Chapter 14: Target, Combat

"Fucking 6th Street! Motherfuckers!"

After a long string of expletives hurled at the poor bastard on the other end of the line, Daemon, lieutenant of Maelstrom, slammed the call shut.

She hadn't been this pissed in years—but she had every reason.

Yesterday, her younger brother was killed.

Shot in broad daylight. On their turf. In Watson.

Some 6th Street punk put a bullet through his skull. Not even the layers of cyberware stacked on his face could save him. The round slipped right through a tiny gap between his facial plating and the back of his head—blew his brain out and split his skull clean from front to back.

By the time the NCPD half-assed their paperwork and got around to informing her, the backplate of his skull was already gone. Looted. Scavenged.

What she got back barely resembled a human face, let alone her brother's.

Daemon didn't earn her name for having a nice temperament.

She was already rallying the crew, ready to tear 6th Street a new asshole, when the call came down from the higher-ups.

"Stand down."

"Lay low."

"Don't cause trouble."

Stand down?

Easy for them to say.

It wasn't their brother lying in pieces on a goddamn slab.

So what—if their brother died, they'd just stay calm, follow orders, keep it professional?

Fuck that.

She already knew who did it. She'd dug through the NCPD logs herself. The only one from 6th Street who walked away from that shitshow was some nobody named Oliver.

And conveniently, he'd been kicked out of the gang.

Which meant no protection. No politics. No consequences.

Perfect.

"You should've just stuck with me, dumbass," she muttered bitterly. "Told you not to run off. Told you to wait. What now? You proved shit. And now I don't even know where the fuck to bury your face."

Daemon and her brother had grown up scraping by. No father. Mother worked herself to death in a corpo factory.

They only survived because they had each other.

Daemon got lucky. Brick noticed her, brought her into Maelstrom. She climbed the ranks, got chrome, started making eddies—enough to support them both.

She never wanted him in Maelstrom. She wanted him to live normal, get educated, get out.

But he insisted.

Said he wanted to help.

Said he wanted to prove himself.

So she let him. Let him gather his own crew. Make his own name.

And now he was dead.

Maybe if she'd forced him to stay by her side, things would've gone differently.

But it was too late for regrets.

Now, it was about revenge.

Even if she had to go full chrome and lose her mind, Oliver was going to the grave.

Just as she was about to rally the troops, the door burst open.

One of her boys stumbled in, pale and panicked.

"Boss! We got three fuckers inside—we can't hold 'em much longer!"

Three?

Daemon blinked.

They had over twenty gunners in this factory, all heavily armed and dug in.

And they were getting wrecked by three people?

"Who the fuck thinks they can pull this kind of stunt on me?"

She grabbed her Militech Crusher, the oversized shotgun heavy enough to snap bones with the recoil alone.

This was perfect.

Turn these bastards into red mist, and then she'd have an excuse to march on 6th Street and burn the whole fucking block.

But she wasn't an idiot.

Daemon wasn't just going to charge out like some gonked-out cyberpsycho. She told the lackey to rally the others, then stepped over to the wall of security monitors.

She hadn't checked them earlier—she'd been on the call.

Now, she froze.

There, on the feed—blond hair. Trimmed mustache. Face she couldn't fucking forget.

Oliver.

Her six cybernetic eyes twitched and refocused all at once.

That fucker. That fucking traitor.

She'd stared at his file all night. Burned his face into her memory.

And now he was here.

He came to her?

Daemon almost laughed.

She hadn't even started hunting him yet—and he walked straight into her claws.

Perfect.

She bolted for the door, Crusher in hand.

She was going to rip him apart.

Completely unaware that he'd already been marked for death, Oliver was pinned behind cover, returning fire in quick bursts from his Nokota Copperhead.

The Maelstrom crew holed up in this factory was nothing like the group they faced before. These guys were organized, better armed, better positioned. Professional killers.

Suppressing fire rained down constantly. Every time he peeked out, a hail of bullets forced him right back behind cover.

"KK! Do something! If they keep pushing, we'll be right in the frag zone—we're gonna get shredded!"

Oliver shouted over the noise, regretting ever listening to Karl's "just charge in" plan.

Who the fuck thought it was smart to brute-force a Maelstrom den?

They had numbers, entrenched positions, unlimited ammo, and an appetite for blood.

Karl didn't flinch.

"Relax."

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Which meant he had a plan.

"I've already mapped the Copperhead's stats."

Four shots. That's all he needed to understand the weapon's ballistics, recoil, drift pattern, everything.

Now he just needed—

"Jack. I need an opening."

"On it."

And Jackie, being Jackie, didn't ask questions.

He jumped out of cover.

Right into the killzone.

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODDAMN MIND!?"

Oliver watched in disbelief as every Maelstrom gun immediately snapped toward Jackie.

Rounds screamed through the air.

Some missed.

Some didn't.

Blood sprayed from his shoulder and thigh.

"NOW, KARL!"

Jackie screamed.

Karl rose.

Copperhead raised. Sights locked.

Seven enemies in his line of fire.

Fourteen rounds left.

Plenty.