"F*** the 6th Street Gang, XXXXXX!"
After a furious, profanity-laden rant over the comms, Barb slammed the call shut.
As a mid-level enforcer of the Maelstrom gang, Barb hadn't lost her temper like this in a long time—but she had every reason to be furious.
Yesterday, her younger brother was killed—executed in broad daylight in Watson, their own turf, by the 6th Street Gang. Even with all the cyberware installed on his face, nothing saved him. The shooter's bullet was too precise, slipping through the weakest link between the cyberware on his face and the one on the back of his head. A single shot split his skull clean in half. By the time the NCPD reluctantly informed her, someone had already scavenged the cyberware from his head. All they returned to her was a mangled, barely recognizable half of his face.
Someone who calls themselves "Barb" isn't exactly known for patience. She had already gathered her crew, ready to hit back at the bastards from 6th Street, when a call from higher-ups came in—ordering her to stand down.
"Control yourself, don't stir up trouble."
Control? Don't make trouble?
Easy for them to say when it wasn't their brother lying in a body bag. Would they be so calm if it was?
No, there was no controlling this. She already had intel—only one guy from the hit squad survived, some bastard named Oliver, who'd already been kicked out of 6th Street.
Perfect. That meant there was no one left to protect him.
"You idiot," she muttered under her breath. "I told you not to run off, to just stick with me. But no—you had to prove yourself. Now what? Prove what, exactly? I don't even know where to put your damn half-face."
Barb and her brother had been on their own since childhood. Their father died young, and their mother barely lasted a few more years working herself to death in a factory. The two of them had survived together, relying only on each other.
She was lucky—early on, she caught the attention of Maelstrom's leader, Brick, and got recruited. Sure, it cost her six cyber-eyes, but at least it meant food on the table. Eventually, she climbed the ranks, becoming a mid-tier enforcer. Life was finally stabilizing—until this.
She never wanted her brother in the gang. She wanted him to get an education, to live a normal life. But he insisted on helping out, on joining Maelstrom, refusing to just ride her coattails. Fine. She let him. He even started his own little crew, proving he could stand on his own. And for a while, things seemed fine.
Until yesterday.
Regret was pointless now. There was only one thing left: revenge. She didn't care if she lost herself to cyberpsychosis—she was taking Oliver down, no matter the cost.
Just as she was about to rally her crew, the door burst open.
One of her guys ran in, panic on his face.
"Boss! Three people just busted in! We can't hold them off!"
"Three?"
Barb blinked.
This was a full-fledged Maelstrom factory—over twenty guys were stationed here. And they couldn't handle three people?
"Who the f*** has a death wish? I'm in the mood for a bloodbath."
She grabbed her Militech Crusher kinetic shotgun in one hand.
If someone was stupid enough to storm in, she'd make an example out of them. And once she was done, she'd ride this momentum straight into a 6th Street killing spree.
Still, she wasn't reckless. She ordered her men to hold their ground while she checked the surveillance feed.
And the moment she saw the monitor, all six of her cyber-eyes flickered wildly.
That face—
A young man, blonde, with a thin mustache.
She knew him. She'd stared at his face all night.
Oliver.
The last survivor of the 6th Street hit squad.
She hadn't even needed to go looking—he'd walked right into her hands.
She didn't bother checking the rest of the footage. She bolted out the door, heading straight for him.
He was dead.
—
Oliver had no idea death was already hunting him.
He was huddled behind cover, occasionally peeking out to fire shots from his Copperhead rifle. The Maelstrom gunners were relentless, pinning him down under a hail of fire.
"KK, do something! If they push up and start tossing grenades, we're f***ed!"
He shouted over to Kai, regretting ever listening to his stupid plan. "Just charge in," he said. "It'll be fine," he said. Like hell.
"Relax."
Kai had already accounted for this. If they were going to storm a Maelstrom stronghold, he wasn't going in blind.
"I've got the Copperhead's data dialed in."
After four shots, Kai had the rifle's recoil pattern memorized. Now he just needed an opening.
"Jackie, give me a shot."
"On it."
And then—Jackie did something insane.
He broke cover and sprinted toward Oliver's position.
"What the f***?!"
Bullets immediately shredded the air around him. Two found their mark—one in the arm, one in the leg.
"Now, Kai!"
"You're f***ing insane, Jackie."
Kai popped up from cover, rifle trained.
Seven targets.
Fourteen bullets.
More than enough.
(End of Chapter)