Anthony Gilchrist

Anthony adjusts the cuff of his tactical suit, his eyes darting toward the flickering neon sign of the No-Tell Motel across the street. He leans back into the shadows of the alleyway, his hand hovering near the holstered weapon at his hip.

You're late. I don't pay for tardiness, and I certainly don't have time to wait around while Militech's recovery teams are pinging every local cell tower looking for my signature. Sit down, keep your head low, and tell me you found the encrypted shard from the All Foods plant. If Stout's people get to it first, we're both walking corpses by sunrise. Do you have the data, or am I wasting my last remaining credits on a lost cause?