The cyborg shakes his head.<br/><br/>"Nah, I'm g-" Again, the processor locks and the man has to shake his head. "Need a hit. Contact Tisha if you need somethin'..."<br/><br/>With one last, jittery shake of his head, the troll turns and ducks his way back into Tzahala's elevator.<br/><br/>"We'll send your pick-up around 10:30... Safe run."<br/><br/><hr/><br/><strong>Later that Night...</strong><br/>The land rover may as well be invisible as it rolls past the White Sand checkpoint into the Grey Zone. Well, not to the late-night office jockeys trying to get from Overtown back to Flagler, or to the Metro; they're all honking and cursing out their windows, or straining to peer through the truck's heavily tinted windows to see who could possibly be rolling down the shoulder of the Speedway like it was a red carpet. A few braver souls actually try to fall in behind the jeep, perhaps hoping to appear as part of the "crew" making its way into the grey zone... but of course, White Sand can see them clearly, and a couple of peace officers simply start printing out a line of tickets and walking down the shoulder to hand them out, one at a time. Which, of course, causes more drama.<br/><br/>"What about the frackin' jeep, man!?"<br/><br/>Most people would have gotten the picture by now, but one office jockey in particular just can't keep his mouth shut. Maybe he had a long day. Or maybe he's not used to being rolled over like this. Maybe he's just led such a blessed life that he has no idea what the insignia decal attached to Skier's license plate means. Whatever the reason, he opens his mouth... only to be greeted by a polite, Miami Beach Peace Officer smile.<br/><br/>"What jeep, sir?"<br/><br/><hr/><br/>And then the noise and lights are behind them, and the open roads of the Grey Zone stretch out before the Rover and its occupants. Even from the exit ramp, it's clear that the Fists have pulled a lot of strings to make this job happen. All of the street lights in the zone are powered off, and the roads have been completely emptied by White Sands. Not that that's surprising... collateral damage is terrible for business, and the Fists are nothing if not businessmen and women of the highest caliber. So of course they'd make sure that the only people getting pulled into the grinder will be those on their payroll, or members of the Jacks.<br/><br/>Of course, the only people on the Fists' payroll in the area right now are the two men in the car...<br/><br/>"Oi,<em>Mija</em>..." Jimmy the Cyborg's voice cracks as he transmits through the Rover's radio system- the man is nervous, and rightfully so. As much as nobody wants to address the elephant in the room, they all know what will happen if Tzahala and her driver are unsuccessful in their run. Or if they are successful and get caught. "You feelin' clear? We got some Sandies on the speedway, but you know they ain't gonna be able to follow you into Jack's territory. I hope you got a change of oil an' of trousers with ya if this gets ugly..."<br/><br/>Of course, the pink-and-green dreadlocked woman to Tzahala's left doesn't even skip a beat. When she'd arrived earlier in the evening, "Riverrunner" had looked more like one of the Wave's recruits than a tried-and-true Fist smuggler; however, she'd quickly shown herself to be far more in-control than her boss, and her Land Rover was less a car than some sort of road-legal tank. And she'd been oh-so-happy to show it all off (in more ways than one; the woman's "shirt" made Robin's work outfit look conservative) before they'd hit the road.<br/><br/>"C'mon, Jim... you've gotta have<em>some</em>faith." A street-light makes the woman's dark skin gleam for a moment as the car wheels down the off-ramp, and she gives Tzahala an adrenaline-charged grin. "Unless you're talkin' to Miss Enforcer. Which would be a bit weird... are you the skittish type, Miss?"