"Someone who needs to stop you." She reached into her lab coat. I tensed, hand drifting to the tire iron under my seat. But she pulled out a data slate, cracked and taped at the corners. On its screen was a live feed: Facility D-9, surrounded by Enforcement Union vans. Red lights. Hazmat suits.
I braked. The Junker Jane hissed to a stop twenty feet short of her. The coolant tanks sloshed gently in the back. poly track 6x
The poly track hummed beneath my boots, a low, electric thrum that felt less like sound and more like a second heartbeat. Track 6x was the loneliest stretch in the whole freight hub—a forgotten loop that serviced only the old chemical plants and the dead-end warehouses near the river. Most drivers avoided it. Too narrow, too dark, too many ghosts of spills past. "Someone who needs to stop you
I should not have stopped. Hauler rule number one: No pickups on the poly track . But rule number two was Trust your gut , and my gut was screaming that she wasn't a threat. She was something else. On its screen was a live feed: Facility
Or a trap.
I made a choice. "Get in."