Page 37 of Rebel
DIVINE: Textile plant. South Central. Relay’s live again. Rebel’s already en route.
ME: You tracking me too?
DIVINE: Please. You’re easier to follow than a government tax form.
ME: You always this charming?
DIVINE: Only with men who bleed near my servers. Now go earn that brooding complex.
I huff out something that isn’t quite a laugh. My ribs ache from Bones’ right hook, but adrenaline burns it away. I slide the phone into my pocket, swing a leg over the bike, and fire the engine. If Rebel’s already on site, I’m not letting her walk into that place alone.
South Central’s skyline rises like a bruise. Old warehouses stitched together with new wire and cheap security lights. The textile plant waits at the edge of the district, rebuilt over its own bones.
By the time I roll up, the Harlots are already moving like shadows. I meet up with Iris, and she hands me an ear comm. I take it without question. Divine’s voice crackles through the comms.
“Perimeter’s clean. Two guards east, one on the catwalk. You’ve got four minutes before the patrol loops back.”
“Copy,” I whisper.
Rebel crouches by the fence, black jeans and braid pulled tight, eyes sharp behind the glow of her tablet. She looks every inch the problem I should’ve walked away from.
“You’re late,” she mutters without looking up.
“Stopped by to pay my respects.”
Her head tilts slightly. “That a euphemism?”
“Graveyard.”
Her movements falter for a breath. “Alex’s?”
“Yeah.”
Something flickers in her expression, quick and unguarded. “He’d like that,” she says softly, then pushes through the fence.
We slip into the yard. The plant hums faintly, sodium lights washing the cracked pavement in gold. Conveyor belts idle inside like sleeping snakes.
“Divine,” Rebel hisses. “You sure this feed’s clear?”
“Clear enough for me to risk your pretty faces,” Divine replies. “Now quit flirting and move.”
I almost laugh. We push deeper. The air smells of dust and chemicals. Crates line the floor, stamped with the faded insignia ofSlade Logistics.The irony’s a knife in the ribs.
Rebel pries one open, blade flashing. Inside are burlap sacks markedgrain.She cuts one. White powder spills out in a slow, silty drift.
“Not flour,” I say. “Precursor. Synthetic opiate base.”
“They’re using my brother’s company to move poison,” she growls, slamming the lid down. The sound echoes too loudly.
“Rebel…” The lights flicker above before I can finish my sentence. Motion sensors kick on. Shit.
“Heads up,” Divine hisses. “Three heat signatures inbound. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
Rebel draws her pistol. “We take them?”
“No. We vanish.” I grab her wrist, drag her toward a half-collapsed maintenance tunnel. We slip inside just as boots hit the floor behind us.
Ipress her against the wall, hand braced close beside her head. Rebel’s heartbeat jumps against my chest.
