“Cod—” A high-powered security drone drops into the fray before Kane can finish. The machine hovers over the flame-wielding cultist, mere feet from Pixie as she darts for cover. Once she’s in the clear, the drone unleashes a jet of water.
The Natural Order member staggers, her robes soaked and flames snuffed out in an instant. She barely manages a gasp before Viper’s crew swarms her. In seconds, they disarm her,rip off the mask, and lock her in crackling cuffs.
As Pixie ties up the remaining members, Viper’s voice crackles through the comm. “Clear.”
Kane exhales slowly, turning to watch the rest through Coda’s projections. “Proceed.”
Viper’s enforcers march into the booth, a swarm of drones following behind. Their feed flickers, then sharpens to reveal crates of chem-flamers, cases of electrified arrows, and racks of shock-charged machetes stacked to the ceiling. Crude and outdated tech, but dangerous. Too advanced for the purists. No doubt Athena’s fingerprints.
Through the feed, Kane watches Viper’s squad tear through the cache, smashing crates and cutting cables, clearing room for the next step. As they fall back, Echo enters the checkpoint in a protective jumpsuit, acid blaster in hand.
The captured cultists scream through the comms. Echo ignores them, winking at the drones, then spraying acid over the wreckage.
His mouth lifts. The cache is gone. So is Athena’s leverage.
As the feed cuts out, his gaze shifts to Coda. The techie glances up from the console with a rare, almost smile.
“Athena won’t even know what hit her,” Echo boasts in their channel.
Kane peers through the scope, spotting her emerging from the fog of the booth. “But I think we should head out,” she goes on. “Royal 8’s probably getting a bit antsy.”
He hums. “Agreed. Everyone, prepare to move out. Wren, stand by for prisoner transport. Viper’s squad, complete a final sweep. Echo, inform Royal 8 we’re leaving.” His gaze flicks to Coda, who’s already dismantling equipment. He glances at his wristlink, checking the time.
Fifteen minutes until he’s supposed to be in Midtown. Fifteen minutes until he can see the one person on his mind for the past three days.
Though he could stick around longer to oversee the cleanup, ensure his lieutenants don’t encounter anyone else on the—
“Don’t worry about a thing, boss man,” Echo calls through the commlink. “Get out of here and have fun on your—”
“Stop talking if you want to sleep through the night.” Kane’s tone sharpens.
Her laugh rings in his ears. “Okay, okay. Just relax a bit, alright?”
His fingers clench around the scope, but he picks up speed, packing the gear with Coda.
“I’ll take over from here,” Coda says, securing the last case. “We know the protocol.”
Kane stares at the techie. Does he know why Kane’s leaving? Who he’s going to see? No, even Echo only has a guess.
He gives a final nod, checks in with Wren and Viper’s teams, and confirms the routes are clear. Then comes the long descent down ten flights of stairs that leave his legs burning and remind him why he keeps up his uncle’s morning workout.
On the ground outside, what’s left of a maintenance bay hides his exit point. The faded signage warns of “Authorized Personnel Only,” a relic from when someone besides Factura delivered goods. Under its rusted awning, he strips off his tactical gear, pulls on stashed civilian clothes, and tosses a tarp aside to uncover his green HOV bike.
Twenty minutes later, Kane’s racing through Midtown traffic, weaving between lines of chrome HOV trains and luxury cars too clean to belong to locals. On every side, holographic billboards flare across the towers, their glareburning his eyes as ads shout over the wind whipping his helmet.
Midtown’s what the corps like to call “revitalized” after the Collapse. Glass towers built over what used to be man-made homes and family-run businesses. All before everything was bought out and became a sanitized drone-built hellscape.
His second time here in years, he should be worrying about the risk of coming back, or about his crew finishing the job in San Bajos. But his pulse says otherwise. The thought of seeing Rafael wins out. Kane kicks the bike into turbo.
Four, maybe five blocks fly past before he eases off the throttle. But it’s already too late.
Yellow lights flare in the rearview, alarms wailing through the wind.
VitaCorp security. His jaw locks.
Better them than the NCPD. The cops would’ve pegged him as the Chrome Baron two blocks ago.
Vice control is one of the few scraps of power the corps left them. Everything else got sold off.