XI
Deliverance
California Badlands, 2077
Wind howled through the ridge as the sun baked mercenaries stared down at the deserted highway. In the last four hours, not a single car had come down Highway Fifty-eight. Deathwing lay motionless on the ridge, flanked by three other mercs. Company he could frankly do without.
“Fuck’s sake!” One of them was saying. “How long does it take for a damn truck to drive from Night City to Bakersfield?” This was Rax, a man who looked similar on the surface to Deathwing, but only on the surface. Rax was ex-Maelstrom, evident by the exposed borgware and ritual scars visible across every exposed inch of his body, which was everything above the belt. His eyes, much like Deathwing’s had been replaced with a spider-like optical mount. A tangle of cables replaced his throat. Both arms were cybernetic—one was exposed metal, the other was poorly concealed under a layer of RealSkinn. He was a head shorter than Deathwing, and considerably leaner. He almost looked like he’d been wandering the Badlands without food for several weeks.
“Two hours and twenty minutes, give or take,” Rhodes muttered. “We got here two hours before they were scheduled to leave. So chill. They’ll be here soon.” The Nomad was sitting sideways in the driver’s seat of the Mahir Supron van he’d driven the group out her in, one foot planted on the inside of the open door. The van was beast. It was armor-plated with a machine gun turret mounted on top. The CrystalDome windshield display meant that though the car had no real windows, they could see everything around them clearly anyway. Best of all, the Badlands’ heat couldn’t hold a candle to the van’s air conditioning. It might have been gloomy and cold back in Night City, but the Badlands refused to follow the rest of the state’s adherence to the seasons.
“Fuckin’ better be,” Rax said.
“Quit your whining,” the last member of the crew said. Juno sat cross-legged in the dust beside the van. A compact sub-machine gun lay across her lap. She wore a faded flak jacket reinforced with fiber tape. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing a web of scar tissue on her left side, and a scuffed metal prosthetic on her right. Her hair was tied back in a tight knot, though loose strands still clung to her face and neck with sweat. The desert sun had left her skin pink and freckled, and the scar that ran from her right ear to the corner of her jaw was pale white against her reddening complexion.
She was checking and rechecking the medical bag slung over her shoulder repeatedly. A faded red Trauma Team logo was visible on the front of the bag, though she had clearly tried to scrape it off. “The convoy’s not gonna go any faster just because you get impatient.”
Rax grumbled and turned his attention back to the road. After a few minutes, he spoke up again. “Sun’s gonna cook us alive out here,” he muttered, kicking a rock and watching it tumble down the hill until it vanished in the shimmering heatwaves coming off the highway. “Could’ve done this at night like sane people.”
Rhodes snorted from the van. “Convoys run in daylight for a reason. Fewer folks like us trying to ambush them. Be glad. Night would’ve meant armor thicker than a tank’s.”
Rax laughed, a dry, metallic rasp. “Yeah? Still think this heat’s worth the paycheck?”
Juno looked up from her gear just long enough to answer. “If it means I can buy a new place with working air filters, yeah. Worth it.” She looked back to the bag as she clicked a vial of pain suppressant into an airhypo injector frame.
“You city kids don’t last long out here,” Rhodes chuckled. “I told you to bring a hat.”
“Didn’t think we’d be sitting on our asses for half the day,” Rax shot back. “Thought I’d be elbow deep in brass by now.”
Juno rolled her eyes as Rhodes laughed harder. “The new guy’s not complained once, Rax. Maybe you should try learning something from him.”
The argument went on like that for another ten or twenty minutes. Deathwing ignored it. Their voices blurred into white noise against the hiss of the wind scraping sand across the rocks. He adjusted the scope on the rifle he’d been given as the shimmering highway stared back at him. It was taunting him. Testing his resolve. His thoughts cycled back to the one reason he’d taken this job: one more payday, one more test of skill and resolve before he left this wasteland behind. Tomorrow morning Deathwing would board his flight. Tomorrow evening he would meet his god.
“There it is,” Deathwing said, speaking for the first time since they had arrived atop the ridge.
“Fucking finally! Fuck!” Rax shouted, picking himself up off the ground.
As Rax ran to the back of the van to grab his gear, Rhodes launched a remote controlled drone from under one of the armor panels on the side of the vehicle. The drone took off across the desert, following the highway toward Night City.
Three white and green vehicles had come into view, emerging from the dust and shimmering heat. As Deathwing stared through the rifle scope, the rest of his optics zoomed in automatically. Unassisted, they couldn’t get as clear a visual as the one utilizing the scope, but he was able to tag the vehicles by heat signature, chassis outlines, and weapon mounts before the other mercs could even make out the logos. The lead SUV bore the red Trauma Team International star on the sides.
“Well, shit,” Rhodes said a few seconds later as the drone finally reached the convoy. He was controlling it via his personal link, jacked into a screen that folded up from the Supron’s dashboard. His jaw tightened as he veered the drone around the convoy, tagging each vehicle, weapon, and biological signature within.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“HAHAHA!” Rax laughed as he caught a glimpse of the screen. “I see why the fixer didn’t tell us which corp was running the show! Hey Juno! Seems our fixer’s got a taste for irony! I hope you’re not against gunning down your old pals!”
“Fuck you, Rax.” Juno said from the back of the van.
“That an offer?”
“You know what sure. As long as I get to put a bullet in your skull after.” Juno slammed the doors as she stepped away from the back of the van. She was carrying a rocket launcher on her shoulder, and didn’t hesitate to point it directly at Rax as she made her retort.
“Shut the hell up, both of you. This isn’t the time.” Rhodes said, kicking the Supron’s engine to life. “Rax, get in the damn gunner’s seat.”
“Whoa, whoa whoa, wait. We’re really going ahead with this? That’s a TTI convoy! It’s probably full of medkits and blood bags and shit. Seriously?”
“Just get in the damn turret!” Rhodes shouted as he pulled his door closed.
“Never thought I’d see a Maelstrommer with a conscience,” Juno said as she knelt at the edge of the ridge and trained the rocket launcher on the truck at the head of the convoy.
“ Maelstrommer,” Rax corrected. “Never thought see a Trauma Team medic attack a TTI convoy.”
“ medic,” Juno corrected back in a mocking tone. “They left me out to dry. Didn’t even pay me for my last call. I’ve got a score to settle.”
“Rax!” Rhodes shouted. “Get in the damn turret!”
As Rax finally clambered into the van, Juno offered him a one-finger-salute. Once the van had pulled away from their vantage point, she turned back to the highway.
Deathwing remained motionless, lying prone on the ridge. He fixed his rifle on the highlighted driver of the leading SUV. The drone swooped low over the convoy as the Supron drew near, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. Deathwing waited a few seconds longer. As the convoy grew closer, he could make out the driver and passenger in the front vehicle. They had just noticed the drone and the van on their heels. Deathwing pulled the trigger.
The windshield exploded. Glass shards showered the truck’s passenger as the driver’s corpse slumped forward onto the steering wheel. The car veered wildly to the left as the passenger scrambled to take control. He was too late and the car flipped as it broke free of the pavement and hit the sand.
Behind the cargo truck, Rax opened fire on the SUV defending the rear. The turret fire punched right through the defending vehicle’s armor, punctured the tires, and eviscerating the pair in the cabin.
As soon as the lead vehicle was out of the way, Juno let the rocket fly. It crashed into the cargo hauler less than a second after she pulled the trigger. The resulting explosion rocked the hauler’s frame and blasted away a huge chunk of asphalt. As the driver slammed on the brakes, the hauler crashed through the newly formed pothole, and began to tip.
Deathwing and Juno slid down the sandy ridge, sprinting toward the highway. Juno had discarded the rocket launcher and tugged a pistol from the back of her belt as they ran. Dropping the rifle, Deathwing leapt onto the overturned hauler just as Rhodes pulled the Supron to a screeching halt nearby. Deathwing unfurled his carbo-glass claws, embedding them into the door of the hauler before tearing it out of its frame.
Gunfire erupted behind him as he reached into the cabin and pulled the screaming woman from her seat inside. The back of the hauler had opened and a few dazed guards wearing the mint-green and white armor of Trauma Team were putting up a fight. There were six in all, and they were well equipped. Rax, essentially unguarded in the Supron’s turret seat, was dead before Deathwing had managed to pull the woman to his chest and plant the barrel of his pistol against her head.
“Stand down or she dies!” Deathwing shouted, placing his finger on the trigger.
The desert went silent.
The guards looked at him, bewildered. After a few moments, one of them knelt down and set his gun on the road. The others soon followed suit.
Juno, knelt behind the hauler’s engine block, whispered up at him. “What the fuck are you doing?” One of his optics jerked around to look at her. She wore an expression of fear. Her hands were shaking.
“Following the plan,” He growled.
The woman Deathwing held was Dr. Alina Vance. Not a medical doctor, by any means. No, Vance held a PHD in some corporate bullshit that Deathwing couldn’t remember. She was one of TTI’s resource managers. He couldn’t remember why she was with the convoy, and didn’t care. Proof of her death would net the crew a paycheck of two-hundred-thousand Eurodollars. Split four ways, that was five hundred each. Now that there were only three of them it would be more. Two ways…or even one way, would be even better. Deathwing licked his lips at the thought.
Rhodes had stepped out of the van and was rounding up the guards, pointing his own weapon at them: a hefty automatic shotgun. Juno cautiously stepped out from her hiding place and walked over to the van. She opened the sliding side door and pulled Rax’s corpse down from the gunner’s seat. She mumbled something that Deathwing didn’t bother to hear. He watched with rapt attention as Rhodes corralled the disarmed guards, optics clicking as he squeezed the target close.
Vance whimpered in his grip. She was trying to speak, but couldn’t and Deathwing wasn’t going to let her. She would beg and plead for her life, offer to pay for mercy, offer any explanation for her crimes that she thought would stay his hand. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to listen, nor did he remember the crimes she would be trying to escape retribution for. She was a corpo. That was all that mattered.
He tightened his grip, pressing the gun harder to her right temple, and twisted to make sure she had the clearest view possible of her subordinates. They were gathered against the wall formed by the hauler’s trailer. Rhodes had just kicked the last gun away from the group, and as he pushed the last of them against the wall, Deathwing chose his moment to strike.
In an instant, he dropped the pistol and extended his right arm. The black plates unfolded and the Popup Grenade Launcher emerged. With a loud the weapon fired. Rhodes and the guards realized what was happening too late. The grenade impacted the centermost guard in the chest. It exploded before it had a chance to fall.
Juno screamed. Vance went limp. Deathwing bent down and retrieved his gun.
Juno whirled on Deathwing, firing her pistol. Her shots connected, but not with him. Vance’s chest exploded in a bloody spray. Juno’s eyes went wide. Deathwing grinned as it dawned on her that he’d used Vance as a human shield. Not that he’d needed to of course, the Scycust FleshWeave and Pain Editor would have rendered a few rounds from her little peashooter worthless.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Juno shouted, scrabbling to find another magazine in her jacket.
“Nothing’s here,” Deathwing laughed. The metal sound echoed across the sand. “I am a warrior of god, enacting his will.” It was more than he had spoken at once over the course of the entire day. “God is in chains. I am the key.”
Juno’s eyes went wide, her jaw slackened. “You’re fucking crazy man. I knew we should’ve refused this gig when I saw you. You’re a full blown cyberpsycho!”
Deathwing released Vance’s body, then dropped off of the hauler’s cab. He landed heavily, just in front of Juno as she backed away.
“No. I’m not,” Deathwing growled, taking a step forward. “That’s the problem.”
Juno tripped, falling backwards onto the asphalt. “Oh God—” Tears began to streak through the dust built up on her cheeks. “Please, no—”
There it was. The begging. They always did that when they saw the end coming, Corpos. They always broke down and pleaded once they were cornered. Juno might not work for Trauma Team anymore, but as the saying went: “You can kick the rat out of the corp, but you can’t kick the corp out of the rat.”
As he growled out the phrase, Deathwing pressed his boot to Juno’s chest, punctuating the statement by crushing her ribs. Blood welled in her mouth. She gurgled through the crimson, weakly reaching for Deathwing as he turned away.
