The safehold door hissed open without warning.
No alarm from Scarlet. No shout from Rielle. One second there was only the drip of water and the hum of old machines, the next the reinforced door was sliding back and a man was stepping through.
Jax.
He stood in the doorway, backlit by the corridor's weak light, as if he'd been invited. He wore a long coat of grey dust-weave, impeccably clean. His white hair was perfectly styled. He looked around the cluttered common room like a curator assessing a disappointing museum.
Rin's coil-rifle was in her hands in a breath, the barrel leveled at his chest. Rielle was on her feet, her wrench held in a white-knuckled grip. Morgan simply stood from her chair, her face a mask of cold fury.
"You've got five seconds to explain how you found us," Morgan said, her voice low and deadly, "before she paints the wall with you."
Jax smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. He slowly raised his hands, a gesture of mock surrender. "The same way I do everything, Morgan. I paid attention." His gaze swept over them, lingering for a half-second on Nezra, who felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "Your little light show in the tunnels was… distinctive. Energy signatures like that leave a trace. A very expensive, very precise trace to follow, but a trace nonetheless."
"What do you want?" Morgan's voice hadn't lost its edge.
"To talk business." Jax took a slow step forward, ignoring Rin's rifle. "The current arrangement is bad for both of us. You're running. I'm expending resources chasing you. It's inefficient."
"We're not joining you," Rielle snarled.
"I don't want you to *join* me," Jax said, his tone implying the idea was absurd. "I want you to *work* for me. One job. A single, elegant piece of work. You do it, you hand me the product, and I make your problems with the Syndicate vanish. A full pardon. A clean slate. You'll be ghosts again, but by choice, not necessity."
Silence. The offer hung in the air, toxic and seductive.
"Why?" Morgan asked, the single word loaded with suspicion.
"Because the target is someone I cannot be seen touching. A moneyed bastard from the Corinthian Cluster named Viktor Kray. He's coming here to sell a next-gen data-shard to my… employers. I want to intercept it. But if my people move on him, it starts a war. If a crew of unknown Rust Belt thieves do it…" He shrugged. "It's just another night in the city."
"And why would we believe you'd hold up your end?" Morgan's eyes were narrowed slits.
"Because the shard is worth more to me than your continued existence," Jax replied, his honesty more frightening than any lie. "Give it to me, and you cease to be a relevant variable in my equations. You get to live. It's that simple."
He let the silence stretch, letting the impossible choice settle on them.
"Where?" Morgan finally asked, her voice tight.
"Oblivion. The nightclub. Top level. He's making the handoff tomorrow night." Jax reached into his coat. Rin's rifle twitched. Slowly, he pulled out a single data-chip and tossed it onto the table. "Everything you need is on there. Access codes, blueprints, his security detail. Do the job. Leave the shard in the designated drop point. And your world gets quiet again."
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at Nezra. "And you. Try not to blow the power grid out this time. Subtlety is a virtue."
And then he was gone. The door hissed shut. The silence he left behind was louder than any explosion.
The crew stood frozen. The data-chip sat on the table like a live grenade.
It was Rin who broke the silence, her rifle still pointed at the door. "He's lying about the pardon. But he's not lying about the job. Or the target."
"So it's a trap," Rielle said, slamming her wrench down on a console.
"Of course it's a trap," Morgan said, her eyes still on the door. "The question is, what kind? Is the trap at the club? Or is it waiting for us after we give him the shard?"
"We can't do it," Kara said, her voice soft but firm. "We can't work for him."
"What's the alternative?" Morgan's question was for all of them. "Run? Again? He found us here. He'll find us again. We're out of corners to back into."
She picked up the data-chip. It was tiny, insignificant. It felt heavy.
"We look at the plan," she said, her decision made. "We look at it like it's any other job. We find the angles. We find the weaknesses. And we go in assuming everything is designed to kill us."
She slotted the chip into a reader. Blueprints for a glittering nightmare of a nightclub filled the holo-display.
"Because it is."