“Full control?” she asks, cautious.
I tap the token I gave her earlier—Kaijen archive access, plus more. “Route hacking. Cameras. Traffic locks. Comm distortions. You’re driving the city’s nervous system.”
Jordan stares at me like I just handed her a loaded weapon and told her to have fun.
Then she swallows and says quietly, “Okay. Then we do it right.”
I gesture toward the map display. “Show me the arteries.”
Jordan steps forward, fingers flying as she overlays Gur’s industrial district: rail lines, service tunnels, cargo elevators, maintenance corridors. The map becomes a living thing—veins of movement, choke points, blind spots.
“If they’re going to hit us,” she says, voice tight, “they’ll do it where they can force us to slow down. Intersections. Locks. Transit hubs.”
“Agreed,” I say.
Jordan highlights a narrow corridor between two industrial stacks. “Here. Camera coverage is heavy, but the feed runs through a local node I can spoof. I can loop it for thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds is a lot,” I say.
“It’s also nothing,” she replies. “Depends what you’re doing with it.”
I feel a smile tug at my mouth. “I like you when you’re murderous.”
Jordan rolls her eyes. “Don’t get sentimental. It’s gross.”
Rook steps in, silent, holding a folded coat and a cap. “Convoy ready. Morazin is secured.”
Jordan’s jaw tightens. “I want eyes on him.”
“You’ll have them,” I say. “But you’re not in the same vehicle.”
She whips her head toward me. “Lonari?—”
“No,” I say, firm. “You already survived one grab for your compad. I’m not letting you be the second.”
Jordan’s eyes flash with anger, then something softer—fear she refuses to admit.
Finally she snaps, “Fine. But if you die, I’m burning this syndicate to the ground out of spite.”
I tilt my head. “Romantic.”
She flips me off.
We move.
Morazin smells like cold sweat and expensive cologne that can’t hide panic.
He sits hunched in the back of the real vehicle—an unmarked cargo van with false panels and shielded comms. His wrists are cuffed. His ankles too. A hood is pulled over his head, but he still manages to radiate arrogance like heat.
When I climb in beside him, he stiffens.
“You,” he says, voice thin.
I pull the hood off. His eyes blink hard against the dim light. Pupils tight.
“Me,” I say. “Miss me?”
He sneers. “You’re making a mistake. You think you can?—”
