“I’ve got a possibility,” I correct. “Kilgari privateers run cargo out of the lower sectors. They don’t ask questions if the price is right.”
“And you’ve got that kind of relationship?” she asks.
“Let’s call it professional understanding,” I say, moving toward the rear access hatch.
“That’s not reassuring,” she mutters.
“It doesn’t need to be,” I reply. “It just needs to work.”
I trigger the hatch, and it slides open with a low mechanical grind, revealing a narrower tunnel behind the safehouse, darker and less maintained than the ones we used before.
“After you,” I say.
She gives me a look.
“You first,” she replies. “If this goes bad, I want to see it coming.”
“Fair,” I mutter, stepping through.
The tunnel air is heavier here, less circulated, carrying the scent of old fuel and rust, and the ground slopes downward slightly, pulling us deeper into the understructure. The sound ofmovement above grows sharper as we move, boots and voices bleeding through the layers of metal and stone.
“They’re closing fast,” Jolie says behind me.
“Yeah,” I reply. “That’s why we don’t stop.”
We move at a controlled pace, fast enough to stay ahead, not fast enough to trip over the uneven ground, and I adjust our path twice, cutting through side passages that narrow and twist in ways that would disorient anyone who hasn’t spent time down here.
“You’ve definitely done this before,” she mutters.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just not with this much at stake.”
“That’s comforting,” she replies dryly.
The tunnel opens into a wider junction, the ceiling lifting just enough to let sound carry differently, and I slow, raising a hand.
“Hold,” I say.
She stops immediately, her breathing controlled despite the strain.
“What?” she asks.
I tilt my head slightly, listening.
Voices.
Closer now.
Ahead.
“Not ours,” I murmur.
“Alternative?” she asks.
I glance to the left, then the right, mapping the options.
“Left’s shorter but exposed,” I say. “Right’s longer, tighter, harder to follow.”
“Right,” she says immediately.
