Page 4 of Override

They forget everything leaves a trail.

“That’s him,” I say again, enlarging the feed. “Silver Camry. Front bumper damage. Kid’s in the backseat.”

Matt leans forward between the seats, eyes narrowing on the screen. Even in the dark interior of the van, he looks steady. Grounded. Like nothing in the world could truly rattle him. It’s one of the reasons people follow him naturally. The other reason is because Badger is built like he could snap most men in half without raising his voice.

“You sure?” he asks.

I give him a flat look. “Matt. I hacked a private traffic grid in under four minutes while Wheels committed at least nine felonies. Yes. I’m sure.”

A snort crackles through comms.

Bullet.

The bastard almost never laughs, which makes it annoyingly satisfying when he does.

“Good to know prison hasn’t humbled you,” he says.

“Again,” I reply, “too pretty for prison.”

Wheels barks out a laugh so loud it echoes through the van.

Matt pinches the bridge of his nose.

I’m ninety percent sure he regrets founding Grayline at least once a week.

The city blurs past outside the tinted windows while rain streaks against the glass in uneven lines. My tablet glows blue against my hands, code rolling across the lower corner while I bypass another camera system. The familiar rhythm settles into my chest. Inputs. Outputs. Variables. Predictable patterns moving exactly where they’re supposed to.

This is the part I like. Not the confrontations. Not the cleanup. Not even the money. This. The systems. The invisible architecture underneath people’s lives.

A husband lies to his wife, but his GPS history tells the truth. A father kidnaps his daughter and thinks turning his phone off makes him invisible while his car pings six separate traffic cams on the way out of the city.

Everyone thinks they’re smarter than the network until the network decides otherwise.

“You’re staring again,” Wheels says.

“I’m working.”

“You get that weird little serial killer face when you’re working.”

“I don’t have a serial killer face.”

“You absolutely have a serial killer face,” he insists. “Rachel said it too.”

Rachel likes to pretend she’s not fascinated by the way my brain works while simultaneously asking me to fix every electronic device within a five-mile radius of her house.

Last month she handed me her blender like it personally offended her.

I fixed it.

Mostly because she threatened to tell Matt I willingly ate gas station sushi.

“Incoming turn,” Bullet says quietly through comms. “Target vehicle heading east.”

I shift the feed, fingers already moving over the screen while my mind builds the route three steps ahead. The Camry cuts through a yellow light. Wheels follows without hesitation.

Rainwater sprays across the windshield.

“Kid status?” Matt asks.