I stared out of the dirty window, trying figure out where all the stains had come from, and doing my best to block out the moaning coming from upstairs. It was this loud, drawn-out noise that crawled under my skin and creeped me out. I didn’t want to think about it. I just focused on the view outside, though that wasn’t much better.

The cul-de-sac in Santo Domingo looked almost serene, but it was a lie. Four houses, all cut from the same corporate suburb mold, were lined up in a neat little half-circle. They all sported the same flat, tired-looking lawns and the same chipped paint on the shudders. Even the cracks in the driveways seemed identical. It was like the place was Night City’s attempt at a west-cost suburban utopia, but its time was long past. There was no hiding the shit that was Santo Domingo. It was just another garbage corner of a city, no matter how hard it tried to hide behind white picket fences and flamingo lawn ornaments.

The room behind me was no better. It had the feel of a place that had been lived in too long and cleaned too little. Clothes were draped over the back of the couch, a few plates stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, and a layer of dust covered the surfaces like it had settled down for the long haul. The place had long since stopped trying to impress anyone, and honestly, I kind of liked it that way. There was a comfort in the mess. It meant I didn’t have to tiptoe around or pretend I was living in some pristine world.

My throat felt dry, so I peeled myself away from the window and headed for the kitchen. The cupboards were in their own state of disarray – open doors, half-empty bags, and a collection of mismatched mugs and plates crammed inside. I rummaged through them, pushing aside a bag of stale tortilla chips and some canned food until I found a glass. Plain, ordinary, and probably older than I was.

I walked over to the sink, turned on the tap, and waited for the water. It sputtered out, cloudy at first, before it finally ran clear. Ish. I filled the glance, ready to drink, but then stopped.

This city was a dystopian hellhole. How could I forget that? The water in this place probably passed through a dozen sketchy filtration systems, each one run by some faceless corpo that didn’t give a damn about quality. Who knew what was actually coming out of the pipes?

I frowned, staring down at the glass like it had betrayed me, before dumping the water back into the sink and heading to the fridge instead, hoping there was something in there that didn’t feel like such a gamble.

The door creaked as I opened it. Inside was the usual: some leftover pizza from Buck-a-Slice, a few sad takeout containers, and a bunch of stuff that probably should’ve been tossed a week ago. But then, sitting there on the middle shelf, like a tiny beacon of hope, was a can of Spunky Monkey.

I grabbed it without a second thought. The cold metal felt like a small win in a city full of losses. Sure, Spunky Monkey was a shit energy drink, but at least I knew what I was getting – caffeine, sugar, and a bit of a rush to get me through the next hour or so. I popped the tab, took a long sip, and let the “lemon-green” sweetener slap the hell out of my tastebuds.

I wandered back to the window, noticed the moaning upstairs was finally finished, and took a breath to ready myself.

Outside, the cul-de-sac was a mess. A handful of cars sat on blocks, their tires stripped and stacked in a sad little pile. What used to be someone’s suburban dream neighborhood had turned into a chop shop right out in the open. Zion was out there, struggling with a gas can full of chooh2, dragging it across the cracked pavement. I could see the weight of it, and the strain it put on him. He was still banged up from the night market raid, his wounds barely closed, and here he was pushing himself again.

I shook my head, but didn’t step in. I figured someone would help him out soon enough. I couldn’t really blame him for wanting to get back in the fight.

The war with 6th Street…wasn’t going great.

Detective Jenson had told us there was a betting pool going at her precinct, and she wasn’t shy about rubbing it in our faces that nobody was betting on us to win. The Pack had become the underdog in a fight we didn’t start and definitely weren’t ready for. And the word had gotten around. Everyone from Diego to Cyndi had heard the same story from different mouths: we were finished.

It didn’t seem to matter that we’d taken out one of 6th Street’s big construction sites or that we’d held our ground in every serious firefight we were involved in. Sure, we’d lost people, but so had they. Hell, we’d probably taken out more of their shooters than they had of ours. But perception was reality in Night City, and to most people, 6th Street was winning. They had the numbers, the rep, the backing. And us? We had a couple shuttered casinos, a closed night market, and a lot of homeless people we couldn’t protect.

I watched as Diego finally strolled over to Zion and took the jerry can from him, helping him carry it the rest of the way. They were both chomping at the bit, eager to be let loose. They wanted blood. But I’d been holding them back, telling them to focus on real targets – 6th Street shops, distribution points, hideouts. We needed to hit them where it hurt, not just lash out. But every time I talked with Diego, I could see it in his eyes. He wanted to burn their world down.

And honestly, part of me wanted the same thing.

But then there was Padre’s warning, always in the back of my mind. He’d been around long enough to know how gang wars usually ended – badly. Once you go scorched earth, it spirals. He’d seen it before, watched the chaos, the bloodshed, the streets turning red. His words were still fresh in my mind: don’t push too hard or you’ll turn this into something worse. Sure, firebombing some spots in Santo Domingo would feel good, maybe even look good in the short term. But then what? 6th Street would hit back. Harder. And we’d be looking at an all-out war. And what if the other gangs decided to crack down on the group that started the whole escalation? We were barely surviving a war with one Night City gang. What would happen if the Tyger Claws got involved?

Still, how long could I hold my crew back? How long did I want to? Why should we sit here, bleeding bit by bit, when I could just unleash them and let them tear through everything in their path? Maybe it was better if we taught the city a lesson: you try and fuck with The Pack and everything you love will turn to ash.

What kind of crew were we going to be? Careful, strategic, following the so-called rules of the streets? Or the kind of crazy assholes who’d willingly blow everything up if it meant taking our enemies down with us? I was standing on a razor’s edge, and I wasn’t sure which way I wanted to fall.

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, slow and deliberate, almost celebratory. I didn’t need to look to know who it was, but I turned anyway. Will Gunner, one of the big names of 6th Street, came strolling down from the second floor, zipping up his pants, looking too damn pleased with himself.

When he saw me standing by the window, his whole demeanor changed. He froze mid-step, clearly not expecting to find anyone in the house – especially not me. I glanced over my shoulder, caught his eye, and turned back to the window without a word.

I didn’t need to say anything. He got the message easily enough.

“I gotta say, this war’s got me tired of having my people treat me like I’m some sort of porcelain doll; like I’ll shatter if I step outside alone. It’s exhausting. Every time I want to do something, even something as simple as taking a walk to stretch my legs, I got three or four people giving me that look. Like I’m stupid. They all wanna remind me we’re at war, that I shouldn’t be taking ‘unnecessary chances.’ So yea, I get why you’d sneak off to your girl’s place for a little freaky monkey chicken dance. We all need time to unwind.”

I could hear Gunner exhale softly, trying to steady himself, keep that calm mask on. I didn’t need to see him to know he was standing a little straighter now, a bit more steel in his spine as he continued down the steps. My talking instead of blowing the door off its hinges probably helped him relax some too. But just as he hit the last step, he froze again. Cyndi had appeared out of nowhere, her Lynx Paws making her freakishly stealthy. Her mantis blades were already out, one resting under Gunner’s throat, the other hovering just behind his neck, ready to strike.

I turned from the window, taking a slow sip of my Spunky Monkey. For just a second, I caught the flicker of fear in Gunner’s eyes before he forced that nonchalant look back in place. But I saw it. Clear as day.

Cydni didn’t flinch. She was getting too good at this. The blade under Gunner’s neck glinted in the light, while her other hand reached for the M-76e Omaha holstered at his side. With a smooth motion, she disarmed him, stepping back a bit, but never taking her eyes off him.

“Careful,” I said, my tone casual, like we were talking about the weather. “Cyndi’s got a new berserk implant. Used it once, and now she’s itching to use it again. Honestly, it’s been a challenge not giving her my Kusanagi and letting her run wild through Santo Domingo.”

Her mantis blades retracted with a soft hiss, and Gunner let out a breath. He tried to play it off, but I saw his hands tremble just a little before he stuffed them into his pockets.

I turned back to the window, looking out at the street. “You know,” I continued, “you probably should’ve had your boys pick up your girl and bring her to your place. Would’ve saved you a lot of trouble.”

Gunner stepped forward, trying to regain some of his bravado, a little more sure of himself now that Cyndi had backed off. “Well, you lot haven’t exactly been the most dangerous opponent,” he said, his voice a little harder now. “Feels like we’re not even really in a war. How many of your spots have we shut down? And you’ve done nothing to stop us. Not really.”

There it was – the arrogance. The smugness that came with being in a gang like 6th Street, the kind that made you feel untouchable. I could hear it, the satisfaction in his voice, like The Pack was just some minor nuisance to be swept aside. Even though we were standing in his girlfriend’s apartment in Santo Domingo, armed and with him at our mercy, he still had the gall to think he had the upper hand. I needed to break that delusion before I got what I wanted out of him.

I snapped my fingers, like I’d just thought of something brilliant. “You know, I’m in a pretty unique situation right now.” I glanced over my shoulder, catching the hard glare he shot my way, and turned back to the window. “I’m trying to figure out the right path for The Pack. If I went to my family, the people who took care of me when I first came to this…city, they’d tell me to keep my head down. Avoid more trouble. Play by the unwritten rules of Night City.”

I took another sip from the can and watched as Diego dropped the jerry can near where Anna stood and started making his way toward the front door of the house.

“But my lieutenants? They’ve got different ideas. They’re pissed. They’re trying to get me to let them loose, help them feed their anger. Maybe burn out a few 6th Street hideouts. Start getting a little more brutal with our tactics.”

Gunner’s face twisted into a sneer, and I could see the insult brewing behind his eyes. But before he could get it out, I cut him off. “Maybe I can treat you like someone I can bounce ideas off of,” I said. “Just talk through my problems. Help me figure out where The Pack should go from here.

He stayed quiet, but I could feel the tension building in the air.

“Let’s start with the obvious,” I continued. “I didn’t like it when you hit that homeless camp in Santo Domingo. You had to know they weren’t associated with us. That sat wrong with me.” I took a final swig from my Spunky Monkey, drained the can, and tossed it to the floor with a lazy flick of my wrist.

“Thing is, a bunch of my lieutenants were hot about it, too. They wanted blood. They were ready to make shit personal – forget about hitting your businesses or territory, they just wanted to hurt you.”

Gunner laughed, sharp and mean, a sound that echoed off the walls. “You can’t do shit,” he sneered, that smug grin spreading across his face. “The Pack’s been toothless. You’ve done nothing since this whole thing started.”

I didn’t bite, just kept my gaze out the window like his words barely registered.

“That was one point in favor of throwing out all the unwritten rules and going scorched earth. It’d make my lieutenants happier.” I paused, letting the silence stretch. “But I held them back. Told them it wasn’t how we were going to play this. Instead, we’d go after the legitimate targets. The construction site job—”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“The construction site?” Gunner snapped, his smugness vanishing, replaced by anger. “That cost us a shit ton of eddies.” He stepped toward me, the threat clear in his posture. “But I think I know how to recoup our losses. How much you think I’d make from an XBD of an execution? The leader of The Pack, strung up for all of Night City to see.”

I stared at him for a moment, surprised he still had the guts to make threats in a situation like this. He had to have known. He had to have tried to make a call or send a text, but nothing would’ve gone through. I glanced back out the window and spotted one of our vans, sitting quietly at the edge of the cul-de-sac. Its mobile jammers were humming, cutting off all communications. No calls were going out. No help was coming for Gunner.

I turned back to him, calm. “I kept my lieutenants in check. Kept us focused. Kept us clean. But then you went and hit the night market. Another time you attacked civilians.”

Before he could respond, the front door swung open. Diego strolled in like he owned the place, wiping his hands on his pants. He barely glanced at Gunner before looking at me. “Everything’s ready.”

I nodded, but before I could say anything, a voice came from upstairs. Gunner’s sidepiece (Paramore? Mistress?) shuffled down the stairs, barely dressed, her hair a wild mess, her expression one of pure irritation. She probably thought we were more of Gunner’s 6th Street crew.

“What the hell is this?” she snapped, her voice sharp and cutting. “Gonks walking in and out of my house like it’s a damn NCART station.”

Gunner didn’t say a word. His mouth tightened into a thin line, but I could see it – just a flicker of fear in his eyes.

I watched her for a second, then turned back to Gunner. “Should’ve just kept it simple. Told your boys to bring her to you, like I said. Would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble.”

His jaw clenched, but before he could throw out any more bravado, I barked out orders. “Diego, Gunner. Cyndi, the girl.”

Diego rushed at Gunner, quick and decisive. One moment Gunner was standing tall, chest puffed out like he still had a shot at talking his way out of this. The next second, Diego had him by the back of the neck, yanking him around like a ragdoll. The speed of it left Gunner stunned, his brain trying to catch up to the fact that the situation had shifted.

Diego kicked Gunner’s legs out from under him, slamming him face-first into the wall. The impact sent a dull thud through the room, followed by a muffled grunt from Gunner as the air rushed from his lungs. His sidepiece tried to scream, her voice sharp and shrill, but Cyndi moved fast. Her mantis blades were away and shot a quick punch to the woman’s gut. She folded like wet paper, her scream turning into a wheezing gasp as she crumpled.

Cyndi grabbed the woman by the arm and dragged her out the front door, slamming it behind her with a force that echoed through the house.

Meanwhile, Diego wasn’t being gentle either. He wrenched Gunner up by the scruff of his neck and dragged him toward the window where I stood, forcing him to look outside. Blood smeared across the wall from where Gunner’s face had slammed into the plaster, but Diego wasn’t done. He positioned Gunner so he had no choice but to take it all in.

Outside in the cul-de-sac, the scene was a masterpiece of devastation. All of Gunner’s 6th Street cars were sitting up on blocks, stripped bare. Tires had been piled into a messy heap in the center of the street like trophies from a junkyard raid. His gangers were sprawled out on the ground, disarmed and docile, while members of The Pack stood over them, rifles aimed squarely at their backs.

Diego and his crew had pulled off some serious ninja shit, taking out Gunner’s security without firing a single shot. It was so clean, so quiet, that even I was a little impressed. Gunner’s disbelief, the way his eyes widened as the reality sank in, was worth every ounce of effort. Fear flickered behind his eyes, no longer hidden by the bravado.

As we stood there, Diego, Gunner, and I watched as Cyndi, now outside, dragged Gunner’s woman into the middle of the cul-de-sac. The girl struggled weakly, still winded from the punch, but Cyndi wasn’t having it. She jabbed her again in the stomach, doubling her over, before tossing her onto the ground like she was nothing more than trash.

I didn’t look at Gunner when I spoke again. “Do you know what necklacing is?” I asked, my tone conversational. “I leaned about it from…somewhere. Can’t quite remember. But the cartels used to do it. Still do, in some places.”

Gunner swallowed hard, his eyes darting back to the scene outside. Pack members were moving now, grabbing the tires stripped from his vehicles and placing them over the girl. One by one, they piled the thick rubber around her, encasing her, trapping her. By the time they were done, only her terrified face was visible.

“That’s right,” I continued, letting the tension stretch. “They’d put tires around someone like that and then…well, you know where this is going.”

A member of The Pack walked up with the jerry can of chooh2 that Zion had struggled with earlier. He started dousing the tires, soaking them thoroughly, while Gunner’s woman squirmed, her panic rising as the fuel soaked into the rubber, dripping onto her skin.

Gunner didn’t need me to spell it out for him. He knew exactly what necklacing meant – one of the most brutal ways to go. It wasn’t just about killing someone; it was about making a statement. A message sent loud and clear, not just to the victim but to anyone watching. Fear was a tool, and right now, Gunner was realizing just how little control he had left.

Cyndi stepped back, taking a moment to admire her work. The last tire was snugly in place, and Gunner’s sidepiece was trapped, her wide eyes darting around as panic overtook her. It was setting in, slow at first, but when she realized no one was coming to help, her fear exploded. She started screaming, incoherent, her voice shrill and desperate. But through the window, her cries were little more than a muffled background noise.

I tapped the glass, trying to get someone’s attention outside, but no one seemed to notice. Anna was off to the side, looking a bit pale. This whole scene clearly wasn’t sitting right with her.

“Diego, this damn window’s in the way. I need to get Cyndi’s attention,” I said.

Diego grabbed Gunner by the neck and slammed his face into the window. The first hit didn’t do the trick, but the second did – glass shattered, sending shards everywhere. Now I had a clear line to Cyndi.

“She’s too loud,” I called out, making sure my voice carried. “Someone might get nervous and call the cops. Gag her until the burning starts.”

One of my guys moved without hesitation. He walked over to a 6th Street ganger lying facedown on the ground, eyes wide and locked on the tires surrounding the woman. Poor bastard looked like he was praying to every god he could think of that he wasn’t next. My guy yanked a strip of cloth from the ganger’s jacket and handed it to Cyndi, not bothering with gentleness.

Cyndi stepped toward the woman trapped in the tires, who’d stopped struggling and was just blubbering now, completely broken, like she couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Cyndi gagged her gently, almost treating her like a doll.

That’s when Gunner finally cracked.

“This…this is an escalation,” he stammered, his voice high-pitched and shaky, like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “6th Street will retaliate. You’re all of you digging your own graves. We’ll come back twice as hard.”

I didn’t respond right away. Instead, I watched Cyndi finish her work, her steady hands silencing the last of the woman’s pitiful cries. The gag was tight, and the woman’s panicked breaths were audible, even from inside the house. Finally, I turned to Gunner, keeping my tone calm, almost like I was explaining something to a child.

“Isn’t that a good argument for letting my lieutenants take the reins?” I said, almost musing out loud. “6th Street already escalated. They came after my family. The homeless. The people who took me in when I had nothing. All I wanted to do was protect them. That’s what The Pack was supposed to be – a protection gang for the ones in this city who get chewed up and spat out.”

Gunner’s eyes darted between me and the scene outside, fear spreading through him like a virus. Blood dripped down his face where Diego had smashed him into the window, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He knew where this was heading, but he couldn’t stop himself from talking.

“I-I told you! Rick Morton, he’ll go batshit when he hears about this! 6th Street won’t stop. Not after something like this! They’ll come for you, for your lieutenants, for your people. You’ll never be able to rest, never—”

I let out a belly laugh.

“Rick Morton? Who do you think tipped me off about where you’d be?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Gunner froze, mouth slightly open like a gonk caught off guard. I could almost see the gears turning in his head, struggling to make sense of what I’d just said.

“Think about it, Gunner. Rick Morton wins after this goes down. You’re gone, 6th Street strikes a peace deal with The Pack, and everyone walks away satisfied. They get to say they put us in our place, and we get to say we survived our first war. The Pack stays intact, and Morton eliminates the only guy who could challenge his leadership.”

Gunner’s face shifted – confusion, disbelief, and slowly, the thought that maybe I wasn’t bluffing. He was processing it, but more importantly, I could see him starting to believe it.

“I guess that’s a point in favor of still playing by Night City’s rules,” I mused, letting the idea settle. “Morton stays in charge, uncontested. He keeps cozying up to the corpos, and no one’s around to call him out on it. Hell, maybe he even gets a bigger slice of the pie for helping to clean up ‘internal issues’ in 6th Street. Meanwhile, I walk out of this with my crew still intact. We walk away with a few scars to show and stories to tell.”

The lie hit Gunner like a freight train. I could see it in his eyes – the doubt creeping in, the slow realization that it all made too much sense. His faction had been whispering about Morton selling out to the corpos for months. Some of them wanted to challenge his leadership. And now, I was feeding him exactly what he’d been afraid of all along: that Rick Morton had played him from the start.

The silence stretched between us. I let it linger, watching as Gunner’s face shifted from panic to something darker – betrayal. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was the realization that his own boss might have sold him out.

Gunner’s breathing quickened, his eyes darting from the window to me, his chest rising and falling faster with each panicked breath. He was grasping at straws, desperate to find a way out, and I knew I had him. But I stayed quiet, letting him spiral, watching him start to dig his own grave.

“I – I can give you a better deal,” he stammered, his voice cracking under the pressure. His gaze flicked toward the scene outside, where Cyndi was rummaging around one of the 6th Street trucks. She stood up and brandished a road flare. “I can give you something bigger.”

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed like I didn’t have a care in the world. Gunner, though, was unraveling.

“Listen, you don’t want this,” he babbled, words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “Killing me? Sure, it’s a win, but Rick – Rick will keep getting stronger. You do this, and 6th Street will come after you. They’ll have to. You know they can’t let something like this slide.”

I raised an eyebrow, still silent, letting him sweat. His face was shiny with fear now, practically pleading.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he rushed on, words tumbling over each other. “Two leaders. I can give you two 6th Street leaders. You take them out, cripple Rick’s whole operation. You don’t need to do this here, with me. We can make it work. You’ll look strong.”

Outside, Cyndi struck the flare. The sharp hiss of the flame made the air crackle, and suddenly everyone froze. The bright orange light reflected off the stack of tires, casting eerie shadows on the woman’s face as she sat bound and gagged, her eyes wide with terror.

“Stop,” I called out, my voice carrying out to the street. Cyndi paused, flare in hand, her face illuminated by the glow. Gunner stiffened beside me, sensing the weight of the moment, knowing this was his last chance.

“I can give you Rick Morton,” Gunner said, his voice cracking with desperation. “I can help you take him out. You want him gone? I’ll make it happen. Just…don’t do this. You kill Rick, and I’ll sign a peace deal with The Pack. End the war. You’ll be able to protect your people.”

“If I’m going to make a deal,” I said slowly, “I need more than promises, Gunner. I need something solid. Something The Pack can hit. You give me that, maybe we’ll talk.”

Gunner swallowed hard, eyes wide with fear. He was out of time and out of options, but he still had something to offer.

“Pablo Silva,” he whispered, barely audible. “Rick’s right-hand man. You take him out, and it’ll cripple Rick. He’s his enforcer. Without him, Rick’s vulnerable. You can ambush him, finish the job. You kill Rick, and I’ll make sure this war ends. No more blood.”

Outside, Cyndi stood next to the tires, the flare still burning in her hand, waiting for my signal. The tension was thick, like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next move. I glanced at Gunner, his face twisted with fear and desperation.

I gave him a small, almost sympathetic smile. “Alright, Gunner,” I said, patting him on the back. “You give me Pablo Silva, and we’ll see about this deal.”

&&&&&&&

I drummed my fingers on my thigh, the rhythmic tapping barely keeping my impatience in check. Anna and I were parked outside the DewDrop Inn, a beat-up relic of a motel that looked as tired as Santo Domingo itself. The neon sign buzzed weakly, casting a sickly yellowing glow over the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. The place reeked of desperation and bad decisions.

I recognized it instantly from the game. It was where V finds a 6th Street cookhouse that turned the whole joint into a toxic soup. One of Muamar Reyes’ jobs, I think, tracking down some poor solo who ended up dead thanks to the fumes.

I shifted in my seat. Diego, Zion, and Deng’s teams were already on the move, circling like sharks ready to strike. Zion and Deng were about two blocks out, near one of 6th Street’s processing sites – where they stored all their drugs and the chemicals that made them mountains of eddies. Didn’t matter to me what they were making. It was all poison, and the only thing I cared about was wrecking their operation and scoring a win for The Pack.

And then there was Pablo Silva, Rick Morton’s right-hand man. The real prize. Gunner had given up his location – right here at the DewDrop, overseeing their drug production. If we bagged Pablo, 6th Street would lose their enforcer, and Morton would be left scrambling.

“You worried Gunner’s gonna sell us out?” Anna asked, cutting through the silence. She’d been scanning the street from the driver’s seat, always keeping an eye on the surroundings.

I shook my head, still tapping my fingers like a metronome. “Nah. I told him I made a BD of him spilling his guts. If he double-crosses us, I’ll release it to the whole city so everyone can see him babbling and crying and selling out his own crew. Gunner knows his life’s tied to us taking out Rick Morton now.”

Anna smirked, giving me an approving nod. “Smart.”

“Yea, well,” I said, the corner of my mouth quirking up into a smirk, “just wish I’d actually thought to make the damn BD when I was there. Would’ve made the bluff less…bluff-y.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re a fucking gonk, you know that?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. It wasn’t the first time I’d bluffed my way into keeping someone in line. Probably wouldn’t be the last either. But it was enough to keep Gunner in check for now.

Anna leaned back, keeping her eyes on the street. We were both waiting for Diego’s signal, but the quiet was starting to wear on her too. “So, what are you gonna tell Diego when he asks why we need Pablo alive?” she asked.

I shot her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

She gave me one of those looks, like I was missing something obvious. “You’re planning on wearing Pablo’s face, right? Lure Rick Morton into an ambush? It’s kinda your go-to move at this point.”

I blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yea, that’s the plan.

“Well, she continued, “Diego’s storming this place with his team. You told him to keep Pablo alive. He’s gonna wonder why you’re making his job more difficult. And then, when you put on his face to lead Rick into the ambush, Diego is probably gonna be part of the team leading the ambush. Why wouldn’t they just kill Pablo along with Rick?”

That thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Diego, Zion, Deng…they weren’t exactly the type to ask questions when someone needed to be put down. And if ‘Pablo’ got caught in the crossfire after serving his purpose, they wouldn’t be sad about it.

I frowned, considering it. “You think I should tell him about the implant?”

“Might be a good idea,” Anna shrugged. “Unless you want them shooting ‘Pablo’ in the head during the ambush. Also…”

“Also, what?” I asked, glancing over at her.

She hesitated for a second, then continued. “I know you don’t want everyone knowing about the implant. The more people know, the more likely someone lets something slip and then some corpo decides to swoop in and take it off your body.”

“More like some pissed-off FIA agent. Though…come to think of it, he’s probably still bouncing somewhere, out of touch with whatever’s going down in the city.”

That stopped Anna cold. She just stared at me, her eyes narrowing as if I’d said something really, really stupid. After a beat of silence, she muttered under her breath, “Well, shit.”

I raised an eyebrow, amused by her reaction. “What?”

She shook her head slightly. “Ok, we’ll unpack that later. But what I’m trying to say is, I get why you’re keeping it under wraps. You don’t want the word getting out. But eventually, you’re gonna have to clue in a few people. Diego, Zion, Deng – they’re gonna figure it out sooner or later. Better to tell them now so they can help plan.

I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair as the reality of her words sank in. As much as I wanted to keep the face implant secret, she was right. If I wanted my team to have my back during the ambush, they needed to know what I was capable of. The implant wasn’t just a trump card, it could easily turn into a liability if they weren’t in the loop.

“Yea,” I muttered. “I’ll talk to them. After we take care of this.”

Diego: check in.

Zion: ready here.

Deng: in position.

I turned to Anna. “Let’s get this done,” I said, half to myself, but Anna nodded anyway.

Without another word, I opened the door and stepped out of the car, the night air hitting me like a cold splash of water. The street was quiet, almost too quiet for Santo Domingo. It was like the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next shitshow in this war.

“Deng and Zion should be hitting the chemical depot soon,” I muttered, mostly to keep track of the time. “Once they torch the stash, 6th Street’ll be scrambling to figure out what’s going on.”

Anna raised an eyebrow, her expression saying, I know, but she didn’t bother commenting. Instead, she locked eyes with me for a brief second, as if making sure I was fully dialed in. “You ready?”

I gave a quick nod, unholstering my Kenshin, checking the mag. Everything was in order. “Let’s go.”

We crept toward the rear of the DewDrop Inn. I knew Diego’s team was getting into position, ready to breach the motel’s front entrance. They’d hit hard, storming the place, taking out the 6th Street guards, and grabbing Pablo Silva. Meanwhile, Anna and I would be handling the three goons stationed at the back, guarding the place from anyone bold – or dumb – enough to mess with 6th Street turf.

If everything went according to plan, they wouldn’t even know what hit them until it was too late.

Diego: breaching in three.

I took a slow, steadying breath. Same as always, just another op.