The button was a confirmation, not a solution. Nezra pocketed it, the polished wood now feeling like a lead weight. He looked at Scarlet, her face illuminated by the grim grey light of the alley.
"They were professionals. We won't find anything else here," he said, his voice low. "But someone always sees something. They just need the right incentive to talk."
Scarlet nodded, her jaw set. "This sector is a nest of lowlifes and independent operators. If a crew rolled through and caused trouble, someone will have noticed."
They started in the shadows. They spoke to the woman running a clandestine soup kitchen from a rusted-out freight container. They found the kids who scrambled through the ventilation shafts, trading information for food.
At first, it was nothing. Averted eyes. Shrugged shoulders.
It was a grizzled old man tuning the engine of a battered hover-loader in a grimy garage who finally spoke.
"Heard a scuffle," he grunted, not looking up. "Late. Down by the waste outflow. Not my business."
Nezra stepped closer. "It's our business. Our friend."
The man glanced up, his optical implant zooming. He saw their desperation. "Saw a van. No markings. Generic. Dirty. The two who piled out... moved like they owned the place. All swagger. New around here."
"Did you see a woman?" Scarlet pressed. "Dark hair, sharp eyes, a long coat?"
The man shook his head. "Heard her, though. Just before the door slammed. Told one of 'em he had a face even his creator wouldn't love." A dry, wheezing laugh escaped him. "Spunky. Then nothing. Engine roared, and they were gone. Headed east, toward the foundry districts."
Another kid, bribed with a hot meal, added a piece. "The big one was favoring his arm! Like it was hurt real bad. Had a fresh burn on his face, too."
Nezra and Scarlet exchanged a look. The description of the injured man was familiar, but it didn't fit. It couldn't be.
The final piece came from a low-level thug they cornered in a dead-end alley. He was all bluster until Scarlet remotely locked the servos in his cheap cybernetic arm.
"Okay! What do you want?" he whined.
"The woman. Taken last night. Who has her?" Nezra's voice was ice.
"I don't know! It was a new crew! They call themselves the Ghost Jacks! That's all I know!"
"Why? Why did they take her?" Scarlet demanded.
The thug looked genuinely confused. "I don't know! They don't tell me anything! They've been bragging all over the lower sectors that they pulled off a big score, that they're moving up. They're holed up at the old processing plant in Sector 9. The one with the broken smokestacks. They're not even hiding!"
They had their answer. It was incomplete and terrifying. They knew who: the Ghost Jacks. They knew where: the old processing plant.
But the why was a dark, gaping hole. The thug's confusion seemed genuine. This wasn't a simple ransom or a power play they understood. The Jacks were boasting, but not about a reason. Just about the act itself.
They had a location. But they were walking in blind, against an enemy whose motives were a complete mystery. The trap was set, and they had no idea what the bait was for.