams into me so hard my breath stutters.
They don’t know that I’m an Immune, a name Mercer has given those like me.
Hell, if there even are more like me out there in the broken world.
They don’t know about my blood, my father, Mercer’s vial, NOVAC stabilizing inside me like a science experiment with boundary issues.
They don’t have a single clue about any of that. They only know I’m an Omega.
And that’s enough.
That’s always been enough.
The thought should splinter something in me. Instead, it sharpens every single jagged piece.
I push myself up off the ground, swaying before grabbing the closest thing I can reach. That just so happens to be the length of a broken pipe. Love that. Very end-of-the-world chic.
“You want me?” I rasp, blood in my mouth, smoke in my eyes, and Maine’s hat still somehow clinging to my head like the stubborn relic it is. “Then come and fucking get me, assholes.”
They do.
All at once.
The first rushes at me with a shock baton. I step inside the swing of it because away would be too slow. The baton catches my shoulder instead of my ribs, and electricity zaps across my skin. Pain claws at my vision, but my pipe still smashes across his knee and the joint buckles with a wet pop.
I take his baton as he falls just as the second grabs me from behind. I jam the baton backward between his legs and trigger it. I think I giggle at the scream he releases, but I can’t actually hear myself over the shrill decibel of the guy’s pain. Good. I hope it fucking hurts, too.
The third punches me in the stomach hard enough to fold me in half. Air leaves my lungs in one pained rush, and he catches my wrist before I can swing, twisting until my fingers open. The baton drops, so I do the next best thing. I slam my fucking forehead into his mask.
The goggles crack and so does something in my poor, sorry head. Stars burst across my vision, cementing that it wasn’t such a great idea after all, but it was certainly useful. He staggers around aimlessly so I kick him in the knee and lunge for the service lane.
For one beautiful, impossible, glorious second, I think I might have actually done it.
Then the universe absolutely shits on me and the whole world jerks sideways. Something loops around my throat and under one of my arms and it doesn’t take me long to realize what it is.
A strap.
No. No, no, no.
A capture sling.
The words appear in my brain with a bone-chilling certainty, because there is absolutely no way a normal person would think to use something like that unless they’ve done it before.
The strap tightens, but not enough to choke, just enough to control. I claw at it with my good hand, but another shock round slams into my leg and my knees buckle. I hit the ground hard enough to rattle my teeth, cracking together with a sound that’s too loud in my ears.
A hand catches Maine’s hat while it’s still on my head.
“No,” I snarl, and the sound that comes out of me isn’t human at all.
I grab the wrist attached to the hand and bite down through gloves, fabric, and skin. The man curses loudly and the hat stays on, which is a tiny victory. A stupid victory, but mine all the same.
It’s short-lived, too, because a boot slams into my ribs a moment later, and the breath that explodes out of me comes with a world of pain. It flashes so bright that the three bonds inside me grow feral.
Ewan’s panic turns vicious.
Kaito’s control fractures into murder.
Fletcher’s steady warmth becomes an animalistic roar so deep that I feel it in the marrow of my bones.
They’re coming. I know they’re coming. I can feel them tearing through the compound toward me. But every second stretches. Every inch matters.
And Vector knows that too.
“Dose her,” someone orders.
“No,” I spit, because I’m absolutely nothing if I’m not committed to being the biggest pain in the ass to deal with.
I wrench sideways and manage to get one knee under me. It’s my bad one, but who gives a shit right now? Not me. The sling tightens and another hand grabs my bad arm, and the pain blanks my vision completely.
A needle flashes from nearby and I catch the wrist right before it sinks into my neck. The injector stops literally an inch away from my skin, and we freeze there. Me shaking, him pushing, and the needle trembling between us like the world’s worst compromise.
I bare my teeth and snarl, “Try it, fucker.”
He does.
I twist my head and the needle stabs into the side of his hand instead.
He shouts and drops the injector, and I can’t help but laugh at the idiot.
It sounds completely unhinged, literally crazy.
Good. That’s good. Let them wonder and worry about my mental stability.
Let them understand that whatever they thought they were stealing isn’t just going to fit neatly in the cage they’ve already prepped ready for me.
Then the fourth man appears, but he’s not rushing. He’s not angry. He steps through the smoke with a different kind of mask, black glass over the eyes, and a long coat sealed at the throat. Older, maybe. It’s hard to tell. But his gloves are clean and his posture is calm.
I hate the bastard instantly.
He crouches in front of me while two men hold the sling and another guy grips my arm.
“Dakota O’Reilly,” he says.
My blood stops running through my veins altogether, because he uses my name.
Not Omega.
Not girl.
Not asset.
My. Name. They know my name.
“How cute. A fan,” I rasp. “Didn’t know fangirls made it into the apocalypse.”
His head tilts, and it’s a creepy move from him. “You’ve caused quite the disruption.”
“Yeah,” I snort. “You’d be surprised how often I get that. You’re not special.”
“You have no idea what you’re worth,” he says, this villainous monologue starting kind of slow for my liking, even if my stomach churns at his words.
“That’s funny you say that. People keep saying it like that makes them sound less disgusting,” I smart, running my mouth for no good reason.
He reaches into his coat and I throw myself forward so violently the men holding me back curse. The sling bites harshly into me, my shoulder almost tearing out of place. For half a second, my forehead almost connects with his face shield.
Almost.
He doesn’t even flinch, though.
Shit.
The injector he produces is different from the one before. Wider and metal with a yellow band around the chamber. Every single part of my body recoils from it and I snap, “What the fuck is that shit?”
“Insurance,” he says calmly.
I kick out but he shifts out of reach. The men holding me force my arm down but I thrash so hard he loses his grip. I manage to get my fingers around the strap at my throat, so I pull, twist, and almost slip free. Then the fossil presses the injector against the side of my neck.
The bite of the needle is tiny, but the effect is anything but.