"Fuck…! Are you trying to get us killed?!"
Isabella Fucino clutched her forehead, shouting in frustration.
The violent impact had left her dizzy and disoriented. As she finally realized where she was, her face shifted to a mix of shock and confusion.
"Please open the door, ma'am."
Outside the window, a Militech-grade shotgun was aimed directly at her head through the glass.
It was a Crusher—massive stopping power, perfect for close-quarters, reliable and deadly.
The word "incendiary" had been scrawled on the magazine in marker, bumping the threat level several notches higher.
MaxTac didn't mess around with flashy Dragon's Breath rounds filled with magnesium. They used thickened triethylaluminum incendiaries—more brutal, more effective.
One wrong move and Padre would be picking up a scorched van with three charred corpses inside.
Clack.
Screeeeech...
V tossed a small metal box onto the hood of the van. Isabella's last shred of hope died instantly.
She recognized it—a NetWatch-issued directional electromagnetic lock, a hacker support tool designed for vehicles without heavy cyber defense.
Once activated, the spider-like bot would clamp onto the target's system and flood it with electronic garbage, choking every command pathway.
It wouldn't permanently damage the system, but until it shut off, the vehicle was going nowhere.
Even older cars with basic ignition systems weren't safe. If needed, it could emit a small EMP pulse to disable circuits. As a last resort, it could self-destruct—if placed near the fuel tank, the result was basically a car bomb.
While civilian tech was stagnant, weapons tech kept evolving fast.
For the corps, these tools brought bigger profits. For those caught in the crossfire, they meant dying in new and more creative ways.
They followed the main road, then took a bridge and headed toward Heywood.
About thirty minutes later, a container truck pulled up steadily in front of Padre's bar.
The ramp dropped. The Behemoth backed out first, followed by the van—its front and back smashed, looking hilariously pitiful.
Under close escort from Valentino gunmen, Isabella and her constantly groaning husband Marlon were "escorted" inside like defeated chickens.
They were about to face Padre's judgment for their betrayal.
"The Padre wants to see you upstairs."
Roqi had been standing outside, staring absentmindedly at the sunset when a young Valentino came out with the message.
"What for?"
He turned to look at the guy.
"The Padre wants you present for the judgment. As Jackie's brother and a friend of the Valentinos, he believes you've earned that right."
The man's tone was respectful and sincere.
"No thanks." Roqi paused for a second and then shook his head. "You said it's a right, not a duty, yeah?"
The man nodded, clearly hoping he'd reconsider.
"I choose no."
The refusal was firm.
"But… why?" the guy asked, clearly not understanding.
In his mind, seeing traitors punished—especially ones you brought in—was something to enjoy. Plus, it earned you street cred.
"No need."
Roqi understood what he meant.
But he wasn't a Valentino. He didn't need validation like that.
Just as the guy turned to head back inside and report, Roqi stopped him.
"Tell Padre," Roqi said, locking eyes with him, "think of Jackie. Rules are dead things. People are alive. Don't forget—rules are made to serve people."
He wasn't interested in how the Fucinos were punished—especially not now, when they looked like cornered animals in a trap.
He'd already caught them. Honestly, it wasn't even hard.
They hadn't had time to run or gather protection. It was over before it began.
"If they die, let me know. If they live, let me know too."
Roqi turned and left with Mower.
In a few hours, darkness would blanket the city.
A moonless night, windy and quiet. Perfect for killing.
...
In a restaurant in Rancho Coronado, an elegant afternoon tea set rested on the table.
Most of the patrons were mid-to-senior corp employees from the area. It wasn't a cheap place.
Mercs with real talent usually didn't bother with such "refinement." Take Rogue, for example—she'd laugh in your face at the idea of elegance.
"Hey, Bug."
Roqi called while absentmindedly stirring his coffee, turning the latte art into a swirling mess.
He stared at it, clearly distracted.
"What's up? Got another job?"
T-Bug's voice came through, chipper enough. After a moment, when Roqi didn't respond, she assumed it was a signal issue and repeated herself.
"Yo? You there?"
"Oh—yeah, sorry! Zoned out. Hey, how've you been lately?"
"Not bad. Rogue pays well and picks good gigs," T-Bug replied with a stretch. "Guess she really is the Queen of Fixers."
She'd been working under Rogue lately—partly for the money, partly because of necessity.
As one of the few people who knew the truth about the relic, T-Bug had been the least connected. Rogue had to bring her into the fold—for Johnny's sake.
So far, it was working.
Rogue got a netrunning ace, and T-Bug got a stable fixer. She couldn't afford a penthouse, but she was on track.
"That's good."
Roqi sipped his coffee, letting the bitter taste spread in his throat as he savored its depth.
It was supposedly made with premium Bolivian beans.
Or so they claimed. Roqi wasn't a coffee expert—just a guy who liked tea and coffee.
Still, quality spoke for itself.
He couldn't name brands, but he knew when something was good.
He liked this feeling.
Like the world stopped spinning for a moment, letting him listen to his thoughts.
"You free? I've got a personal job."
He set the cup down.
"When?"
"Now."
"Sure. Target?"
"Revere Courier Services. I need you to take down their security system. Lots of bots and drones. Like... a lot."
"Numbers aren't the problem," T-Bug said confidently. "Once I crack the ICE, the rest is child's play."
"You're not gonna ask for payment?"
Roqi was surprised.
"Oh, right." She chuckled. "Whatever you think is fair."
"Really?" Roqi snorted. "You're okay with a single eurodollar?"
"Sure. Call it your finder's fee for introducing me to Rogue."
That made Roqi freeze for a second. He glanced at Mower.
What the hell did Rogue say to her?
They'd met in a secret booth at Afterlife to talk about the relic. Apparently, Rogue credited Roqi with the connection.
Since then, Roqi had been juggling everything—from V and Panam to Jackie and Padre.
And the Voodoo Boys were still waiting on his to-do list.
Since Konpeki Plaza, his entire network had exploded.
That was both the benefit and the curse of being known.
Rogue wanted to help him build a brand—to make his name matter in Night City.
She thought he was still at the "getting by" phase. Stealing the relic and trying to cash out? That was just naïve.
Becoming a legend took more than one job.
T-Bug was a senior in that sense. She'd been famous since she was young.
She'd earned a lot over the years. But the more skilled you became, the more you saw—and the more Night City disgusted you.
Her desire to leave this city was growing stronger by the day.
But when you're not alone anymore, leaving becomes complicated.
"I'll be ready in two hours," she said, then hung up.
Roqi sat in silence, haunted by his thoughts.
"Hey, Rogue."
He made one last call.
"Well, well. Mr. Busy finally calls. Am I dreaming?"
Her mood seemed good. She was in the mood to tease.
"Whatever you want can wait. I've got something to deal with first."
He didn't beat around the bush.
"Need some mercs. Doesn't have to be yours. I'm gonna hit a corp."
"Since when do you hold a grudge against corps?" she asked. "Which one?"
"RCS."
That was all he had to say.
Rogue, with her connections and brains, didn't need more.
"You guys stirred up quite the mess down south."
She sounded amused.
"What, mad we didn't invite you?"
Roqi rolled his eyes.
Typical Rogue—always diverting the topic.
"What, MaxTac's fun now?"
"None of your damn business."
Now he understood why Johnny both respected and loathed her.
She was sharp—scary sharp.
Three sentences in, and you were already off balance. Next thing you knew, you were spilling all your secrets.
Like what he'd been doing with MaxTac.
Even she would have trouble dealing with those lunatics.
He wasn't opposed to sharing. He just hated being toyed with.
"There's still fallout from the Maelstrom mess. Lots to clean up."
Seeing Roqi wasn't biting, Rogue changed tactics.
"No one available? Fine, I'll find someone else."
Roqi didn't hesitate to cut her off.
Dealing with her was always a pain.
She wouldn't sell him out—not with her connection to Johnny—but she was never easy.
"I didn't say no. Damn, you're in a rush today."
She relented with a sigh.
"I'll send Pangolin and two dozen mercs."
"I'm broke."
Hearing that lineup, Roqi winced.
Rogue's personal bodyguard and 20+ Afterlife mercs? No way he could afford that.
"Free of charge."
Messing with Roqi seemed to amuse her more than it should.
She lounged on her couch, crossing her legs with a grin.
"If we're gonna do it, let's do it big. Don't just torch their lobby—get their data. I'll even send a netrunner team."
"You really think I'm your errand boy, huh?"
Roqi laughed bitterly. "Free labor?"
She was clearly teasing him again.
Damn it.
"Pay me. No deal otherwise."
He didn't flinch.
Rogue was no saint. To the corps, she was a dangerous wildcard.
She held dirt on dozens of execs, did deals with them while keeping her hands clean.
No wonder she always said: never trust a corp, never go too deep. If possible, don't deal with them at all.
She was the best at using one group to destroy another.
"You've been eyeing RCS for a while, haven't you?" Roqi asked. "You knew what they were doing."
"Sharp as ever, my little fledgling."
Rogue laughed.
She liked smart, sharp young guns like him.
Reminded her of...
...what they used to be.
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