After Placide—the strongest enforcer the Voodoo Boys had—was taken out by V's thermal katana, none of the remaining gang members managed to escape the wrath of KK's squad.
Once the bodies had piled up across the floor, Jack picked up the butcher's cleaver that had fallen from Placide's hand and examined it with curiosity.
"This cleaver's made from some seriously good material," he said. "It clashed with V's katana and held up through a whole power struggle. Barely even a nick. Not bad at all."
"Probably crafted from some expensive, high-grade alloy," Karl replied.
He opened one of the doors in the hallway, finding a room tucked deep inside. It was filled wall to wall with netrunner gear. Two Voodoo Boys netrunners were just rising from their chairs, startled.
Karl raised his pistol and shot them both before they could react. After confirming the room was clear, he turned back to Jack.
"If you like it, take it. Sure, Placide probably used that thing to butcher a lot of animals—or people—but a good blade's a good blade. Clean it up, sharpen it, and it'll still serve you well."
"You want me to cook with a knife soaked in human blood?"
Jack looked down at the cleaver, now stained with Placide's blood. "Guess I'll need to grind off the surface completely."
"Karl, heads up," came T-BUG's voice through the squad channel. "Don't destroy the equipment. I want that stuff brought back. Even if it's wired into their Poseidon subnet, once you cut the connection and reformat the OS, that gear's rare and valuable."
"I'll call someone to haul it later. But this is probably just one of their outposts. We'll find better stuff in the main base under the church."
"...Fair enough. Just be careful."
"We will."
After replying, Karl exited the room—and realized he was alone.
The others—Jack, Oliver, and V—had already gone downstairs to finish cleaning out the remaining Voodoo Boys. Time was short. They needed to hit the church before the gang's leadership could regroup or escape.
"Turn your back for one second and they're all gone. Figures."
Karl didn't intend to take his time either. Sure, the rest of the squad could handle it, but curiosity had gotten the better of him.
He'd seen a lot of gang leaders in his time—the heads of 6th Street, the Animals, Maelstrom... hell, even Hansen, the warlord running Dogtown. But the mysterious leader of the Voodoo Boys? He'd never met her.
He wanted a look before V inevitably took her head.
As Karl headed downstairs, the Haitian community hub had already erupted into chaos.
To outsiders—or to most of Night City, really—the Voodoo Boys were a shady, manipulative gang. Their ties to religion, their love of digital curses, and their treatment of mercs like disposable pawns had earned them few friends. But to the Haitians, the gang had been something else entirely: a rare form of organization and protection in the wake of losing their homeland.
One man's poison is another man's nectar.
Yes, many hated the Voodoo Boys. But among the Haitian population, few truly despised them.
Their collapse wasn't good news—not to them.
And yet... none of them lifted a hand to help.
Despite the size of the Haitian community, the Voodoo Boys had never numbered more than 250, even at their peak. That was no accident.
Even among their own people, the Voodoo Boys were a special class—like voodoo priests back in Haiti. Respected and feared in equal measure. Haitians had submitted to them out of fear, accepted their protection, and followed their rules.
But now, that fear had been shattered. And beneath a sky that no longer loomed with dread, people didn't know how to react.
Voodooism was a religion built on fear. Many Haitians believed that without the rituals, without membership, they'd be cursed. But now, they were watching fearless outsiders slaughter their "priests" one by one.
It was no surprise that confusion and panic took hold.
The net-priests were being exterminated. Maybe the voodoo religion would survive in some form after today, but the Voodoo Boys' netrunning elite were done. Gone.
The crowd was in chaos. People ran, but they didn't really know what they were running from.
Was it the killers they feared?
Or was it the realization that they no longer had to fear the digital curses of the voodoo faith—that they were now free, unprotected, and on their own?
No one could say for sure.
As Haitians fled the Serenity Bible Church, no longer placing their trust in voodoo's digital sorcery, Karl and his squad moved in the opposite direction—into the storm.
Rule by fear collapses under greater fear.
Karl scanned the people brushing past him.
Today, the Voodoo Boys would fall.
And the Haitian people would lose their protectors.
What came next was a mystery. Would they rebuild something similar, another cultish gang under a new leader? Form something like 6th Street? Or maybe they'd fragment, drift apart, and finally melt into Night City's chaos.
No one knows what comes after a collapse. Things might get better. Or worse.
But change had already begun.
Karl had pictured this moment the day he made that promise to Hans: he would destroy the Voodoo Boys.
And he didn't regret the lives he disrupted.
Because they were enemies.
And enemies were meant to be crushed.
Still…
The Haitians...
When you dismantle a system, you need something to stabilize it—at least for a while—until people find something new to believe in.
Hans needed partners.
And even though Pacifica had been stripped from Night City's jurisdiction, the NCPD still ran operations here—illicit or otherwise. With this area cleared, maybe it could become a new trading hub.
Maybe this place will become the next Dogtown, Karl thought.
He looked up at the sky.
The sun was shining.
It really was a beautiful day.
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