Chapter 8 · Dead Channel

"Cyrus Vale." The voice crackled through the busted radio like it owned the air. "I know you can hear me."

Cyrus stared at the handset dangling from the dash. No power. No signal towers for fifty klicks. The convoy truck's electrical system was jury-rigged trash held together with spite and wire.

That radio hadn't worked in years.

Kael's hand went to her forearm. The command mark underneath was already hot.

"That's impossible," Cyrus said.

"Six years is a long time to run." Rhys Tarrow's voice was calm. The kind of calm that made you sign things you'd regret. "You look tired, son. Why don't you come inside? Bring your friend."

Lien leaned forward from the back bench. "How does he know we're here?"

"He doesn't." But Cyrus's mouth was dry. The checkpoint's sensor grid should've been dead. Everything here was dead—guard towers, vehicle gates, rows of Quonset huts sagging into the dust. Checkpoint 47 had been decommed three years after he'd left.

Kael's breathing changed. Shorter. Sharper.

"Asset Thorne." Rhys's voice shifted, silk over a scalpel. "Your marks are degrading. You can feel it. We have the recalibration suite here. Full medical. You won't last another week without it.