Chapter 7 · Don't Trust the Broker

Ryan's leg still burned when he pushed through the door of the data den. The message had given him an address in the Slag District, three blocks south of where the last factory shutdown left nothing but wire skeletons and acid rain stains. He could smell rust and old coolant, and something electric that made his teeth itch.

The woman sitting behind the folding table didn't look up. She had her slate angled so the glow painted her face blue. Short black hair, tactical jacket with about six pockets too many, and the kind of fingers that never stopped moving. Erica Shea. Grey-market broker. Neutral. Or so people said.

"You're late," she said.

Ryan stopped three feet from the table. His hand stayed near his hip. "Your message didn't leave a time."

"Subtext, Kash. Learn to read it." She tapped the slate twice and the screen went dark. Now he could see her eyes. Flat. Calculating. "You got sloppy in that cage. Half the undermarket saw your discharge blow out. Natasha's got you on a leash and you don't even know it."

He didn't move. "You got something to say, say it.