Two days later.
Anders Hellman had vanished like a stone sinking into the ocean—no trace at all.
The intel gathered confirmed he had indeed defected to Kang Tao, but whether in public records or the black market, there was no way to pin down his location.
Rogue told them to be patient. And if even the client wasn't in a rush, then Roqi, as a merc, had even less reason to worry.
After all, Johnny was chilling inside the PDA, didn't need food or drink, and even had time to browse learning materials online. He was practically enjoying a laid-back life of captivity, with no immediate threat to his existence.
At noon on Branton Street, unless it was a cold rainy day, the pavement was always scorching hot.
Concrete, concrete, and more concrete.
People often called cities made of steel and concrete "concrete jungles," but the iron-plate feel of Arroyo's streets and walls—offering zero shade—was the true definition of concrete hell.
Sometimes, the only shade came from the towering equipment of corporate factories, under which people gathered to cool off.
Like Roqi, currently lying on the roof of a run-down auto junkyard under an overpass, hands folded behind his head, a lollipop in his mouth.
This was the right side of the ambush zone, located near the intersection of Branton Street and the overpass.
"Stay sharp, they're in the city."
Mr. D received word from a lookout and called out to his crew.
"Of all times, they show up at high noon? What, looking for a tan?" C grumbled.
He was sitting in a gutted-out car, nothing left but the bare frame, no doors or steering wheel. He adjusted the bipod of his machine gun, planting it firmly on the dashboard, panning the sight from right to left, locking down the whole intersection.
"Less whining, more focus," came Dragan's voice.
Cigarette in mouth, brows furrowed, he scanned the traffic and pedestrians with his signature scowl—probably his default expression. He rarely relaxed, especially after learning that their deal with the Voodoo Boys was canceled based solely on Roqi's warning.
"How do you know he's not just trying to steal the netrunner gig for himself?"
That had been Dragan's line.
His distrust extended to everything and everyone—Mo'er's sniping skills, T-Bug's hacking, Roqi's sharpshooting—all scrutinized equally.
"Don't tell me how to do my job."
C's unshaven stubble was more pronounced than ever, like it had grown faster than his buzz cut. Still, his dark complexion softened the mess a little.
"Bickering again? Is that your pre-battle ritual?" D snapped.
"Nah, some people just trust nobody." C smirked pointedly.
"All right, enough." D checked his PDA. "Target's two clicks out. Get ready."
Hearing that, Roqi rolled over on the rooftop, grabbed his Ajax, and checked the bolt and safety. He propped the gun up on a stack of sandbags, feeling like he was on a battlefield.
Only, real warzones didn't have flashy billboards.
D, C, and Dragan were stationed across the road, forming a crossfire net. From Roqi's position, only the tiniest, well-hidden barrel tips were visible.
"T-Bug, you set?" Roqi tapped the metal under him.
"No need to shout, I can hear you," T-Bug sighed. "Ready."
"Sniper in position," Mo'er's clipped voice came through.
"Don't miss, lady." Dragan sounded skeptical.
"Keep off the comms. Over," Mo'er shot back, giving zero face.
Roqi's focus narrowed on the overpass bend—where the convoy would appear… assuming all went to plan.
"How far?" he asked, breathing in and out rhythmically to steady his heart.
"1.2 kilometers... 1... 800 meters…"
"Visual on target."
Roqi's heart skipped a beat.
First came a matte-black armored vehicle. The yellow lettering on its side gleamed in the sun:
MILITECH
The hulking Behemoth transport, flanked by escorts, rumbled down from the overpass.
"Uploading daemon!" T-Bug began the hack.
Militech didn't use public networks like amateurs; they relied on ICE-protected local networks. T-Bug had to fool their ICE before she could upload her daemon into the vehicle systems or into the soldiers' implants.
Click click…
The turret guns on top of the escort vehicles retracted. Her intrusion had worked.
"ICE is thick—give me 30 seconds!"
Shutting off the engines wasn't easy, not for Militech. T-Bug switched targets—aiming for the soldiers' implants instead.
But the convoy would cross the kill zone in just a few seconds.
Time for Plan B!
BANG!!
Right as T-Bug finished speaking, a massive crack split the air.
Mo'er, perched over 100 meters away, had fired.
Her tungsten armor-piercing round tore through the windshield like paper, obliterating the driver's head in a red mist.
No one saw the shot coming.
Screeeeech—!
The truck veered out of control, swerving wildly before plowing over some abandoned cars and crashing headlong into a tree.
The escort in front tried to recover, fishtailing into oncoming traffic and flipping a civilian car.
BEEP. BOOM—!!
The blast rocked the whole block.
Even from the rooftop, Roqi felt the tremor shake his bones.
Through the ringing in his ears, he saw the rear escort vehicle launch six meters into the air in a fireball.
When it crashed back down, debris rained across the road.
The soldiers who'd just disembarked didn't stand a chance.
"We're under attack! Call for backu—ugh!"
A squad trying to regroup was cut short—Roqi shot one of them straight through the head, misting the air with red.
"Open fire!"
Gunfire erupted from across the street.
The Militech soldiers tried to retaliate—only to find their rifles going haywire, firing wildly on their own.
T-Bug's daemon had worked.
D's crew capitalized. C's light machine gun tore across the street like a reaper, riddling armor with tracer fire.
Militech troops weren't soft targets—but even with subdermal armor and metal bones, they couldn't keep up.
Just as they reached for backup pistols, a buzzing sound dropped in among them.
BOOM BOOM BOOM!
An explosion of fire and ash engulfed the area.
White phosphorus, EMPs, shrapnel grenades, biohazards…
Roqi's drone was loaded with every kind of boom he could fit.
The effect was devastating.
Nearby troops still standing didn't last long.
Another drone dived—right into their midst.
BOOM BOOM BOOM!
A second thunderclap.
Panic overtook the street. Civilians fled, some swerving into fields, others reversing down the road.
By the time the last Militech soldier fell, silence returned. Too silent.
Only the wrecks crackled as fire spread, filling the air with burning plastic and blood.
One soldier was still barely alive.
Sparks flew from his eyes, blood gurgled from his throat, his limbs were mangled beyond recognition.
Then came the suits. Men in cheap suits and clown masks—red lips, big noses, old flags painted on their faces.
He recognized the flag.
Fifty stars. Thirteen stripes.
Once, it had meant the United States.
But after all the wars—Central America, the Corporate Wars, gang wars, civil war—it was long gone.
Now there was the New United States, the Pacific Confederation, the Republic of Texas, the Western States…
And Night City was in California, a state split in two, torn between the Free States and the NUSA.
As he reached for his pistol…
VRRRR-BANG.
A speeding van ran him over. D had arrived.
"Move! Load the goods!"
D led the charge. C and Dragan hauled out a cutting tool with a retractable alloy frame—fully automated.
The truck's cargo hold was sealed tight with a five-layer security system—key, fingerprint, bio-lock, passcode, and certificate.
"What's in here, nukes?" T-Bug joked as she arrived.
The tool fired up—screeching and sparking like a metal fireworks show.
Mo'er walked up with a crate on her back, glancing over the field of corpses.
Roqi panicked and sprayed her with trauma calming mist—but then saw her smirk.
If anyone said she had weak nerves again, Roqi would tear their head off.
Even mid-extraction, she had the mood for jokes.
What a champ.
CLANK—
The lock gave way.
Four crates in total—three big, one small. Done in minutes.
"Clean the site," D barked. "No traces."
Dead soldiers got double-tapped, casings were collected, every tool accounted for.
Professionalism, top to bottom.
"What the hell are you doing? MOVE!"
D roared when he saw Roqi fiddling with something on the ground.
"Done!" Roqi jumped into the van.
Mo'er slammed the door—and the van sped off like a rocket.
A plain blue delivery van—old, ordinary—merged into traffic after a few quick turns.
An AV-4 roared overhead, flanked by armored cars.
Militech.
Too late.
.
.
.
🤖 My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?
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