The ride into the North-Crag was different this time. There were no digital waypoints flickering in my peripheral vision, no predictive telemetry telling me the exact lean angle for the hairpin turns. There was only the visceral feedback of the Norton’s suspension and the biting chill of the mountain air. As we climbed toward the coordinates on the deed, the lush coastline gave way to the brutal, jagged beauty of the high country the birthplace of the original Iron Wolves.
The Coldwater facility sat in a deep basin, shielded from the wind by towering granite walls. In the moonlight, it looked like a sleeping giant. The brutalist concrete structure was overgrown with ivy, and the massive steel doors of the main garage were rusted at the hinges.
Dax killed the engine, and the silence of th
