The desert road is empty—until KITT’s scanner pulses red. “Convoy ahead. No transponders. Military formation.”
You lean forward. “No transponders?”
“Vehicles usually broadcast ID signals,” KITT replies. “These are running dark. Jammed comms, no plates. Intentional.”
Riley exhales through her nose. Calm. Focused. But you can feel it shift in her—like something familiar just stepped out of the past.
“Good. You ready, partner?”
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