Sayeed's eyes scanned the mouth of the alley where it met the crowded street. He listened for a moment, then gestured with his head toward a recessed doorway further down.
"Not here."
They moved into the deeper shadow. The noise from the market faded, replaced by the drip of a faulty pipe and the distant hum of a generator. Sayeed settled against the rough brickwork, producing a fresh packet of cigarettes. A flick of his wrist shook one loose. A worn metal lighter sparked, the brief flame accentuating the hard lines of his face as he drew a long breath.
The cigarettes' orange tip cut through the gloom. He exhaled a plume of grey smoke that coiled lazily. Though his shoulders were relaxed, his eyes were not. They remained in constant motion, sweeping from the brightly-lit street to the deeper shadows, cataloguing every flicker of movement.
"That man, the manager," Sayeed began, his voice low and steady. "His name is Nuhas. This restaurant is known neutral ground, but his information is not. His nephew runs with a crew tied to the Dust Devil syndicate."
Raymond's expression remained flat, processing. The connection explained the code phrase, the careful dance of the transaction, the reason for his own caution. It was a test, and Sayeed had navigated it perfectly.
"Every broker in this town has a master," Sayeed continued, his voice dropping further. "They sell information, yes, but they also protect the interests of whoever pays their loyalty tax. You can't trust a single word from any one of them alone. You buy from Nuhas, you get the Dust Devils' version of the truth."
"So we find another broker."
Sayeed shook his head, a hint of a wry smile touching his lips. It was the expression of a teacher correcting a promising but naive student.
"We find three more brokers. At least. We ask for the same intelligence. We pay the full price each time. A clean transaction with no questions."
He pushed himself off the wall, his gaze direct, intense. This was not the weary mercenary from the hotel room, nursing his wounds. This was an operative outlining a mission, his mind sharp and focused.
"Then we take all the reports and lay them side by side. The details that match, where every broker tells the same story about the same gang in the same sector—that's the truth. Or close enough to it that we can act on the information."
"And the parts that don't match?"
"That is where you find the real intelligence," Sayeed said, a spark of professional pride in his eyes. "The discrepancies. When one broker leaves out a name, or gets a location wrong, or inflates a rival's numbers… that tells you who he protects. It maps the alliances. It shows you where their weaknesses are. That is how you navigate this town."
Raymond stood silent for a long moment. He watched Sayeed, seeing the man in a new light. The methodology was sound, a classic cross-referencing tactic for vetting unreliable human intelligence sources. It was precisely what he would have done himself, had he known the local landscape. The mercenary had field craft. Real tradecraft honed not in a classroom, but in the unforgiving streets and deserts of this world.
He had underestimated Sayeed. The man was more than just a strong arm with a chain sword. He was an analyst, a survivor. A professional.
"Alright," Raymond said. The single word was an acceptance of both the plan and Sayeed's competence. "Who is next?"
Sayeed's smile widened, this time with genuine satisfaction. He appreciated the unspoken respect in Raymond's tone.
"There is a woman who runs a spice stall three blocks from here. Deals in whispers as much as saffron. Her prices are higher, but her sources are independent. We will see what story she sells us."
He gestured back toward the market's chaotic energy. "Let's go. The sun is still high."
They spent the rest of the afternoon moving through Rocky Town's underbelly, tracking down additional information brokers scattered across the market district. After vetting several more brokers, they committed forty thousand credits to a package of corroborated intelligence, with collection arranged for the following day.
As twilight stained the desert skyline with hues of violet and amber,, Raymond and Sayeed turned back toward the relative safety of Rakheel's establishment. The market's clamour began to thin, the crowds dispersing as vendors packed away their wares.
They walked in silence, footsteps echoing in a narrow street lit by the flickering glow of gas lamps. Raymond's gaze swept a shop window, his eyes not on the dusty relics displayed inside but on the reflection of the street behind them. A figure, dressed in drab worker's clothes, had matched their last two turns. Too much of a coincidence.
Raymond's right hand, hanging loose at his side, tapped twice against his thigh. The gesture was small, almost invisible. Sayeed, walking a half-step behind, gave no outward sign, but his pace slowed fractionally. His head tilted, as if listening to a distant sound, his eyes scanning the mouth of a dark alleyway they were approaching. He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.
Without breaking stride, Sayeed turned sharply into the alley's gaping darkness. Raymond followed, the sound of their pursuer's hurried footsteps closing the distance behind them.
The alley narrowed as they moved deeper, the buildings on either side leaning inward like teeth. The light from the street didn't reach here. Only the faint purple wash of twilight filtered down from above.
Raymond stopped twenty paces in. Sayeed moved to his left, positioning himself against the wall. They waited.
The figure appeared at the alley's mouth—silhouette framed against the dying light. The man hesitated, realized he'd been made. His hand went to his waist.
Raymond closed the distance before the man could draw. Three strides. His boot swept low, catching the man's ankle mid-reach. The figure toppled backward. Raymond followed him down, knee driving into the man's chest as they hit the packed dirt. Air burst from the man's lungs.
Footsteps pounded from the street. Two more figures charged into the alley.
Sayeed stepped out from the wall. His fist caught the first one in the throat—a short, brutal jab that stopped the man cold. The attacker's hands flew to his neck, gagging. Sayeed's second strike came high, knuckles cracking against temple. The man crumpled.
The third figure pulled a blade—short, curved, gleaming dully in the low light. He slashed at Sayeed in a wide arc. Sayeed swayed back, the blade missing by inches. The attacker overextended. Sayeed grabbed the man's wrist, twisted hard. Bone cracked. The knife clattered to the ground.
Raymond drove his elbow down into his opponent's face. Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed. The man bucked, trying to throw him off. Raymond shifted his weight, pinning the man's arm with his knee. His fist came down once, twice—short, controlled strikes to the side of the head. The struggling stopped.
Sayeed's opponent tried to pull away, cradling his broken wrist. Sayeed didn't let go. He yanked the man forward, off balance, and swept his legs. The man hit the ground hard. Sayeed's boot came down on his chest, pinning him.
Movement at the alley's mouth. A fourth figure, half-hidden in shadow, turned and bolted.
Raymond pushed off his unconscious opponent and sprinted. His boots pounded the packed earth. The runner made it five strides before Raymond caught him by the collar, yanking him backward. The man spun, a dagger flashing up from his belt.
Raymond caught the wrist, redirected the blade past his ribs, and drove his knee into the man's gut. The runner folded. Raymond twisted the arm, forcing the man face-first into the alley wall. The dagger fell. Raymond kicked it away and wrenched the arm higher until the man cried out.
"Move and I break it."
The man went still.
Four attackers down. One unconscious, three disabled and hurting. Raymond shoved the fourth man down next to the others. Sayeed kept his boot on one's chest while watching the rest.
Raymond crouched in front of the conscious ones, his expression flat.
"Who sent you?"
The man's face twisted, sweat running through the dirt caked on his jaw.
"Basim."
Raymond leaned closer.
"Say that again."
"Basim sent me!"
Raymond exchanged a glance with Sayeed. The mercenary's expression hardened, confusion shading into something darker.
"Why?"
The man shook his head frantically.
"I don't know. We don't ask. He pays, we follow."
Raymond stood. The explanation made no sense. Basim had welcomed them. Arranged rooms. Appeared genuinely concerned about his uncle's kidnapping. Now he'd sent men to kill them?
Sayeed stepped forward, his boot pressing harder into the chest of the man beneath him.
"What were your orders?"
"Follow. Wait for the right moment. Make it look like bandits."
Raymond's jaw tightened. A setup. But why? What did Basim gain from their deaths?
He looked at the four men sprawled in the alley—one unconscious, three conscious and hurting.
Raymond moved on the closest man, hands reaching.
"No. Wait—"
The first crack echoed off the alley walls. Then the second. The third and fourth came in quick succession, each a sharp snap of bone. Sayeed's man screamed last, his leg twisted with a final, brutal wrench.
"We need to move. Now."
Sayeed stared at him.
Raymond turned toward the alley's mouth, toward the darkened streets leading back to the establishment.
They ran, boots pounding against packed earth as they sprinted toward the establishment, questions burning.
They slowed at the establishment's entrance, their chests still heaving from the sprint. Raymond forced his breathing steady. The adrenaline coursing through his veins needed to vanish from his face, his posture, his movements.
Sayeed matched the shift without instruction. His shoulders dropped. His jaw loosened. The tension bled from his stance.
Raymond pushed through the door first.
The interior's cool air hit his skin—a stark contrast to the evening heat outside. Marble gleamed under soft lighting. The faint hum of climate control filled the silence.
Basim stood behind the reception desk, reviewing something on a data terminal. His head lifted at the sound of their entrance.
His eyes widened. Just a fraction. A single heartbeat of surprise before his expression smoothed into the same welcoming smile he'd worn hours earlier.
"Raymond. Sayeed."
Basim's voice carried warmth, concern threading through the syllables.
"I was beginning to worry. The markets can be unpredictable after dark."
Raymond moved deeper into the lobby. His boots whispered against polished stone.
"Where's Rakheel?"
Basim's smile faltered. He placed a hand over his chest, his brow furrowing with practiced sympathy.
"My uncle took ill shortly after you departed. The ordeal of his captivity—" Basim paused, his voice catching. "—it overwhelmed him. I arranged immediate transport to a medical facility in the eastern district."
"Which facility?"
"Al-Rashid Clinic. The physicians there specialize in trauma recovery."
Basim stepped from behind the desk, his movements slow, deliberate.
"Uncle Rakheel left strict instructions before he departed. You are his honored guests. Whatever you require, I am to provide."
Raymond closed the distance between them. Three paces. Two.
Basim's foot shifted backward. An involuntary step. His smile remained fixed, but his pupils dilated.
Raymond's hand moved. The Vector-7 materialized in his grip, appearing from nothing—solid weight settling into his palm. The motion took less than a second.
He pressed the barrel against Basim's temple.
"Where is he?"
Basim's breath hitched. His hands rose, palms out, fingers spread.
"I—I told you. Al-Rashid Clinic. I don't understand—"
"You sent four men to kill us in an alley."
Basim's eyes widened again. This time the shock held longer, genuine surprise bleeding through his facade.
"That's absurd. I would never—"
Raymond reversed his grip. The Vector-7's butt swung in a tight arc, connecting with Basim's jaw. Bone cracked. Basim's head snapped sideways. His knees buckled.
Raymond caught him before he hit the floor. He stored the Vector-7 back and hoisted Basim's limp weight across his shoulders—a fireman's carry, the man's torso draped over Raymond's back.
Sayeed moved to the door, checking the street beyond.
"Clear."
Raymond adjusted his grip on Basim's legs and headed for the stairs.
His boots struck marble with steady rhythm. Basim's dead weight pressed against his shoulders—uncomfortable but manageable. The enhanced Endurance attributes made the burden lighter than it should have been.
They climbed in silence.
Raymond shouldered through the door to his presidential suite, Basim's weight pressing against his enhanced Endurance. The room's climate-controlled air hit his face—a stark contrast to the dusty heat of the lobby below.
He crossed to the center of the suite and dropped Basim onto the floor. The unconscious man's head lolled to one side, jaw already swelling from the Vector-7's impact.
Raymond glanced at Sayeed.
The mercenary moved without instruction. He walked to the beverage cabinet mounted against the far wall and retrieved a crystal glass. Ice clinked as Sayeed filled it with water, condensation already forming on the glass's surface.
Sayeed returned and stood over Basim. He inverted the glass.
Cold water splashed across Basim's face. The unconscious man jerked, gasping, eyes snapping open. His hands flew to his jaw, touching the swollen flesh with trembling fingers.
Sayeed stepped back, positioning himself at the door, his rifle held loosely across his chest.
Raymond settled onto the sofa opposite Basim. He spread his arms across the backrest, legs crossed, posture deliberately casual. His gaze fixed on the frightened man sprawled on the floor.
Basim scrambled backward until his spine hit the wall. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession, eyes darting between Raymond and Sayeed.
"This is a misunderstanding."
Basim's voice cracked. He pressed harder against the wall, as if the marble could swallow him whole.
"I swear on my family's name. I would never—"
"You sent four men to kill us."
Raymond's tone carried no inflection. A statement of fact.
"No. No, I didn't. Someone must have impersonated—"
Raymond didn't respond. Instead, he extended his hand. The Vector-7 materialized in his palm—solid weight appearing from nothing, barrel catching the suite's soft lighting.
Basim's words died in his throat. His eyes locked on the impossible weapon.
Raymond began disassembling the handgun. His movements carried the practiced efficiency of muscle memory—slide release, barrel extraction, recoil spring separation. Each component settled onto the low table between them with precise clicks.
He retrieved a cleaning cloth from his jacket pocket and began wiping down the barrel. Methodical. Unhurried. The cloth moved in smooth strokes, removing carbon residue from the weapon's interior.
Basim watched, transfixed. His breathing grew shallower. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the climate control.
Raymond worked in silence. Barrel cleaned. Frame inspected. Recoil spring checked for tension. His hands moved through the ritual whilst his gaze remained fixed on Basim.
The weapon reassembled itself under Raymond's fingers. Slide locked. Magazine seated. Chamber checked.
Basim turned toward Sayeed, eyes pleading.
The veteran mercenary stared back. No sympathy softened his scarred features. His eyes tracked Basim with the fixed intensity of a predator watching wounded prey.
Basim's composure shattered.
"Stop."
His voice pitched higher, breaking on the syllable.
"Please, just stop. I'll tell you everything. Just—" His hands rose, palms out, fingers splayed. "—don't kill me. Please don't kill me."
Raymond set the Vector-7 on the table. The weapon's matte finish absorbed the light.
He waited.
Basim drew a shuddering breath. Words spilled from him in a torrent.
"I tipped them off. The Sand Rats. About Uncle Rakheel's routes." His hands shook as he spoke. "It was supposed to be simple. They capture him. I negotiate the ransom. Become the middleman. Establish an ongoing relationship with them."
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing.
"The arrangement was perfect. They get regular information. I get a percentage of every score. Uncle never knows I'm involved. Everyone profits."
Basim's gaze dropped to the floor.
"Then you destroyed everything. The entire operation collapsed."
His voice cracked again.
"Now they think I betrayed them. Uncle might discover what I've done. The whole scheme is falling apart, and if the Sand Rats decide I'm a liability—"
He stopped, chest heaving.
Raymond leaned forward. His elbows settled on his knees, fingers interlaced.
"Where's Rakheel?"
Basim's voice cracked, words tumbling out in a desperate rush.
"He's drugged. Tied up in my personal quarters. Third floor, eastern wing. Suite number seven."
His hands pressed against the marble floor, fingers splayed wide.
"I swear that's the truth. I swear it. Just please—" His throat worked, adam's apple bobbing. "—please don't kill me. I told you everything."
Raymond studied the man's face. Fear had stripped away pretense, leaving only raw survival instinct. Basim's pupils remained dilated, pulse visible at his throat, sweat beading at his temples despite the climate control.
Raymond shifted his gaze to Sayeed.
The mercenary stood motionless at the door, rifle held across his chest. His scarred features carried no expression—a professional awaiting orders.
"Go check."
Sayeed moved immediately. He crossed the suite, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor. His footsteps faded, swallowed by distance.
The door closed with a soft click.
Silence settled over the room. Raymond remained on the sofa, arms spread across the backrest, posture unchanged.
Basim shifted, wincing at the movement. His jaw had swollen further, purple bruising spreading across the bone.
"I told everything. Please—"
"How did you come into contact with the Sand Rats?"
Raymond's tone carried no inflection. A simple question requiring a simple answer.
Basim's mouth opened. Closed. His gaze dropped to the floor.
"I—" He swallowed hard. "I had a bit of a gambling habit."
Raymond said nothing.
Basim continued, words coming faster now.
"There's this place in Cyber City. The Golden Fleece. Biggest casino in the outer districts. Real high-stakes matches, not the tourist traps near the gates."
His hands twisted together, fingers knotting.
"I thought I could win big. Just one good hand, one proper score, and I'd have enough to expand the business properly. Uncle Rakheel's always been cautious with investments, but I saw opportunities he couldn't—"
"The Sand Rats."
Basim flinched at the interruption.
"Right. Yes." He drew a shuddering breath. "I lost. Lost big. Seventy thousand credits in one night."
His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
"The man I lost to—his name was Carlos. I didn't know who he was at first. Just another player with deep pockets."
Basim's gaze remained fixed on the floor.
"After the match ended, he bought me drinks. Said he understood how these things went, that everyone had bad luck sometimes. Very friendly. Very understanding."
Raymond watched him. Basim's shoulders had drawn inward, body language shrinking.
"Three days later, he showed up here. At the establishment. Said he wanted to help me clear my debt. Said there was a way we could both profit."
Basim's voice cracked again.
"That's when he told me. His brother-in-law runs the Sand Rats. The Giant Rat himself. Carlos said they needed information—caravan routes, schedules, cargo manifests. Nothing dangerous, he promised. Just data."
His hands twisted harder, knuckles whitening.
"Carlos came up with the whole plan. The ransom scheme, the percentages, everything. I just—I just followed his instructions. Passed along Uncle's routes whenever they changed. Confirmed departure times. That's all."
Basim finally looked up, desperation naked in his eyes.
"I never meant for anyone to get hurt. Carlos said it would be clean. Professional. Uncle would pay the ransom, get released, never know I was involved. Everyone would profit and—"
The door opened.
Sayeed entered, his expression unchanged. He nodded once at Raymond.
Sayeed stepped further into the room, his gaze shifting from Basim's huddled form to Raymond.
"What now?"
Raymond remained motionless on the sofa. His eyes fixed on some point beyond the window, mind working through the implications.
The silence stretched.