Forty Points
Bang!
The can exploded, fragments flying everywhere. One shard struck the ballistic ceramic on Morton's leg, while the rest either scattered into the crowd or slammed into the walls.
The bullet hit the wall just behind him, leaving an exaggerated mark—very close, almost hitting Morton.
But almost didn't count—it missed.
Morton didn't even pause. His hand, reaching for the can, immediately grabbed a new one from the side.
No one reacted to this bizarre scene—because…
"Walker! Thirty-six points!"
Morton, drunk and swaying, declared his subordinate's score—the highest one yet.
"Anyone else?!"
No one stepped up.
Half of the participants were only here to drink. This high-proof, infused tequila could scramble a normal person's nerves after just one shot.
Three shots in, half of them were flat on the ground. Of the remaining half, barely any could still shoot straight.
And Walker—Morton's soldier was clearly the best performer tonight.
The guy was in his twenties. Not quite old, not quite young.
"No one?" Morton put the can down and stepped toward the crowd.
Walker stood beside him, the quiet, drunk type. He waited silently for his prize while keeping an eye on the darkness over on Woodhaven Street—
There were still mercs out there hunting them.
"If no one else…" Morton slung an arm over Walker's shoulder and looked toward the crowd, ready to announce the winner.
The crowd wore dumb, drunken smiles, completely immersed in the "wine and meat" atmosphere. Some had even forgotten what the contest was about.
They were simply excited for the next part:
Announcing the winner!
But Morton suddenly froze. He thought he saw streaks across the sky—
Meteors? In Night City? In this weather?
Confused, he stood up straighter, tilting his head to get a better look—
Then his eyes widened.
Out of the darkness, a sports car barreled into the street, wreathed in flames!
It tore through the rain like a demon out of hell, crashing into a roadside building.
BOOM!
The gas tank exploded on impact, sending a massive fireball into the misty rain. Burning debris flew everywhere.
Everyone turned their heads—but only Morton managed to see—
A ghostlike figure leapt from the roof just before the explosion!
Silence fell instantly. Everyone was too stunned to speak.
Skrrrch—
Another screech of tires. A second vehicle roared out of the intersection like a strobe light on wheels, its silhouette flashing amid bursts of gunfire.
Everyone recognized the flashes—they'd seen them earlier!
Gunfire!
The flashing car looked like a disco ball, and just barely visible atop it was—
A massive man slamming his fist into the roof, followed by a shot that exploded like a grenade!
BANG!
The car spun out of control on the wet road, skidding, then flipping and exploding.
The fireball lit up two silhouettes—one kneeling on the street, the other standing against a wall.
Both figures were bracing from impact. Then—two more cars roared in!
Their speed was unreal, especially on a rainy night. The handling was almost supernatural.
The two figures managed to draw and fire—but missed.
From this road on, the path toward Woodhaven Street was straight!
The engine roars grew louder. Panic spread like wildfire. The drunk members of the Sixth Street Gang raised their weapons and scrambled for cover.
Maybe the cars wouldn't hit those hiding inside the buildings—but anyone lying on the street was done for.
Then something bizarre happened. The rear car suddenly pitched upward, like it had tripped on something. It flipped over backward!
As it turned in midair, people noticed—the rear end had a hole blown straight through it, big enough for two fists!
Morton instinctively understood what happened: a high-powered bullet had hit the rear of the car, either bursting the tire or blasting it apart.
Whatever it was, the rear wheel got clipped—lifted briefly—and the incline plus high-speed rotation caused it to flip.
It was a rare sight. The power of the bullet, the speed of the car, the road's surface—all those factors had to align perfectly.
Honestly?
The most badass closing act of the night!
And there was still one more car!
This second car was all black. Morton recognized it immediately—an Archer Hella 1360, the legendarily rugged old-school beast.
But how tough could it be?
Tougher than the dozens of guns his boys had?
Suddenly, Morton pointed at the rapidly approaching car and shouted hoarsely:
"Tonight's bonus target!
Blow this thing up, and it's forty points! Forty points!!!"
All 27 guns from the Sixth Street Gang opened fire almost simultaneously at Morton's command!
Fire lit up the arena. Even the armed civilians snapped out of their daze.
The roar of the engine and the hail of bullets spiked everyone's adrenaline. Hormones flooded their systems—fear, excitement, aggression, panic.
They couldn't control their hormones or their emotions, but firing a gun?
That was something every Night City resident knew how to do.
Hundreds of cheap firearms joined the storm.
"AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!"
A civilian in the front row roared into the rain—but didn't even realize one thing:
His pistol wasn't automatic. Holding down the trigger did jack all.
At first, the bullets vanished into the rain. But soon, a storm of metal tore through the downpour!
Inside the speeding vehicle, no one could tell whether the noise outside was rain or bullets—but this was their only shot to complete the mission!
The bulletproof glass shattered piece by piece. The armor plating peeled off. The bumper scraped sparks across the ground. The distance closed in.
The black-smoking car slowed visibly!
A full minute and three seconds had passed. The Sixth Street Gang finally ran out of ammo. Their guns overheated. The gunfire thinned.
Only the man in the very front row remained—too panicked to take cover, still clutching his handgun, still screaming.
"AAAAAAAAAAAA—"
Click.
Bang!
Click.
Bang!
His trembling finger squeezed off a few more desperate shots.
Say what you want—the Archer Hella really was a beast. Despite that barrage, it still made it through. The engine smoked, but no explosion.
The surface, riddled with bullet holes like a horror show for trypophobes, didn't look wounded—more like decorated with medals.
Was it over?
Morton was about to declare it done when he saw—the windshield was gone.
The driver leaned out with a massive gun barrel, and the passenger?
A fist holding a mini rocket launcher.
Everyone's hearts skipped a beat—
Zzzrrrk—
A blue-white arc streaked through the rain. A bullet pierced the vehicle.
BOOM!
A thunderous roar split the night. A fireball surged into the sky.
In the blaze, pieces of cyberware mixed with car shrapnel flew upward in the blast wave—then came raining down.
One merc, engulfed in flames, crawled out of the wreckage. After a few feeble slaps to extinguish himself, he collapsed.
The fire was slowly quenched by the rain. All that remained were two unmoving mercenaries on the ground.
Morton dropped into a chair, raised his pistol to the sky with trembling hands—
BANG!
"Forty points! Forty points!"
Bang bang bang bang!
"The grand prize goes to… the Burger King!!!"
"OHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
He shouted, then let out a long breath, staring at the cheering crowd. His mind finally cleared.
And in his head, he muttered:
"What a dumbass name. Nearly tripped over my own tongue."