They nearly did not make it to their targeted destination. The convoy slowed so abruptly that Jacq’s body jolted forward before her mind caught up. The hum of the engine dropped into an uneasy idle, and the chatter in the vehicle dissolved into a brittle silence. No one needed to explain what that meant. Everyone had felt it—the invisible line they had crossed without meaning to. “Restricted access,” someone said, too calmly. Jacq’s fingers curled into the fabric of her vest. Her helmet sat awkwardly on her lap, suddenly heavier than it had any right to be. Through the narrow opening of the window, she caught fragments of conversation drifting in—permit numbers, expired authorisations, stamps that apparently no longer meant anything. They sounded like harmless words. Administrative words. She had learned, very quickly, that administrative words could be just as lethal as bullets. Her heart thudded harder with every raised voice outside. She told herself to breathe, to stop grippin...