We get no permit—just a courier van, a hard case, and a warning.
Kade's palm rests on the evidence case like it has a pulse. "Straight to central lab," he says. "No detours. No heroics. You ride behind, you don't improvise, and you definitely don't open that case."
"Copy," Juno says.
He saves me for last. "Dilhevia. No off-book messages while my evidence is in motion."
I don't answer. It's disrespectful and also true.
Two Board vans make a short convoy: the courier in front with Kade and the case; our van behind. Juno drives like a metronome. Mia rides shotgun with Lark on her lap. Ariad and I strap in with gear we won't be allowed to use if Kade gets his way.
"Route?" Juno asks.
"Causeway Nine," Mia says. "Four overpasses. Two clean exits if we have to bail. Toll cams are glitching on twelve and fourteen. Coincidence or a story about to happen."
"Which one?" Juno asks.
"Yes," Mia says.
Low water on both sides. Wind shoves the vans in little waves. The city hums lives under concrete—a base note, steady, not angry.
A black pickup slides into our lane. Paint too new; plates older than dirt.
"Tail," Mia says.
"Board or them?" Ariad asks.
"Could be either," Mia says. "We're popular."
The pickup eases closer. No drift, no flash. Patient.
"Tube?" I ask.
"Bed cover," Mia says. "Could be anything."
The courier's blinker ticks near the first overpass and doesn't change lanes. Habit motion. Bad habit. The pickup drifts toward the shoulder like it's bored.
"First exit," Juno says.
Kade in our ear from the front van: "Stay on route."
"Copy," Juno says, and doesn't peel.
The pickup's passenger window drops. A tube nudges out—bigger than a paintball, smaller than a rocket. Not fins. Not friendly.
"Windshield," Mia says. "No mirrors to bounce."
"Lark?" Juno asks.
"Forty percent," Mia says. "One clean blind."
The tube coughs. A can arcs, bounces twice, and claps under the courier. White goo blooms, hardens into a wedge, gluing steel to concrete in two seconds.
The front van jerks like a curb grew under it. Kade's voice goes flat. "Hold positions."
Juno doesn't.
She drops a gear and angles across the lane, cutting the pickup's line. This is a public road—no orange tag, no work zone. Ken-touch is a felony out here unless someone makes a case. Juno plays it clean: bumper and lane discipline.
The pickup tries to slip past. Juno denies it with an inch of steel, like they're dancing. The tube coughs again. Foam surges under our van. Tires kiss it and hate it.
"Out," Juno says.
We're already moving. Mia palms the door, Lark under her arm. Ariad grabs the Anchor Gun because she's Ariad. I jump with a blade and a bad plan.
"Cameras," Mia says, flipping Lark to strobe the pickup's windshield. The tube man pukes instantly. New guy or weak stomach; either way, he hates light.
Two men bail off the bed. Not city vests. Gray jackets. Not Rao's cut—wrong boots, wrong patience. Paid trouble.
The first has a Kein Flash bead—a dirty pop of light and pressure. He throws it. I close my eyes and turn. Behind lids, the world goes white and harmless. I count one beat and step left. His slash finds where I was.
The second hustles to the courier's rear door. That's where the case is. He yanks a saw from a sling and chews at the hinge.
"Hard no," Juno says, already on him. No, Ken—not yet. She uses her shoulder like a hammer. He bounces off the van and drops the saw. She palms his wrist and rotates it until bones consider resignation. He hisses and lets go.
Flash-guy throws another bead. I open into the after-image and drag Phantom Steel along the asphalt. The scrape screams right. He bites; my real blade taps his thigh—shallow, mean. He stumbles. I step inside, go for Gaze Trap. He's trained; he looks at my shoulder.
Fine. I grind the katana on concrete. Long, ugly screech. He flinches teeth-first. Half-second. The Trap sinks. I move the bumper lip in his head a hand's width. He short-steps, clips steel, and eats road.
The pickup driver floors it. The bed lurches. The tube coughs again, aiming for our tires. Mia boots the can mid-air like she grew up in a different sport. It bursts sideways under the pickup's own wheel and glues the truck to the causeway. The driver swears loud enough to sell the dub.
"Front bumper," Ariad says, sprinting past. She plants the Anchor Gun like a nailer, fires a spike into the road lip, and clips a line across the courier's frame. "Pull when I say," she tells Juno.
Juno grabs the tether, digs heels. No, Ken, just body. It's enough. The courier flexes against the foam wedge and rocks free with a sound like a bad tooth popping.
Kade in our ears: "Move." His tone says thanks without saying it.
The pickup driver slashes at the tether with a cheap blade. Ariad slaps his wrist with a wrench. He drops the knife and the idea.
"Two inbound," Mia says. "Small hatch, motorcycle. Eastbound shoulder."
"Board ETA?" Juno asks.
"Two out," Mia says. "Highway's 'delayed.'"
Of course.
Saw-man scrambles for his tool; I kick it under our van. Flash-guy crawls toward the tube. I put my boot on his hand. He takes the hint and keeps his fingers.
The motorcycle screams up the shoulder. Rider in a visor; pillion with a bolt cutter big as a bad plan.
"Door, door, door!" Mia says—courier's hinge half-sliced.
Juno rips a triangle off the reflective hazard sticker and slaps it over the hinge gap.
"Why?" Mia asks.
"Because it makes them look," Juno says.
The pillion commits to the shiny. The cutter jaws bite air an inch off the real hinge. His hands jar. He swears.
I lay a Cutting Channel pulse down my blade and kiss the back of his calf. He folds to a knee on a moving bike. The rider almost saves it and then doesn't. They skid. Ariad's line hisses under the tire and flips them enough to rethink careers.
"Hands!" Juno barks for the dash cams. Causeway traffic slows to film without helping. That's our city.
The courier door opens. Kade steps down with the case, calm like coffee. Wrong coat, right spine. He clocks the wedge, the glued truck, the man face-down. "Chain this to my office," he says. Softer, to us: "Good work."
He hates saying it. He means it anyway.
We cuff the runners. We zip the stubborn. We keep our hands clean for the cameras. No, Ken, where can a lawyer point?
Highway patrol arrives late and bored. They take statements like paper already hurts. We give clean sentences. Mia dumps Lark's footage to a hardware stick with a time stamp they can't erase.
Ariad chips the foam wedge with a chisel. It smells like fruit and solvent. "Salt gel," she says. "Plus a binder I don't like."
"Put it on the board," Juno says—meaning Mia's map.
Kade signs the scene, and the chain-like ink makes truth. He doesn't hand the case to anyone. "Back on," he says, and disappears into the courier.
We finish the drive with a police car pretending to escort us. The rest is clean.
Central lab is a squat brick that wants to be steel. Kade carries the case through two doors and a scanner like he's delivering a heart. He signs, hands it to a white coat, watches it vanish behind glass.
"That's one," he says to no one. Then, to us: "Conference room."
A carafe of coffee. A projector that hates HDMI. Kade drops an actual paper with blue stamps:
EMERGENCY OUTER-STRUCTURE SURVEY
LIMITED RANGE — RESTRICTED PERSONNEL — VALID 48 HOURS
The AUTHORIZED 4★ SUPERVISOR field is filled.
"That's not us," Juno says.
"It's me," Kade says. He doesn't sound thrilled. "We go to map, not to fight."
"We need to walk the load," Ariad says. "Braces point offshore."
"Limited range means one mile from the breakwater," Kade says. "No further."
Samsara sits beyond that line like a secret everyone knows and nobody says. One mile isn't Samsara; it's close enough to see who's building bridges to it.
"Gear," Juno says.
"Two Anchor Guns. Four coils. Minnow. Spare battery," Mia says, already firing a requisition she knows gets denied. She texts a vendor who owes her a favor.
"Crew?" Juno asks.
"Us," Kade says. "Two from Marine Ops. That's what I can sign without a mayor's kiss."
He gives me the last look. "You do not improvise out there. You do not play with your brother while my permit clock runs."
"He texted," I say, because Kade always knows anyway.
"Of course he did," Kade says. "He wants you to follow a story. We follow the load. If your lines meet, fine. If not, we ignore ghosts and tie steel."
Juno claps once. "Move."
We shove off at Dock Seven with a mile of law and an ocean of problems.