They left the apartment and hit the streets. First stop: Rick's garage, a low-slung place at the Santo Domingo edge—oil-stained floors, neon haloed over a line of half-rebuilt rides, the kind of joint that smelled like fuel and old promises.
Rick looked up from under a hood when Jackie rolled in, grinning when he saw the chrome arms. "Jackie, you finally bring me something worth smelling for." He wiped his hands on a rag. "And who's this?" His gaze slid to Max and V, curious but wary.
"Friends," Jackie said. "We need a fast chassis, solid suspension. Convoy job tomorrow. You owe me one."
Rick's brow went up at the word "convoy." He knew what that meant—high stakes, higher heat. He shrugged, then smiled. "I owe you. I got something that'll do the trick. Stripped it down last month, tuned the intake, gutted the trunk for an engine swap. Fast enough to chase, heavy enough to ram if you're ugly about it."
He led them to the back. Under a tarpaulin sat a low, mean-looking ride—black paint dulled by dust, but its lines still dangerous. Jackie's grin widened. V whistled.
They can use Max's ride but all of them are registerd under him, so its basically announcing, 'Hey Saka, we looted you', so they are not going to use Max's ride.
"Name?" Max asked, calm.
"Quadra V-130," Rick said. "Modded. You put a good driver behind that wheel and you don't lose convoys—you take them."
Price talk followed. Jackie started with favors; Rick countered with parts and a cut. Max watched, silent. In the end he slid a credchip across—a quiet, heavy stack. Rick's eyes flicked to the number, then to Jackie, then back to Max.
"Alright," Rick said, pocketing the chip. "But I want a favor down the line. Family debt, you know how it goes."
Jackie stuck out his hand. "You got it."
They towed the Quadra out, tossed a few extra mods on the list—reinforced bumper, underbody plates, a quick-release roof hatch for V if she needed to pop up and use those mantis blades. Rick said he'd have it ready tonight. They left him wiping his hands and grinning, the engine purring like a caged animal beneath the tarp.
Next up: guns and EMPs. Jackie knew a back-alley armory that sold smart ARs off the books. V wanted something sleeker than a heavy machine—an AR with smartlink, fast tracking, and a payload for anti-drone work. Max asked for EMP grenades, a few tactical flashbangs, and a pair of hard-EM disruptors—short-range devices to kill drone sensors if things went sideways.
At the armory, they paid in cash and favors. The seller checked V out—saw the mantis blades and the look of someone who'd actually use them—and nodded approval. "You gonna make them dance," he said. He handed over a compact smart AR that fit V's hands like it was made for her, and a small crate of EMPs wrapped in grey foam.
Back in the Quadra, with gear packed and the night pressing in, they ran a checklist out loud. V checked the AR, clicked through smart-link calibration. Jackie tested servos in his gorilla arms, making sure they weren't binding. Max went through the route in his head, quiet and methodical: where the convoy would enter Industrial, where the escort drones would peel off, the choke points, the bridges—every place you could either trap a truck or get boxed in.
"You got eyes on escape?" Jackie asked.
Max nodded once. "Old rail spur cuts through three minutes after the real truck passes. Narrow bridge, one way over—perfect for a quick transfer and burn. I'll pin the route on your HUDs. We move fast, hit the drone escorts first, then force the convoy to slow. You smash the cargo, V secures the package. We burn and vanish."
V clicked her tongue. "And if corps send backup?"
"Then we're already gone," Max said. "That's the plan."
They ran the sequence twice more, voice low, tools and gear humming around them. Nobody was loud. Nobody was careless. Jackie cracked a grin once—part excitement, part nerves—but Max stayed quiet, masked and still. He checked their gear personally: EMPs sealed and within reach, AR ammo loaded, comms synced. He keyed a short sequence into the Quadra's console and flagged two safe houses on the route. Rick's voice came through the line: "Car's ready in two hours. Park it by the dock. Don't scratch her, chooms."
They left the garage with the Quadra's engine ticking like a beast settling. The sun sank lower; shadows lengthened. Tonight was for sleep, for last-minute repairs and praying. Tomorrow was for excellence—or for ashes.
By nightfall the Quadra was parked under Jackie's block, looking like it was itching for blood. Its matte-black body ate the neon, reinforced bumper gleaming faintly under the streetlamps. Even idle, the engine thrummed low, tuned for speed and violence. Rick hadn't lied—this beast was built for the hunt.
Inside Jackie's apartment, the crew spread their gear across the table. Chrome, steel, smart optics—an arsenal laid bare. The cramped room hummed with quiet energy.
Jackie checked his gorilla arms, flexing them until the servos growled. "These babies are itching, chooms. Tomorrow, I'll peel those doors like tin cans."
V loaded her smart AR, the screen on its side lighting up with tracking glyphs. She tested the auto-calibration against the wall—each flicker locked onto a moving holo Jackie's TV was throwing. The rifle purred with efficiency. "Drones first. Once they're down, the trucks are just meat waiting to be carved."
Max sat at the far side of the table, mask reflecting the faint blue glow of his optics as he ran through maps on his HUD. He'd pulled industrial schematics—old cargo roads, drainage tunnels, the skeletons of rail lines. His voice was level, steady.
"They'll run eastbound through Industrial. Six vehicles. Two fakes. The real one's between the drones, flanked front and back. We hit from the side, force separation. EMPs go off first—drones fall, escorts lose sync. Jackie cracks the rig, V secures cargo. We cut through the old rail spur and vanish before reinforcements clock in."
Jackie leaned back, whistling low. "You make it sound easy, hermano."
"It won't be," Max replied without looking up. "Which is why you stick to the plan. No heroics. Control the fight. End it fast."
***
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