The Abha Heist

Jude Al-Shehri stood on the precipice of the Soudah lookout, where the jagged peaks of Abha shook hands with the sky and the valleys below were swallowed by a thick, white carpet of fog. The mountain chill was a sneaky thing; it had crawled right under his heavy parka, leaving him rubbing his palms together in a desperate bid for friction-heat while his breath puffed out in ghostly clouds. In front of him, hovering with the grace of a mechanical dragonfly, was 'Bolt'—the custom drone he’d spent six months coding, soldering, and obsessing over. Beside him, Sarah was a statue of concentration. Her eyes never left the tablet screen, though her fingers were visibly trembling from the cold. The green telemetry data reflected off her glasses, which were rapidly fogging up from the mist. She nudged her frames up her nose and frowned. 'Jude, the battery just hit the red zone, and this fog is turning into pea soup. Bring it in. The trophy isn't worth losing the hardware over a cliff side.' Jude just grinned, his thumbs dancing over the joysticks with the casual arrogance of a kid who knew he was the best pilot in the province. 'Relax, Sarah. This is Bolt we’re talking about. A little mou…