The Tactical Goon’s AR glasses suddenly flashed violently with red threat-level indicators. The scrambler had dropped, and the identity of the target had finally registered on the federal mainframe. Panic seized the subordinate’s chest. He frantically waved his arms, stumbling backward away from his commanding officer.
"Backup is here, stand down," the Goon shouted, his voice cracking with sheer terror as the black rovers fanned out, completely boxing in the isolated checkpoint.
The heavy tactical doors of the federal rovers swung open simultaneously, but the agents inside did not immediately flood the zone. They waited, highly trained and perfectly disciplined, deferring entirely to the woman on the motorcycle.
She turned off the Ducati’s ignition. The silence that followed was absolute. She swung her leg over the seat and stepped onto the cracked asphalt, standing tall in her glowing obsidian suit. She was not a courier, and she was not a thief. She was the apex authority in the district—the Federal Judge dispatched specifically to dismantle this corrupt precinct.