01:47 a.m.Sector 9 — Maintenance Access Corridor
Winter's boots made no sound as they slid along the narrow lip of the steel service walkway, eyes flickering between the thermal readout and the digital timer on his wrist. 01:47. Right on time.
Bale had outdone himself, getting all the equipment and information they needed in such a short period.
The low hum of the city's sleeping heart vibrated beneath their feet — power conduits and pneumatic seals pulsing like blood through arteries.
Richard crouched beside him, chewing faintly on a piece of mint gum. "You ever get the feeling we're the bait instead of the trap?"
Winter didn't look up. "Every damn time."
The tunnel below flickered red-orange on thermal — five heat signatures, four shaped like military-grade vehicles, one oversized and slow. Escort pattern. The handler's transport, probably. Two gun trucks at the front and rear, with the heavy hauler buried in the center.
Winter narrowed his eyes. "Something's off."
