The Sixth Street Gang

Morton looked back, remembering the first time he heard that name, and how he had judged it.

Back then, he thought he'd been played by three complete morons.

Now those same three morons had saved his life. Which meant… he was the bigger moron?

Turns out, the real idiot was himself.

Of course, he could complain in his head all he wanted—but in the real world, the Burger King guy really was king now.

"Boss, want a smoke?"

Leo shook his head.

You couldn't blame Morton for his knees going weak. The more he thought about the ambush that night, the more it scared him.

Let's put it this way—if at the last moment, the person in that car had opened fire and killed him, the hot-headed idiot standing on stage…

Then his men would've been scared shitless and frozen.

And the enemy? They would've cut through a hundred guns to assassinate a gang boss, and walked out proudly while the rest pissed themselves.

They'd step over Morton's reputation and become the top-tier mercs of the city.

Maybe the Sixth Street Gang would've disappeared altogether.

And before that—if it weren't for those three, he'd have been rotting in a ditch a long time ago.

Sure, there were rumors that the mercs only came to Night City because of those three—but tracing it back doesn't change anything. Morton knew the truth in his gut.

He turned to look at a few people kneeling in the open space.

These were former henchmen of Gunner, the traitors he hadn't managed to catch before.

Morton waved a hand and shouted up to someone on the second floor, "Fire!"

BOOM!

Several rockets rained down, blasting the traitors into bloody chunks. You could still hear them babbling something before it hit, but nobody cared.

The dead are like extinguished lamps. The payment, however, came fast.

[Transfer: +500,000 Eddies]

Each of the trio got 160,000. Leo still only had 10,000 on hand, but the good news was his debt to V was finally looking payable.

"Everyone wins!" Morton grinned from ear to ear, nearly hugging Leo on the spot.

Unfortunately, that wasn't happening.

Leo waved it off. "Cut the crap. We're done here. I'm taking those mercs."

"And lastly—Night Corp's power grid situation."

Night Corp wasn't like other transnationals. Its business mostly stayed within Night City's borders. Its military strength wasn't much.

But a local boss still beats a powerful outsider. Night Corp was the local boss.

Technically speaking, Night City had always belonged to them.

Morton sat down. "Their stock crashed yesterday. You probably already heard."

"They messaged me, told me to find the people involved and send them over. But since you're taking them, I'm out of it."

"It's just... Night Corp's a big client of mine, so you see…"

Every district had its own power substation. In Night City, those stations operated at the mercy of the local gangs.

Sure, the corp could send their own troops to guard it. But if a gang messed with it or threatened locals, profits would tank fast.

So they'd rather pay the gang a fee. Not too much—just enough to not cut too deeply into profits. Definitely worth the investment.

Leo tapped the table and looked at Morton. "Ever thought about generating your own power?"

Morton froze.

Of course, he hadn't. Night City's infrastructure had always been handled by Night Corp. Who'd bother trying to take over?

The Sixth Street Gang already got decent protection money from the company—starting a power plant? That was a mess.

Too complicated. Too dangerous. Who knows what a pissed-off megacorp might do?

Sure, they all yelled "Screw the corps!" and "Kill the corpo dogs!"—but killing dogs and killing the whole corp were two very different things.

Talking big felt good. But really believing you could topple the system? That kind of thinking got you locked in the psych ward.

And the few who did try something? Most ended up as vapor trails.

Morton leaned back. "So you're asking me to go die."

So, no.

Leo thought for a moment. "The Aldecaldos want to establish roots in the Badlands. They're setting up solar and wind power there."

"Coronado Farm mostly needs civilian power. I think small-scale generation is no problem."

What he didn't say: if conditions allowed, they could even get a patent from the biotech sector to grow Ethanol-2 crops and build a thermal power plant.

Morton straightened up.

This was real. They were talking about taking food off Night Corp's plate.

And it wasn't crazy.

Clean energy didn't require advanced tech. If Leo could produce first-gen cyberware and other gear, the Aldecaldos clearly had the know-how.

What needed handling was the supply chain and construction. Morton wasn't sure about that—but he knew Nomads were logistics experts. They lived off infrastructure contracts.

As for local support, the Sixth Street Gang wasn't about to mess with Leo's partners—in fact, they'd protect them.

He wouldn't even need to say it. His men would instinctively stay out of the way.

So maintenance might actually be cheaper than the corps'.

The only major risk? The Badlands.

Building power arrays out there meant you couldn't avoid military tech. Night Corp could just hire someone to blow it all up.

But that was no longer Morton's problem.

He gave Leo a thumbs up. "I get it now, brother."

"We won't short you," Leo added. "As long as the station runs smooth, we'll even pay you. You just guard the substations."

"Deal," Morton grinned wider. "I'm not doing this for the money, of course. It's about mutual success and cooperation."

"About my second shipment—"

"Talk to the Aldecaldos. I don't handle that."

Leo got up to leave.

"Oh, right," Morton stood up too, grabbing a briefcase from the table. "Here's the prize from that night."

"Figured you guys probably don't need money, but hey—good gear is always nice."

Leo nodded and accepted it. "Might be worth studying. I'll be in touch."

Watching Leo leave, Morton finally let out a long sigh.

Hiring mercs only ends once they're gone.

Truthfully, there was a really awkward truth about both Morton and the traitors—

Neither of them were strong enough to handle two squads of mercs.

Since the nuclear blast, Night City's street-level firepower had weakened quite a bit.

Just like how corps were extra paranoid rebuilding the Net after the Old Net collapsed, Night City had also gotten more strictly regulated over its many rebuilds.

So…

"We really need to rearm…"

Morton walked to the other end of the building. A soldier quickly stepped out from a nearby room and joined him.

"Boss, we lost a lot of people."

"Not enough compensation funds?" Morton frowned. "No way."

"That's not it. It's just... some senior officers didn't have any family…"

"You new here?"

The soldier nodded. Morton said slowly, "If they had no family, transfer their payout to me. Think about it with that pig brain of yours. No family, and they still followed me—that makes me their big bro, right?!"

"Uh… what about the others?"

"The rest get their money as usual. And since you're new, I'm warning you—make sure it goes to the right people. Anyone skimming gets the same fate as those guys earlier. Rocket. Bullet."

Rockets were expensive. Bullets were much cheaper.

Thinking of that, Morton asked, "Not much left in the account, huh?"

"Not really," the soldier replied. Then hesitated. "We found out something from those traitors. Gunner had them researching how to make hallucinogens using Beta Acid. We could maybe—"

"No," Morton shook his head. "Manufacturing is too much of a hassle. Look at this dump—how many chemistry majors do you think live in Santo Domingo?"

"Better to just rob people. Remember, we only do three businesses:

Guns, combat vehicle rental and mods, and security work. Everything else is side jobs. If we do expand, I'll tell you myself."

"Understood."

At the door, Morton looked up and noticed a long line of civilians outside the wire gate.

The soldier quickly explained, "Boss, they're all folks laid off by corps. No severance. Want us to 'get it back' for them."

"Some are here to enlist too."

"Get it back," of course, meant selling insider info and helping the Sixth Street Gang run illegal ops.

Morton smiled.

Nice. Fresh blood and new income streams.

Truthfully, he had other reasons for not making hallucinogens like Gunner—not that he'd admit it to his men.

Burger King was producing drugs now. What if they ended up in a turf war?

And that guy didn't seem to like drugs much.

If he showed up and cut you down in a flash—now that'd be embarrassing.

Better to play it smart. They rob corps? We rob corps too.

"Go check the armory inventory. What's your name?"

"Darius Miles, boss."

"Good. Darius, check the weapons, then go help those little lambs recover their severance.

Momentum's on our side now. Tomorrow morning, I want to see us at least make one headline:

'Malicious Wage Protest! Unknown Armed Group Attacks Major Corporation. Message on the wall: Give Us Our Damn Money.'"

Morton stretched under the sun—he still needed a cyberdoc to run a checkup.

Just then, he got a message.

[Sender: Sapphire Blue Nightclub]

[Dear Mr. Morton: Sapphire Blue will be hosting a banquet soon. As a valued VIP client, you are invited.]