Friday Night Firefight: A Cyberpunk Isekai

Good evening, Night City! Tonight’s body count lottery is blazing with over forty fresh bodies! Santo Domingo was the star of the show, as a rathole motel turned into a full-on bloodbath. Word is the latest victims of the gang war between 6th Street and those new up-and-comers are piling up faster than chrome on a Maelstrom borg. Multiple 6th Street gonks got flatlined outside the motel. And the buzz on the streets? The Pack’s flexing hard and 6th Street’s getting desperate.

That’s your night update, chooms. Stay sharp, stay breathing, and remember – Night City never sleeps…even if you probably should.

I killed the engine and sat for a moment, just staring up at the massive concrete slab of a building in front of me. It looked like someone had decided halfway through all the construction that it wasn’t worth finishing. Cinder blocks, exposed rebar twisting out like metal skeletons, cracked windows everywhere. Real Rancho Coronado chic.

Gunner had texted earlier, letting me know this was the spot where the remaining 6th Street lieutenants were holed up. They’d heard about the hit on the DewDrop Inn, and now they were all here, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. My job? Walk in, pretend to be Pablo, and sell them on a lie long enough to set them up for a fall.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. Diego and Zion had done a good job on my face – a black eye, split lip, and a few scrapes that looked like I’d barely survived an ambush. It hurt, but that was the point. Had to make it look like I’d fought my way out of a Pack trap. The real Pablo Silva? He was locked away, under heavy guard, and tanks to Sandra hacking his Agent, he couldn’t send out any distress calls. Everything he got went straight to me, which meant I could keep up the charade. Not exactly a foolproof plan, but it was all we had. It was also risky as hell.

When I first showed Diego, Deng, and Zion the face implant and turned into Pablo in front of them, their reactions were priceless. They freaked out, bombarding me with questions about how the hell I got it, who made it, and if they could get one too. Anna had stepped in, saving me from the interrogation by reminding everyone we were on a timer. We had Rick Morton to deal with, and once word got out about The Pack’s move, things would heat up fast.

With a final glance in the mirror, I stepped out of the car and made my way up the crumbling concrete steps. The building was a ghost of whatever it was supposed to be. Apartments? Offices? Hell if I knew. Walking hurt a little. My ribs were protesting with every move. Diego and Zion hadn’t pulled their punches, and it showed. I had to look like I’d barely made it out of the raid of the DewDrop alive, but that didn’t stop me from complaining about how hurt I was.

I passed by a few guards, all armed to the teeth, their eeys flicking over me before they stepped aside. They recognized Pablo and didn’t try challenging my place at the meeting. Inside, the lieutenants were all gathered around a table, talking in low, angry voices. Rick Morton, Will Gunner, and a handful of other 6th Street bigshots. As soon as I stepped in, the room went deathly quiet. Eyes locked on me, sizing me up. I scanned the faces and froze for a split second when I recognized one – a light-skinned black guy with a gold dome of cyberware on his head and glowing red eyes. He looked like he was trying too hard to be intimidating, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before, but something about him tugged at the back of my mind.

Gunner’s gaze locked onto me, suspicion written all over his face. He shot me a side-eye like he was already wondering how the hell ‘Pablo’ had slipped away from The Pack. But Rick? Rick Morton wasn’t wasting any time.

“Pablo!” Rick barked, storming toward me, his eyes blazing with anger. “Where the fuck have you been?”

I kept my expression tight, playing up the bruises, the exhaustion. “The Pack hit us at the DewDrop,” I rasped. “They came in heavy, out of nowhere. Must’ve been damn near their entire crew. I fought my way out, but…it was close.”

Rick didn’t look convinced. He stepped right up to me, his eyes boring into mine like he was trying to read my soul. “Close?” he spat. “The fuck you mean close? I heard The Pack wiped out everyone at the DewDrop. You’re telling me you slipped through that? Where the hell were you when our people were getting slaughtered?”

“Good question,” Gunner chimed in, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Something we all wanna know.”

“Fuck,” shouted Rick as he paced along. “Tell me. Tell me how you made it out of the DewDrop when everyone else got lit up like a fuckin’ bonfire. How the hell did you manage that?”

I…might have miscalculated how important Pablo Silva was to Rick. I could feel the room shift, everyone watching me, waiting to see how I’d explain it.

Gunner’s stare was like a drill boring into the side of my skull, and that light-skinned guy with the gold dome was leaning forward, eager to see if I’d slip. The air was thick with suspicion, the kind that made you sweat under the lights, but I kept my face calm – like I’d just been through hell and came out alive.

“They hit us hard, Rick. Way more than we expected. Overwhelmed us. But…I got tipped off. Had a minute’s warning before the shitstorm hit.”

Rick raised an eyebrow, his anger freezing for a beat. “Tipped-off?”

“Yea,” I nodded, selling the lie like it was the truth. “Wasn’t enough time to rally a defense, but enough for me to get clear. Fought my way clear but didn’t come out clean.” I made a point to gesture at my bruises, the black eye, the dried blood still caked on my lip. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Gunner shifted, arms crossing like he wasn’t buying it. Rick, on the other hand, stared me down, trying to piece it all together in his head. I could tell I had him hooked, but I needed to go deeper, push the angle that would explain not just how ‘Pablo’ had survived – but why.

“I got a contact,” I said, dropping my voice like it was a secret not one was supposed to hear. “Someone on the inside. Been feeding me info. They gave me a heads-up about the DewDrop.”

Rick’s eyes narrowed. “And this inside man couldn’t warn you sooner? We lost the whole damn place.”

I shrugged, like the whole situation was out of my control. “He got the info late. Their leader’s losing it, man. Scrambling, trying to find some way to turn this war around. He rallied everyone, threw them at us, and that’s when my contact let me know. Last-minute, but it saved my ass.”

Gunner cut in, his voice sharp. “What’s he want? Nobody hands out info for free.”

I leaned in, my voice even lower now. “He wants to survive. The Pack’s falling apart, they know it. This war’s a death sentence for them. My guy’s offering us a deal – he’ll help us take out their leadership, end the war, and they get to pick up the pieces. They’ll take over what’s left of The Pack, but they’ll be under our thumb. No more bloodshed, no more losses. We win, they get to survive.”

Rick went quiet, absorbing that. The anger on his face dimmed, replaced by something sharper, more calculating. The thought of an inside man, a way to win the war with one strike, no more hits to 6th Street’s rep…it was tempting.

“Why the hell should I trust this?” Rick asked, his voice cold now.

I didn’t flinch. “Because they want to live. They see where this is heading. The Pack’s done, and they know it. They’re giving us a shot at their leadership, offering up their own people.” I saw Gunner slightly jolt at that. “They’d rather survive under us than go down in flames. We take the shot, the war’s over. They’ll handle the scraps, but they’ll answer to 6th Street.

Rick tapped a finger against his mouth as he thought it over. The idea of winning, of crushing The Pack without losing any more of his own people, was sinking in.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

I nodded, keeping my expression steady. “As sure as I can be. This is our chance to end it on our terms.”

The room went dead silent. Everyone was waiting for Rick to make the call. The idea of ending the war with one clean strike, no more embarrassing losses, was hanging in the air like bait. Rick glanced over at Gunner, who still looked skeptical, then back to me. A slow, predatory smile crept across his face, like a wolf about to sink its teeth into prey.

“Alright,” Rick said. “Get the boys ready to move. We end this fuckin’ war tonight.”

&&&&&&&&&

The crumbling concrete building turned into a hive of activity after that. 6th Street soldiers bustled around, gearing up for what everyone believed would be the final raid in their war with The Pack. Rick Morton was off to the side, pacing like a predator, eyes sharp, movements tense – he was ready to tear into someone. Gunner wasn’t far behind, keeping his distance but throwing suspicious side-glances my way, like he smelled something off but couldn’t place it yet.

I wasn’t blind to the irony. He’d betrayed his gang, and thought I was doing the same thing. As much as I wanted to put all of 6th Street’s leadership six feet under, I needed someone alive to call off the dogs after tonight.

I walked over to Rick, dropping my voice low so only he could here. “Rick, we need to talk.”

He stopped mid-pace, irritation flickering in his eyes as he turned to face me. But there was curiosity too.

I nodded toward Gunner, who was barking orders at some grunts like he was running the show. “You should leave him behind tonight.”

Rick frowned, confusion giving way to annoyance. “And why the hell would I do that?”

I leaned in, playing up the confidentiality. “Think about it. This is it – the final blow. The last act of the war. If Gunner isn’t there, he can’t claim any of the credit. He’s been running his mouth, right? Saying all kinds of shit about how 6th Street’s bending over for the corpos, trying to rally support by making it seem like you’re losing your grip. This is your chance to shut him up. If we hit The Pack without him, you get all the glory. You’re the one who led us to victory, while Gunner sat back at base, too cowardly to rush out and fight.”

Rick’s frown deepened, but I could see him thinking it over. He glanced over at Gunner, still shouting orders like he owned the place. F rom what John’s homeless network had picked up, I knew someone in portions of The Pack had been getting under Rick’s skin for a while – little digs about Rick’s leadership, hints that 6th Street was becoming just another corpo puppet. It had to be eating away at him.

“He doesn’t deserve to be part of this,” I added, leaning a bit closer. “Not after all the shit he’s been saying. You hit The Pack without him, and he looks like a bystander. A footnote.”

Rick mulled it over, his gaze hardening. “You think he’s gonna sit back without making a fuss?”

I shrugged. “He doesn’t have a choice. You’re the one leading this gang, not him. He steps out of line, you’ve got all of us backing you. This is your win, Rick. Don’t let Gunner steal it.”

Rick stared at Gunner, the silence stretching out like a taut wire. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he spat out, “You’re right. Gunner stays back.”

That was the first big win of the night.

Eventually, the 6th Street crew was ready to roll out. I hopped into Pablo Silva’s car – my car now. Rick slid into the shotgun seat next to me. The leader of 6th Street, riding shotgun next to the man who was about to destroy everything he’d worked for. I almost laughed at the thought.

As we headed north, I glanced in the rearview mirror, catching sight of the two 6th Street goons in the backseat. One of them was that light-skinned guy with the gold dome, glowing red eyes that looked ridiculous no matter how tough he tried to act. Something about him nagged at me, like I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t place it.

We weren’t alone in our trek north from Rancho Coronado. Behind us, four more cars and a van packed with 6th Street soldiers followed, ready to hit The Pack’s supposed hideout. The location I’d fed them was nestled up in North Watson, in the middle of a half-collapsed industrial zone just outside Maelstrom territory. The place was bleak – old factories with broken windows, rusted machinery, and the smell of rot hanging in the air. Maelstrom graffiti covered the walls like a warning to anyone dumb enough to wander in.

I needed to make sure our side was ready for the ambush. I pulled up my contacts and shot a quick message to Deng. Yea, texting and driving was completely irresponsible of me, but compared to the long list of crimes I’d committed since coming to Night City, it didn’t even register.

Noah: we’re about 15 minutes out. How’s it looking?

Deng: almost ready. Had to clear out some underground dance party. Seriously, who the fuck parties that close to Maelstrom territory? Kids these days got a death wish or what? Anyway, we’re set up now. Diego’s twitchy, though. Doesn’t like being so close to Maelstrom turf.

Noah: Diego’ll be fine. It’s not really Maelstrom turf. Even if they come out to check up on what we’re doing, they’ll wait ‘til we’re done. They love picking at scraps.

I sent the message and half-tuned into Rick’s voice as it grated through the car, his words like nails scraping across a chalkboard. He was ranting again.

“This shitbags probably think they’re unstoppable,” Rick sneered, staring out the window as the suburbs of Rancho Coronado faded into the grimy towers of the city. The glow of the city skyline flickered in the distance.

From the backseat, the light-skinned Black guy – my Kiroshi’s tagged him as Sam Carter – leaned forward. His tone was too casual, too probing. I immediately clocked him as a brown noser. “I heard rumors,” he said. “Some people are saying The Pack was behind the blackout a while back, and that Cytech heist too. You think it’s true?”

I kept my eyes on the road, but I didn’t miss Rick’s reaction in my peripheral vision. He shot Sam a glare that could have melted steel.

“You gonk,” he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. “You seriously think those street rats pulled that off? That was Rogue, no question. Maybe with a handful of her people. Only someone like that could do that much damage to the city. The Pack? Nah. They don’t have the brains for that. They’re just bums with guns who got lucky a few times.”

Sam shrank back a bit, but he wasn’t ready to let it go. “Still,” he mumbled, almost to himself, “thought they’d put up more of a fight.”

I saw him shift uncomfortably in the rearview mirror, his glowing red cybernetic eyes dimming, like he was suddenly unsure of himself. And then it hit me – I knew where I’d seen Sam before. He was the same idiot who’d pulled iron on Padre at the start of the Street Kid prologue chapter. No wonder he looked familiar. I’d played that mission so many times. I sat on that little piece of information for a bit, sure it could be useful, but for now, I tucked it away.

Rick’s eyes flicked back to the mirror, zeroing in on Sam. “You think this war’s been easy?” Rick’s voice dropped, cold and razor-sharp. “You think we haven’t taken hits? We lost that whole construction contract for the site they hit – gone. Corps breathing down our necks for their losses. Then The Pack hits the DewDrop, wipes out our stash. Chemicals, drugs, distribution…all fucked. You call that a win? We’re bleeding credits faster than we can pull ‘em in.”

Sam shifted again, clearly regretting opening his mouth. The silence in the car was thick as Rick leaned back, his gaze fixed on the road ahead like he was staring down his own version of judgement day. After a beat, he spoke again, this time more quietly. “You know why we’re hitting their leadership tonight? To end this shit for good.”

I kept my focus on the road, by my ears were locked onto his words. In the backseat, Sam’s uncertainty was practically oozing out of him. “But…is this really the smart move?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant. “I mean…what if we’re walking into a trap.”

The question hit a little too close for comfort and I could feel my asshole puckering just a little bit. There was no way he could know about the trap I’d set, but something about the timing, the tension in his voice, made me wonder if Sam was sharper than I’d given him credit for. It was an irrational fear though. Or at least, that’s what I tried telling myself. Nobody could know about my face implant except for my crew. No one knew. Sam doesn’t know.

Rick let out a harsh laugh and shook his head like Sam had just said the dumbest thing imaginable. “You think Pablo would let that happen?” he snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. “If we were walking into a trap, I’d know. Trust me.”

Oh, holy shit. I’m the luckiest man alive. My luck has luck.

Sam flinched, clearly feeling the heat of Rick’s anger, and muttered something under his breath. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He was cowed. The other guy in the backseat had the sense to keep his mouth shut, staring blankly ahead like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

Rick’s voice cut through my thoughts again, quieter now, like he was speaking more to himself. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” he muttered. “Can’t have The Pack limping out of this war with a few bruises. People need to see we crushed them. No one’s gonna believe 6th Street is top dog if this ends in a draw or some half-assed win. We need to end them tonight. No loose ends.”

He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, stewing in his own thoughts, while I sent out another update to Deng.

Noah: five minutes. We’re rolling in. Be ready.

The caravan pulled to a stop a few blocks out, engines cutting off in unison like a well-rehearsed move. The van’s sliding door creaked open and goons spilled out, stretching stiff limbs and checking their weapons. A row of crumbling factories loomed in the distance, their massive frames casting long, jagged shadows over the street. Warehouses clustered nearby, practically begging to collapse from years of neglect.

Rick snapped into action, barking orders like he had everything under control. Two of his guys, lean and with twitchy energy, were sent ahead to scout the area. Even though he’d told Sam that he trusted we weren’t being led into a trap, he wasn’t taking any chances. He was paranoid, sure, but also smart enough to control what he could.

Noah: two scouts coming your way. Be ready.

I’d sent the message to Diego, sure that he was who had organized our entire ambush. It didn’t take him long to respond.

Diego: all good. We set up a fake camp with the sound gear from that rave we cleared out. Music’s blasting. They’ll buy it.

I glanced over at Rick, who was pacing like a caged animal. He turned to me with a hard look. “If they’re in there, we hit ‘em hard and fast,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Don’t want them getting time to get their shit together.”

I nodded, doing my best to play the part of loyal henchman. Pablo wouldn’t second-guess Rick’s plan. Not at this stage. He’d just follow along.

A few minutes later, the scouts came back, looking winded but amped up, like they’d stumbled on the jackpot. The lankier one, a kid with a scar etched across his cheek, gave Rick a nod before launching into his report.

“We found ‘em. Looks legit,” he said, breathless with excitement. “There’s a camp between a few warehouses. They’ve got their backs to a factory wall. Perfect open space for us to roll the cars in. There’s even a drop into a lower level. That’s where they’re camped.”

Rick’s grin spread slowly, his eyes gleaming. He loved the sound of a quick rush at the camp with his “troops.”

“We should park the cars in that open space in front of the camp, and then rush ‘em,” I suggested, locking eyes with Rick to keep his attention. “If we’re fast enough, we could take their leadership alive. Record the whole thing on BD. Sell their execution. Sick assholes in Night City would pay to watch that.”

Rick’s grin widened. He looked like a wolf about to feast as he nodded along. “An execution vid…” he mused, turning over the idea. “Yea, that’d send a message. Show the city who’s running this shit. Plus, we could make some serious eddies. That BD we put out of us smoking that homeless camp in Arroyo is already selling like crazy.”

The mention of a homeless camp hit in Arroyo hit me like ice water down my spine. I forced my face to stay neutral while my stomach twisted. “Makes sense,” I said flatly, keeping Pablo’s hardened façade. “People go nuts for that kind of thing.”

Rick’s mind was already drifting, imagining The Pack’s leaders begging for their lives, their blood splattered on a BD reel for Night City’s entertainment. His grin stayed, plastered to his face like he could taste the victory.

I leaned in, dropping my voice to something a little more concerned. “Listen, Rick, you should hang back during the assault. We’re this close to wrapping up the war – you don’t wanna risk getting clipped just because some idiot gets a lucky shot. Let us handle the dirty work.”

Rick paused, rubbing his chin as he mulled over my words. For a tense moment, he looked at me with a flicker of suspicion in his eyes, like he was trying to figure out if I had an angle. After a beat, he nodded slowly. “Yea, you’re right. No point risking it. We’re too close to the end to fuck this up now.”

I hid my relief, knowing how easily Rick could flip if he got too paranoid. He was so worried about Gunner trying to usurp him that he was paranoid I was betraying him too. I mean, I was right. But still.

Rick barked out the final orders, telling everyone to follow the plan, and we all piled back into our vehicles. I felt a brief flicker of relief as the pieces started to fall into place. But that relief died the moment I realized Sam and the other gonk weren’t heading off with the rest of the crew. They were sticking with Rick and me.

Shit.

Having Rick to manage was one thing, but dealing with two more bodies while the ambush went down was another. I tapped out a message to Deng, trying to keep my expression neutral as I started the car and slowly drifted toward the rear of the convoy.

Noah: got a problem. Me and Rick are gonne bae at the rear of the convoy in Pablo’s car, but I’ve got two other gonks riding with us. Can’t take them out on my own.

Deng: Zion’s in position. He can snipe at least one of them. Cyndi’s floating around too, but her shotgun isn’t exactly built for long-range precision.

I frowned at that. Zion with his sniper rifle was reliable, but I didn’t want to leave it all up to him. Cyndi…she was sneaky. She could slip in close, even if her chosen weapon wasn’t ideal for this kind of setup. An idea formed as I drove us the rest of the way to the ambush site, and I fired off another message.

Noah: have Cyndi sneak around the back. I’ll handle Rick. Zion can deal with one of the extras. Cyndi takes the guy with the gold dome cyberware. I want him alive. Make sure she knows that.

Deng: shit, kid. Do you just go around collecting faces? You got a problem. We’re gonna have to stage an intervention or something.

I fought down a laugh, managing to suppress it before it could spill out and give me away. The last thing I needed was for Rick and the others to think I’d lost it in the middle of the raid.

Noah: nah. Not for me. He’s a gift. I want him breathing when this is all over.

Deng: understood. I’ll pass it along.

I felt the pieces falling into place. Zion could handle the faceless goon in the back. And Cyndi was more than capable of dropping Sam Carter without blowing his head off. All I needed to do was make sure Rick was out of the car when the time came.

The 6th Street van screeched to a halt, followed by the rest of the convoy. Doors swung open, and a horde of gang members poured out like a wave of aggression and firepower. Weapons were drawn, faces were twisted in anticipation and bloodlust. You could see it in their eyes – this was the last fight to end the war, and they were more than ready.

They quietly rushed toward the camp, their movements masked by the pounding bass from the rave gear Diego and Deng had “liberated” from the rave earlier. The music thumped loud enough to cover the sound of boots on pavement, as the 6th Street soldiers dropped to the lower level where the makeshift camp clung to the factory wall. Just like the scouts had said.

I stepped out of Pablo’s car, surveying the scene with a calm that felt almost unnatural. Rick followed close behind, with Sam Carter and the other gonk trailing just a few steps behind us. They were edgy, fidgeting, caught between tension and excitement, but clearly eager to see how this would all unfold.

I stood there for a moment, letting the chaos build around me. Rick, eyes narrowed, was focused entirely on the assault. His face was all business – cold, determined, and impatient. I sent a quick message to Zion, keeping it short.

Noah: need the guy with the golden head alive.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Cyndi, low and lethal, creeping through the shadows like a predator.

Rick let out an exasperated sigh beside me, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I’m sick of my people holding me back,” he muttered, still watching his troops charge the camp. “I’ll be glad to have my freedom back once this war is over.”

His words hit harder than I’d expected. It was ironic – here I was, thinking the exact same thing. I’d had to fight tooth and nail with my crew to let me pull this job, and even now, with everything in place, I could feel the weight of their oversight.

I eased my way behind Rick, calmly and slowly. My hand flexed, and I unspooled the monowire from my wrist. Zion’s message pinged.

Zion: ready when you are.

In one fluid motion, I slipped the monowire around Rick’s neck. He didn’t even have a chance to react. I activated it, pulled, and Rick’s head was severed clean from his body. It hit the ground with a soft thud, followed closely by the rest of his body which crumpled in a heap.

Before the other 6th Street gonk standing near me could even process my action, Zion’s shot cracked through the air. His head exploded in a spray of blood and bone, his body collapsing as if someone had flipped a switch.

And then, all hell broke loose.

The Pack, hidden on the surrounding rooftops, emerged from the shadows, guns blazing. Bullets rained down on the unsuspecting 6th Street soldiers, tearing through them like paper. The ambush hit hard, brutal, and fast. Gunfire erupted, cutting through the music and the night. Bodies dropped, falling like ragdolls as 6th Street soldiers crumbled under the relentless assault.

Sam Carter froze, eyes wide with terror. His eyes darted between the falling 6th Street soldiers to Rick’s decapitated body lying at my feet, panic rising in his throat. His hand twitched toward the gun holstered at his side, but it was too late. Cyndi was already moving. She was a blur as she rushed at him.

Before Sam could react, she’d slashed through the tendons in his right leg, dropping him to the ground. His gun skidded across the pavement, useless. Without hesitation, Cyndi’s mantis blades flashed again, severing his left cyberarm in a spray of white borg fluid. Sam howled in agony, but Cyndi silenced him with a hard slam to the ground, stunning him.

In under half a minute, Rick was killed, Sam lay crippled at Cyndi’s feet, and The Pack had demolished the 6th Street soldiers who’d come to end the war. The gunfire and screams that had filled the night air cut off just as abruptly as they’d started, leaving an eerie, unsettling silence in their wake.

The war was over.

&&&&&&&

Pablo’s car drove like a boat and I hated it. I was driving through the streets of Heywood, trying to stay focused on the road, but my mind wouldn’t stop racing. It had been a long, brutal night – starting with the raid at the DewDrop, then the ambush on Rick Morton and the 6th Street soldiers. And now this. Cyndi sat in the passenger seat, looking calm but alert, her sharp eyes constantly scanning the streets. She didn’t say much, but her presence was reassuring. She’d slowly morphed into my ace up my sleeve.

Anna had sent a few more of our people along for backup, trailing a few car lengths behind us. They were being cautious, not that I blamed them. Technically, we were still at war, even if I wasn’t expecting any trouble tonight. But something was gnawing at me, an uneasy feeling that lingered. I glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted a car tailing us. It wasn’t too close, but it was definitely following.

As we pulled up to the basketball court, I exhaled, trying to shake off the tension that had been building since I spotted the tail. The court was mostly empty, just a few kids shooting hoops, their voices echoing off the nearby buildings. The normalcy of it all felt strange, almost out of place after the chaos of the night. Off to the side, leaning against a chain-link fence, was Padre, deep in conversation with one of his men.

The moment we pulled up, I noticed his guards stiffen. I gave the horn a light tap to catch Padre’s attention. He glanced over, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. I stepped out of the car, and the weight of several eyes landed on me instantly. Padre’s guys were on edge, and it hit me why – the car. It was plastered with 6th Street tags.

Not exactly the smoothest move to roll into Valentino territory while rocking enemy colors. That would explain the tail I’d spotted. The guards all tensed, hands drifting toward their holsters, but Padre raised a hand, keeping them in check. Still, I could tell he was wondering what the hell I was doing with a 6th Street ride.

I jerked my head to the back of the car and he took a few steps toward me, his face unreadable, though I caught of glimmer of interest in his eyes. When he stopped a few feet away, I popped the trunk.

Inside, crumpled and barely conscious, was Sam Carter. He was a mess – bruised, bloodied, furious. The kind of mess you only leave alive if someone has plans for it later. Gifting people in trunks was starting to become a habit of mine. First, Brandon Frost. Now, Sam Carter. Seeing him like that stirred something in me. Satisfaction, maybe. Or just relief that this war was finally coming to an end.

For a brief moment, I saw Padre’s calm demeanor crack. His eyes widened just a touch when he recognized Sam. It was rare to see Padre show any emotion, but there it was – a flicker of surprise.

“I remember you mentioning getting pulled over the other day,” I said, leaning against the car casually. “Is this the guy who did it?”

Padre stepped closer, peering down at Sam’s broken form. “Si,” he muttered, a hint of disdain in his voice. “This pendejo tried to pull me over. He also pulled iron. What’s the story here?” He flicked his eyes back to me, gesturing toward Sam’s sorry state.

I closed the trunk with a satisfying thud. “Just wanted to make sure I had the right guy,” I said, tapping the trunk lightly with my fingers. “And to say…if you ever have the time, I wouldn’t mind hearing more about that Trekkies poser gang from back in the day. Oh, and don’t worry, The Pack isn’t looking to push into ‘tino territory. But if they ever want to talk, we might be open to working together.”

Padre’s face hardened into something more serious, his arms crossing over his chest as he studied me. “I’ll pass along the message. You planning to use him for something?” he asked, nodding toward the trunk. “Maybe send him back to 6th Street as a sign of goodwill. Could end the war for you.”

I shook my head. “Nah, the war’s already over. 6th Street’ll come crawling for peace soon enough. But I do need a favor.”

Padre raised an eyebrow, waiting.

I gave the car a small pat. “Can you get rid of this thing?” I asked, letting my hand drop. “Forgot it’s covered in 6th Street tags. Don’t really feel like driving it back through Heywood and getting shot at tonight,” I glanced back at him. “It’s Pablo Silva’s ride. But…he doesn’t need it anymore.”

A slow, amused smile crept across Padre’s face, his eyes lighting up with understanding. “Pablo Silva, huh?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I see you’ve been busy.” His smile widened as he nodded. “Don’t worry. Consider the car gone.”