Cargo analysis.
Encrypted manifests unfold into ghost images of stacked crates secured with magnetic clamps.
I run a spectral scan through the feed.
The terminal highlights volatile compounds in amber.
Phosphorous accelerants.
Thermobaric ignition gel.
Incendiaries.
My breath goes shallow.
“They’re not just scaring them,” I whisper.
They’re erasing them.
My fingers move faster, splitting the screen into six simultaneous feeds as I begin hunting for personnel signatures.
Heat blooms appear along the convoy’s perimeter.
Human-shaped.
Armed.
Armored.
Professional posture.
I magnify one feed and isolate a single enforcer walking alongside the lead vehicle, his gait loose and predatory, his headconstantly turning in small, controlled arcs that mark him as someone trained to read ambush geometry.
He carries a compact plasma thrower slung low against his thigh.
I feel something hot and metallic rise into the back of my throat.
The pressure in my ribs spikes, a sharp lance of sensation that makes me suck in a breath through clenched teeth.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Okay.”
The terminal chirps again.
A new data packet bleeds through the lower-district net, piggybacking on emergency services bandwidth.
Sirens.
Not close.
Not yet.
But rising.
The city’s automated alert lattice has started noticing things it doesn’t understand.
I reroute that feed too, layering it into the corner of my display.
Emergency dispatch chatter scrolls past in clipped municipal shorthand.
