Trike Patrol - Irish -
"Garda Síochána," Byrne says, his voice amplified by the trike’s external speaker. "The area is surrounded. Customs are inbound. The drone has your faces. The trike has your plates. Drop the hoses and step away."
A black and tan terrier, tied to a container, senses them. It is not a warning bark. It is a location bark. One of the oilskin men looks up, stares directly at the drone, then at the stack of pallets where the trike is hiding. He shouts. The others scatter. Trike Patrol - Irish
The wide front track of the Spyder is intimidating. It looks like a futuristic snowplow. The high-intensity strobes flash once—a silent, blinding pulse. The men freeze. In their world, the Garda arrive in loud, slow cars. They do not arrive on silent, wide, three-wheeled specters that appear out of the fog like a Celtic war chariot. "Garda Síochána," Byrne says, his voice amplified by
Out west, past Galway, where the map frays into a fringe of limestone and bog, the standard patrol car is a liability. The roads have no shoulders. The hedgerows lean in like whispering conspirators. A saloon car is too wide, too slow to turn, too blind to the dips and rises. The Trike—a modified Can-Am Spyder, stripped of its touring comforts, painted in the deep blue and day-glo yellow of the force—is a scalpel where the patrol car is a hammer. The drone has your faces
Byrne kills the speaker. "They bought the trike. Not me. The machine."
