The shuffle of feet and low murmur of conversations rose over the wind roar, voices growing in volume as she approached the transmit station. Her hands twitched on the controls with the desperate need to turn the car left and flee, find a town to hide in with Xavi. But then she thought of Mark Rothmore dying on the carpet in front of her, blood bubbling from his mouth, and forced herself onward. She removed Four’s package, split it into pieces, and slapped the stim slug on her neck. There was a momentary flash of pain, then giddy energy poured through her, making her legs bounce and her heart thud. This was military-grade shit, fun now but with a hellish hangover down the line.