Al laughed out loud at Becky’s deadpan comment, buttoned his fly, sent his agent to sleep and switched off the other security features on his Fairlight, and tossed it to Preston. “Do what ya want. I ain’t carryin’ much else yer kind can latch onto. Certainly nothin’ I’d be silly enough ta activate the wireless on. Code words, check. Bitzen, Dancer, Prancer. Comet an’ Cupid. But the truck,” and here he turned to Jazz, stepping back over to his Gaz, “yeah, sure, the wireless cut-out’s pure manual. Same fer the GridGuide…” he spat on the ground, “…disconnect. Them switches duct taped in right there. She ain’t set up fer remote, though, an’ the pilot’s barely street legal. Switch yer plates an’ yer reg chip here.” He pulled a battered hunting rifle from the rack behind the rear seat. “We ready ta go, Precious?”