If pistol rounds were not strong enough, he could always bring out the Nokota D5 Copperhead. Pistols were meant to be easy to carry and quick at close range, not for raw power. If things ever came down to a forced pistol fight, he trusted himself to put rounds through unprotected spots, and he doubted a few Maelstrom punks would be wearing full-body protection.
After buying enough gear and ammunition, the three of them got into Oliver's car and headed for the Maelstrom hideout listed in the client's data. The destination was in the northern part of Watson District, inside the Industrial District. It used to be a place full of jobs, once praised as lively and full of promise, but now it had turned into housing for the lowest factory workers.
They lived on thin wages and worked seventeen-hour days in factories that were already heavily automated. Machines were worth more to repair than human lives, yet the workers kept thanking the owners while pushing themselves harder, afraid of being fired. From Carl's point of view, there was nothing to praise here, only resignation.
What else could he say? Celebrate that he did not have to work himself to death for a family, or feel lucky that he had no one depending on him like some dark joke of a hero? He could not take that seriously.
As long as there was no contract asking him to kill a factory owner, he would just wait. If such a job ever came, he would not mind taking it, but whether the workers survived afterward was not his concern. He was just a merc.
Thinking about it that way, it made sense why Maelstrom kept pulling people in from this area. Gang life, no matter how violent, probably looked better than endless factory shifts. Many of them had likely grown up watching their parents suffer and decided they had to make a name for themselves somehow.
"Compared like that, gangs might even have better room to move up," Carl said. During the drive, the thought turned into a conversation between him, Oliver, and Jack Welles.
"That reminds me why 6th Street was founded in the first place," Oliver said. "The founders could not stand corporate pressure after the war, so they formed 6th Street to fight back. But a lot has changed. When I was a kid, I never thought 6th Street would start charging protection money from civilians and talking about influence and rank like everyone else."
"A gang that fights corporations slowly turning into one," Jack Welles said. He paused, then realized something. "Wait, Oliver, you used to be with 6th Street?"
"Up until yesterday," Oliver replied. "I got kicked out this morning."
He went on to explain how he met Carl. He mentioned that the client had chosen KK because of the surveillance footage from that incident.
"That is not what surprises me," Jack Welles said. "I used to be with Valentinos myself before going solo. Now two guys from gangs that hated each other are working as friends and teammates. Feels strange."
"You were with Valentinos?" Oliver asked. He was surprised for a moment, then accepted it. Given where Jack Welles lived and how familiar he was with them, it made sense.
"Then after this job, we should grab a drink and celebrate leaving gang life," Oliver said.
"The way you say it makes it sound like we are kidnapping someone," Carl said.
At that moment, the car's navigation spoke up. "Target distance, fifty meters."
"We are here," Carl said. "Grab your gear."
As the factory buildings came into view, Carl felt a clear sense of anticipation about what was about to happen.
Madhead slammed a stream of curses at the other end of the comm, then cut the line. As a junior officer within Maelstrom, she had not lost her temper like this in a long time, but this was something she could not let go. Yesterday, her younger brother died on their turf in the Watson District, shot in the head in broad daylight by people from 6th Street.
The shot was precise, slipping past the facial implants that should have protected him and entering through the weakest joint between the back-of-head implant and the cheek implants. One bullet was enough to kill him, splitting his face front to back, and by the time the NCPD reluctantly notified the family, the implant from the back of his head was already gone. What she got back was a face so damaged she could barely recognize it as her brother.
Someone who used the name Madhead was never known for patience or a gentle temper. Just as she was about to gather her people and go after those 6th Street bastards, a call came down from above telling her to keep herself under control for the next few days and not cause trouble. Control, and do not cause trouble, as if it was not her brother who had been killed.
She had already made up her mind to take revenge, and she had the intel. Only one person from 6th Street had survived the incident, a man named Oliver, and it seemed he had even been kicked out of the gang. Today, she was going to take his life.
"I told you not to run around and just stick with me," she muttered at the empty room. "You had to prove yourself, and now look at you. I do not even know where to place half your face."
Madhead and her brother lost their father when they were young, and their mother died a few years later from factory work. The two of them relied on each other to grow up, and Madhead was the luckier one, earning the notice of Brick early and joining Maelstrom. The extra cyber-eyes let her earn enough for both of them, and after a few years she became a small but real officer, with a future that looked stable.
She never wanted her brother to join Maelstrom, hoping he would study and live a cleaner life. He insisted on helping and joined anyway, then formed his own small crew so no one would say he was living off his sister. It had seemed fine, and now all of it was gone.
There was no room left for regret or hesitation. What Madhead wanted now was release, and nothing else mattered. Even if she lost her mind and died for it, she would drag that 6th Street bastard down to the grave to keep her brother company.
As she was about to call in her people, the door to her room was kicked open and one of her men rushed in, panic all over his face. No one dared to interrupt her when she was like this, but this situation could not wait. He was clearly shaken as he spoke.
"Boss, three people have broken in. We cannot hold them anymore."
"Three people?" Madhead frowned, confused by what she was hearing. This factory had more than twenty people inside, and three attackers should not have been a problem.
"Which blind idiot picked today to come looking for trouble," she said coldly. She grabbed a Crusher kinetic shotgun made by Militech with one hand, feeling that the timing could not have been better.
After turning them into pieces with buckshot, she could ride that momentum straight into a strike against 6th Street. Still, she was not reckless enough to rush out blindly, so she told the man to warn the others that she was on her way and headed for the security console instead.
When she looked at the monitor feeds she had ignored during the comm call, one screen caught her eye and held it. On it was a young blond man with a thin mustache, his face clear despite the chaos around him. Madhead's six cyber-eyes flickered as her emotions spiked, because she knew that face without a doubt.
She had stared at his file and photo all night. This man was Oliver, the only survivor from 6th Street yesterday, the killer who took her brother. She had not even gone looking for him yet, and he had delivered himself right to her door.