The cargo drone shook like it was trying to rattle our teeth loose.
Glitch had pulled it from one of his hidden stashes — a battered freight hauler the size of a delivery truck, with peeling paint and a cargo hold that smelled like engine oil and old fish. "Stole it from a Triad supply run six months ago," he said while loading his equipment. "The transponder still reads as a food delivery service. Nobody looks twice at food deliveries."
"It smells like a food truck," Maya said, wrinkling her nose.
"That's part of the disguise."
We flew low — under the sensor nets, between the sector walls, and through corridors of dead air where the city's surveillance didn't reach. Jax sat up front with Glitch, giving directions in her usual flat, bored voice. "Left at the junction. Drop below the old rail bridge. Don't fly too close to the water treatment plant — Triad spotters on the roof."
