The woman smiled. "Welcome to the real poly track, driver. The one they don't want anyone to know about."
I should not have stopped. Hauler rule number one: No pickups on the poly track . But rule number two was Trust your gut , and my gut was screaming that she wasn't a threat. She was something else. poly track 6x
She walked to my window. I rolled it down a crack. The woman smiled
"Someone who needs to stop you." She reached into her lab coat. I tensed, hand drifting to the tire iron under my seat. But she pulled out a data slate, cracked and taped at the corners. On its screen was a live feed: Facility D-9, surrounded by Enforcement Union vans. Red lights. Hazmat suits. Hauler rule number one: No pickups on the poly track
The load tonight was sixteen tons of decommissioned industrial coolant. The stuff was inert, harmless, but it smelled like burnt marshmallows and regret. The manifest said "Recycling, Facility D-9." I knew better. Facility D-9 had been condemned for three years. This coolant was headed for a black-market reprocessor named Lyle, who paid in untraceable chits and never asked questions.
"Who's asking?"