But the corps never miss a chance to haul someone in for speeding. Makes for good press.
Besides, Kane promised himself that if he kept seeing Rafael, his world would never touch here.
A new alert pings on his dash.
>VITACORP SIGNAL LOCK: CONFIRMED.
“Fuck.”
Speeding won’t shake them now. Kane cuts between two luxury HOVs and flicks the console, opening Coda’s channel.
“Baron?” the voice crackles through his helmet.
“Coda, I need a ghost protocol on my bike. VitaCorp’s on my tail.” He ducks under a Factura hauler, the bike’s framescraping close to metal. The oversized HOV gives him cover but not enough distance.
Static hums for a beat before Coda answers, “On it.”
The dashboard flickers and stutters. In the rearview, three flashing lights barrel closer. Another enforcer has joined the chase.
Kane banks hard around the next block, but they don’t let up. He grits his teeth. “Coda, status?”
“Ghost protocol is…” A chime pings in his helmet as the display steadies. “Operative.”
>STEALTH MODE: ACTIVE
Not exactly subtle, but who cares?
Kane jerks the bike into a tight U-turn behind a line of HOVs idling at the signal. Reversing course, he slips into a nearby parking garage and kills the throttle, coasting to a hover in the shadows.
Alarms wail outside, growing louder until the enforcers rush past. Their lights sweep across the street, flash through the entrance, then fade.
>VITACORP SIGNAL: LOST.
He exhales slowly. “Excellent work, Coda,” Kane calls out. “I expect nothing less.”
Coda’s name fades from the display.
His gaze drifts to the navigation. Only one block from Rafael’s. Might as well stop here and walk the rest. He turns the bike deeper into the parking garage and eases into a parking spot.
Outside, VitaCorp drones circle Rafael’s complex like vultures, sensors tucked behind every door. Coda’s patch scrambles most of them, but if the tech’s been upgraded, that margin shrinks fast.
Still, the danger is worth the risk to see Rafael again.
A realization that sends a shiver down his spine.
22
Chapter 22 - Rafael
“And these are real blueberries?” Rafael stares into the box on his counter, mouth agape. “And actual sugar—not synthetic?”
“All natural,” Kane says from near the kitchen console. “Same with the eggs.” He moves through the small space, tapping the console to unfold its mixer arm and switch the oven unit on. Rafael should probably find him intrusive. Who just walks in and takes over someone else’s kitchen?
Yet a smile tugs at his lips.
Kane glances over his shoulder. “Bring those here.”
Snapping out of his daze, Rafael gathers the ingredients and sets them on the counter. By the time he returns, Kane’s already measured the flour, poured the sugar, and tipped both into the bowl. When he adds the blueberries and swipes the controls, the console switches on, mixing the batter in perfect circles.