“Yeah,” I nod. “Figured.”
We shift direction, slipping into the narrower passage, the walls closing in enough that we have to move single file again.
“You trust these privateers?” she asks after a moment.
“Not even a little,” I reply.
“Great,” she mutters.
“But they trust me enough to listen,” I add.
“That’s not better,” she says.
“It’s what we’ve got,” I reply.
The tunnel slopes upward this time, the air shifting again as we approach the outer edge of the understructure, and faint light filters in ahead, not the sterile brightness of the base, but something harsher, more industrial.
“We’re close,” I say.
“To what?” she asks.
“Docking sector,” I reply. “Unofficial.”
“Of course it is,” she mutters.
We reach the edge of the tunnel, and I slow, checking the exterior before stepping out.
The docking area sprawls in controlled chaos, cargo containers stacked in uneven rows, transport rigs moving in tight patterns, and at the far end?—
A ship.
Kilgari design.
Low profile, armored plating layered over a frame built for speed instead of comfort.
“That’s ours,” I say.
“You’re sure?” Jolie asks.
“No,” I reply. “But I’m hopeful.”
She huffs a breath.
“Good enough,” she says.
We move.
Fast.
Staying low, using the containers for cover as we cut across the open space.
“Hey!” a voice calls out from near the ship.
I look up.
A figure steps forward, tall, broad, with the distinct silhouette of Kilgari armor.
“Hrask,” he says, his tone edged with something between recognition and annoyance. “You’ve got terrible timing.”
