The shuttle rolled out of Macapá, trading the airport’s bustle for long, sun-baked roads flanked by jungle. The driver kept a steady pace, eyes forward, as Jeremy leaned an elbow on the armrest and started in.
“Amapá’s beautiful,” he said, nodding toward the green blur beyond the glass, “but you’ve gotta know where you’re going—especially near Citon. You’ve got pickpockets, hustlers, and crews from the Wilds coming in to make quick cash. They run light—old trucks, stripped-down bikes. If you ever see one with more guys standing than sitting—don’t hang around to find out what they want.”
Isabella smirked. “Translation—don’t wander without someone who knows the roads.”
Jeremy nodded. “Exactly.”
Mick just gave a slow shrug. “Noted.”
Jeremy glanced at him like he was expecting more of a reaction. Mick didn’t offer one. He’d grown up in Homestead’s rougher corners, and when things got tight, the streets pushed him into the Navy. He’d been in ports where trouble found you whether you wanted it or not, and seen crime where the cops didn’t even bother showing up. Compared to that, the way Jeremy described Amapá sounded almost polite.
The shuttle curved toward the coast, and the faint shimmer of Citon’s lower Rings came into view, the massive Cables still visible, stabbing into a wall of clouds. Jeremy carried on pointing out landmarks and real estate prices, proud and precise, while Mick sat back and took it all in. He wasn’t rattled by the warning—but he made sure to remember it.
Months later, after his pod crash, he’d be walking a lonely dirt road when an open-top truck roared past, stacked with men standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the bed. And without hesitation, he’d know exactly what was about to happen.