Chapter 62

Tripple Extreme Gym looked like a giant red box. The paint was peeling, and the metal beneath had rusted under the brutal California sun and unfriendly acid rain.

"They drag out a stiff from here every month or two," Jackie said as he got off his bike. "It's more slaughterhouse than gym."

"Yeah, no shit. Shady place," Cesar Diego Ruiz agreed, stepping out of Falco's car. "My old man used to say, 'Jamàs te rindas, pase lo que pase.' Never give up. But here? A rookie should throw in the towel early unless they wanna get beat to death."

Cesar was a street boxer from Valentino I'd hired for 2,500 eddies, with a bonus of 5K if it came to blows. He had decent implants, including an early version of Sandevistan. Out of the five of us, only Jackie and Falco didn't have one.

Falco gave us all a stern look and said, "Guys, let's not be the ones to start shooting. No matter what."

That was aimed squarely at Becca, who was humming something cheerfully under her breath as she hauled a heavy black case out of the trunk.

'Militech' was engraved in white across the center.

'Sucks,' read a scrawled red marker below it.

Inside was a fully-assembled, combat-ready Hercules 3AX. If things went to hell tonight, there'd be no point hiding my involvement in Mauser's death. That'd mean a full-on war with Animals, and for a long damn time. Not ideal for business, but I needed to be prepared.

A typical thug from the gang lounged by the entrance, demanding a fee to get inside.

"I'm V. I've got a meeting with Garcia," I said.

"Fine. You go in. The rest either pay up or fuck off."

I smiled, took off my shades slowly, and let my eyes glow red as I said, "You're either stepping aside, or you'll be out cold till tomorrow with half your implants needing a factory reset. Your ice is absolute shit—I'll wipe you clean before you even think about swinging at me."

The bouncer's face twisted as rage, stupidity, and fear all fought for control. He wasn't exactly top-tier Animals, the kind pumped so full of roids they'd lost their survival instinct.

"Hold up, I'll call Logan," he muttered, then grudgingly stepped aside after a couple of minutes. "Fine, fuck. Go on in. Don't trip and break your legs or some shit."

The gym's interior was barebones—hell, primitive—centered around a fighter's pit. It had once been a paint factory. Now it was a circus of violence. The pit was a repurposed mixing vat, a perfect metaphor for street brutality crushing any hope of industry or creation.

"You girls here for a tour?" sneered a juiced-up meathead with crude implants as he benched a ridiculous weight.

"Keep running your mouth, and it'll be a live anatomy lesson. Garcia in his office?"

"Upstairs," a woman training nearby muttered. "But watch your lip with Garcia, or you'll leave without a jaw."

"Thanks for your concern, madam," I replied theatrically, ignoring Jackie's chuckle as I climbed the stairs, leaving my crew behind.

Logan Garcia reminded me of Nash—same size, same arrogant smirk—but older, more polished. He wore a thick blazer over a white tee, giving off a refined-but-dangerous vibe.

"Mr. V?" he asked, moving toward his desk.

"The one and only."

"'V' as in 'Very disrespectful?'"

"Sometimes very, sometimes not. Depends on the company and how reasonable they are."

"You talk a big game. What backs it up?" Logan asked, a faint threat in his voice.

I took my time answering, strolling along the office, glancing out the panoramic window, winking at Becca below. Finally, I turned back.

"Pretty sure you've done your homework. You know where I've worked, who I'm dealing with now. You figure out the rest."

"Yeah, we did our homework," Logan muttered reluctantly. "That's why we're talking. Angie told Sasquatch you're working for Hansen, so touching you is off the table."

"And you'd rather I wasn't?"

"I think you're just a cocky middleman. I've seen your type before. Flashy, full of other people's clout. Hot air with borrowed cred. But I respect Matilda, so listen up, V. I'm pulling some of my guys off your club. Replacing them with people who have experience and steady nerves. Consider it a favor. Now get your clowns and get lost."

"Interesting… I've got a counteroffer."

"Let's hear it."

"Pick anyone in your gym. Not Razor Hughes, obviously. We'll do a boxing match, standard rules. If my fighter wins, we renegotiate the contract entirely, plus your crew works four months for free to cover prior losses. If you win, I'll personally pay you 300K, and the deal stays as-is."

Logan's grin widened, full of malice. "Now that's some balls. I love it when amateurs jump into the ring. Fine. Deal?"

He extended his hand.

"Deal." I shook with my left cybernetic hand.

Logan grimaced but clapped his left hand into mine.

"Who's your fighter? Cesar? Wells? They're amateurs!" He laughed.

"I'll keep my fighter's identity a surprise," I said, keeping my tone modest.

"Oh, planning to recruit someone? Doesn't matter. I've got nothing to hide. I'll step into the ring myself."

"Are you sure?" I asked with mock concern. "Modern medicine works miracles, but it looks like it's already done plenty for you. All those fights at the edge of your limits… No health problems? And I don't see much heavy chrome on you—doctor's orders?"

"Don't worry, kid. I'll suit up for a day. Shake off the rust and knock out some wannabe."

Logan looked thrilled. A seasoned pro, once Night City's champ. No doubt he expected an easy win.

"When's the fight?" he asked, more demand than question.

"Saturday sound good?"

"Two days? Done. Find your sacrificial lamb, V. Better start planning his funeral."

I ignored him. The "sacrificial lamb" was already locked in.

The next couple of days, I kept busy with minor gigs tied to the rising tensions between Voodoo Boys, Barghest, and Scavs. Ever since Slider got iced, Scavs had been pushing for more control in Dogtown. I got paid to sniff out fresh intel on implant-stealing fanatics. The job boiled down to calls, Arasaka counterintel inquiries, and mail intercepts—standard stuff Lucy and I handled easily.

Then came fight night. Logan wasn't just looking to crush me; he wanted an audience. Tickets sold like hotcakes. Animals grabbed most, but bored Rancho Coronado residents bought in, too. The packed crowd was a surprise. Was it Logan's star power or curiosity about my mystery fighter?

Falco, Becca, Cesar, and Jackie came with me. The last two argued the whole way.

"Can't believe you didn't pick me," Cesar grumbled. "I might be short on experience, but I'm the toughest hijo de puta in Glen. And I'm younger than that asshole."

I tuned out most of the bragging. Maybe Cesar could have taken Logan down, but Logan had just as good a shot at wiping the floor with that gold-chain-loving bastard. No thanks. I needed a sure win.

There weren't any real seats for spectators. People crowded around the pit or perched on metal platforms under the roof of the old factory. The Animals had rigged up a few screens on the walls, showing the pit from different angles. Plenty of them were here, though fewer than I expected—mostly Logan's regulars. One surprise: Angelica Whelan, better known as Angie. She financed the Animals and organized their rigged fights. Unlike the typical roided-out banger, she was fit and toned without bulging muscles. But don't get it twisted—she could throw down. She had plenty of chromed-out hardware and a rap sheet long enough for the NCPD to put a price on her head. Illegal genome editing was even on her list. That's a rare achievement.

Angie was chatting with Logan, who had traded his jacket for a sleeveless tee. His muscles bulged, and his eyes burned wild with all the stims pumping through his veins. Old man Logan looked ready to reclaim his glory days. His veins stood out like fire hoses under pressure. He locked eyes with me and stared me down.

"He was always a hell of an athlete but a shit person," Jackie whispered. "By the way, Vik's gonna show up soon."

"You told him everything?"

"Of course!"

"Damn it… Whatever."

Viktor Vektor did show up soon enough, but the night's surprises weren't over. A tall guy with a face full of crude implants that made up a red visor walked in. Maelstrom.

"Lost, chrome-dome?" one of the Animals asked.

"Nope. Got a ticket. See?"

"All right. Don't start shit."

"Not me," the Maelstromer rasped. "Can't promise for anyone else, though."

More cybercultists followed him. Soon it was clear they had bought out about a quarter of the tickets.

"Shit…" Jackie muttered. "I'm liking this less and less."

"No kidding," Vik agreed. "Maelstrom never gave a damn about sports before. This stinks of trouble. No, it reeks. See that bald guy with the beard who just walked in?"

"Yeah," I muttered grimly. "That's Royce. The one and only."

"The fact we've got a seasoned ripperdoc here might be our only lucky break," Falco deadpanned.

"The real question is whether the ripper feels lucky," Vik chuckled bitterly. "Someone got a revolver or a shotgun I can borrow?"

"You seriously came without heat, old man?" Becca asked in disbelief.

"I brought a Lexington, but it looks like I'll need something heavier."

Becca rummaged through her infinite-pocket outfit, but Falco beat her to it, handing Vik an Overture.

Angie approached with two bodyguards.

"Mister Price?"

"That's me."

"Are those your guests?" She gestured toward the noisy Maelstrom section.

"Nope. I'm just as surprised as you are."

"Good. No matter what happens tonight, I believe we can settle things peacefully."

Whoa. Someone in the Animals believes in diplomacy?

Logan didn't.

"Where's your fighter?" he growled, slamming his fists together.

"Soon," I said, keeping an eye on both Animals and Maelstrom.

The air was thick with tension. A few random spectators slipped out, unwilling to risk it. When the Tripple Extreme doors opened again, Viktor shot me a look of pure disbelief.

"Seriously?"

"He'll win. We've got the strategy."

Jackie was less confident.

"Shit, V, has he even boxed before?"

"I doubt it. Arasaka's security team prefers judo, karate, muay thai. But his strikes are solid."

Viktor, Jackie, and Caesar stared at me like I was an idiot. I kept my poker face. Meanwhile, David Martinez calmly took off his jacket, folding it neatly into his backpack. Nobody paid him any mind—just another spectator.

"Let me fight!" Jackie offered. "Or Cesar!"

"I'm ready!" Cesar chimed in. "I'll take a modest cut. Twenty percent? Fifteen?"

I grabbed my mic and cranked the amp.

"Tonight's challenger against Logan Garcia is David Martinez from Santo Domingo!"

The crowd erupted—especially Maelstrom.

"You're an idiot, V. Official diagnosis," Vik muttered.

"Got it covered," I whispered back.

David nodded in focus. Logan prowled the pit's edge, slamming his fists together.

"You came to die, kid! You're gonna die here!"

Martinez ignored him, stretching like it was a routine workout. He was in lightweight track pants and a tight rash guard tee.

"How old is he, V?" Garcia cackled. "How much did you pay for him? A bag of chips and a console? You fucked up, poser! I'm gonna splatter him!"

"Do boxers always talk shit this much?" Becca asked.

Angie raised her voice to get the fight started.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," David replied.

"Let's go!" Logan roared, about to jump in.

A shot rang out. A massive-caliber bullet tore through the factory roof, making everyone flinch. Guns came out. Some ducked.

"Here we go…" Jackie growled. "It's always like this with these freaks."

Royce—Simon Randall—had fired the shot. He wasn't the gang leader yet, but high enough in Maelstrom's pecking order.

"Listen up!" he barked, holding a revolver in one hand and an electromagnetic pistol in the other. "There's gonna be a fight. A damn good one. But we gotta wait. One of our clients is on the way. Big shot. Paid for tickets—two tickets! He'll be pissed if we start without him. So we wait!"

"Why don't you ditch the gun and warm up in the ring?" Logan called out to him.

"Why don't you grab a gun and come up here?" Royce shot back. "I'll knock you out so hard with a couple of through-and-throughs your mom won't recognize you... but maybe later. There's gonna be a fight! You hear me? A fight! But first…"

The heavy sound of footsteps cut through the noise, catching the attention of everyone despite the chaos. The metal folding door at the back of the factory crumpled like paper, pushed aside as though it were a mere curtain. A massive black figure loomed in the doorway.

"Santa Madre…" Jackie whispered, clutching at his heart. "Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo… I didn't think this night could get any worse."

"Holy shit," Becca muttered, her voice full of awe and dread.

"Yeah. It's him," I confirmed, keeping my tone flat.

Adam Smasher stepped into Tripple Extreme, and suddenly the whole place felt like a powder keg. His mere presence doubled the intensity. Arasaka's top merc wasn't alone—Jeremiah Grayson, his personal lapdog and fixer, followed closely behind.

Smasher had a history with Maelstrom, using them as muscle to guard his stash aboard Ebunike. Funny, considering how many of their own he had butchered over the years. But Maelstrom worshipped power and brutality, and Adam Smasher had both in spades.

The ironwork creaked ominously as he moved through the hall. Royce, for once, gave up his spot without a word.

"So much meat," Smasher said, scanning the room.

Nobody from the Animals dared respond—not even Logan. The silence was oppressive.

"What are you waiting for?" Smasher growled. "I came here to see a fight. Start the damn thing!"

"Fighters ready?" Angie asked, her voice shaking ever so slightly.

"Yes," David replied calmly.

Either he'd seen Smasher before, or he was just too focused to care. After the factory incident, maybe they even crossed paths again. Enough for Smasher to get curious about how high the new Arasaka prodigy had climbed.

Logan and David jumped into the pit. No rounds. No ref. Just raw, unfiltered violence. Logan took a boxer's stance, poised for mid-range combat. He moved lightly on his feet despite his size, circling with deliberate pressure.

David backed up. Logan pressed in, a predator cornering his prey. He tested with a light jab…

And then a flash—both fighters shifted at once.

Logan threw a flurry, but David activated his Sandevistan and slipped aside. Logan rushed after him, two blurs trading strikes at inhuman speed. David danced, Logan chased.

Their boosters ran dry. Logan spat on the ground, his face flushed red. "You're not some weak-ass punk. I'll give you that," he snarled. "Too bad you don't know shit about boxing. Lemme fix that."

David had a few marks on his face but nothing serious. His bones were like reinforced steel by now. Logan charged again, mixing probing jabs with brutal hooks and sneaky jolts. David slipped back—then suddenly reactivated his speed mod.

This time, Logan didn't bite. He let David burn through his boost, planning to strike when he ran out of juice.

Except…

David pivoted, threw a quick jab, slid to Logan's flank, and delivered a rapid three-hit combo as his mod powered down. Logan covered up. David's Sandevistan wasn't a one-and-done. His model could toggle on and off freely.

Logan had no choice—he boosted. They blitzed across the pit again, but David kept to the plan. Stay evasive. Wear him out.

"Quit running like a bitch!" Logan roared, his face turning tomato-red from exertion. "How many charges you got left, huh? One? Two? It ain't enough! When you burn out, I'm gonna bury you!"

I keyed the mic, my voice a smooth, mocking drawl. "David, how many more boosts you got?"

Without looking away, he deadpanned, "About thirty."

That was a death sentence. The Maelstrom crowd roared with glee.

"Blood and chrome! Blood and chrome! Kill him! Kill him!"

"Sorry, Logan," I said. "Genetic lottery. You lost this fight before you were even born."

"Fuck you!" Logan spat. "Fuck you and your chrome punk! Implants ain't everything! I owned this ring before you were even a twinkle in your daddy's balls! You wanna be a champ? Come here, and I'll show you what it fucking means."

The crowd loved it—roaring, chanting, the whole dramatic show.

But this wasn't a movie.

"Stick to the plan, remember?" I reminded David.

"Yeah," he nodded, backing up toward the edge. It was time to end it. He'd wear Logan down, strike in bursts, and beat every ounce of shit out of him.

But before David could move, a red laser beam cut through the pit between them.

The room froze. Someone whimpered. Laser weapons were a rare sight in Night City—far too power-hungry to be practical.

"Boring," Smasher's metallic voice boomed. "Too predictable." He leaned forward. "Time to change the rules."