A/N: Tis the day for another update from a mind of questionable sanity! Sorry it's a little late, turns out posting two chapters on the same day is a bit of a challenge. Writing this story has been interesting, mostly because of how different the tone and environment are from my others. It's a chance to write in styles I haven't so far. Hopefully it's working. Anyway, leave a review if you're so inclined and, as always, enjoy!

Chapter 4: If Life Gives You Lemons...

James had never taken on mercenary work. Never even thought about it. He knew a lot of folks went private after the Human-Covenant War ended. It made sense: you got to choose your gig, got paid better, chain of command was more informal, and if you chose an advisory role rather than active, or did high-end security, you could settle down.

That wasn't for him. Not that he was better than the people who did. Okay, maybe he did think that. Sure, he technically got paid for what he did, but that wasn't why he did it. And the UNSC would never let a Spartan run in the private sector. Not only would that mean those private outfits have the firepower to threaten the absolute best UEG had to offer, they put too much money into him to let him walk. They needed to get their money's worth after all.

The fact he was marching toward the collection of concrete buildings that made up this area's 6th Street gang headquarters to talk with Reggie about doing some work for them was odd. That was less unusual than him being in an alternate timeline- or reality- or whatever the hell had happened to him.

It wasn't just him doing mercenary work, it was him doing it for extra-governmental forces. It wasn't a local militia, either. This would be for a gang.

Fourier smiled.

Illegal was whatever the people in power said it was so, technically, everything he'd done had been sanctioned by the UNSC. This wasn't that.

Unfortunately, he had a lot to consider. While he might be in survival mode, he wasn't willing to put someone uninvolved in harm's way. It was a rule he held for himself throughout his career, for his team, and that wasn't changing here. He also needed to make sure, whatever he did, he didn't close any doors. This was one gang in a massive city. He already knew there were others and he didn't know if any were better than the others. Last, he'd prefer not killing anyone if it could be helped. Bodies complicated things and he didn't need any more 'complicated'.

"James", Greg said as Fourier approached the front of the first building, the same one they'd taken him into the night he'd arrived. The borg was standing beside the door, talking with a less-modified 6th Street member.

James nodded. "Reggie around? I'm thinking I want to take a job."

Greg frowned. "He's inside, top floor."

"Thanks."

Fourier marched past the two and ducked into the building. The inside wasn't much better than the graffiti-covered exterior. A handful of discarded food wrappers had been scattered around the concrete hall and the walls, the parts that hadn't been tagged, were stained with a combination of fluids, some of them probably from someone.

Considering how late it was, James wasn't surprised to find it empty other than one skeleton-thin resident sitting against a wall. The woman's clothes were small, but not small enough, hanging off her frame like bedsheets. Her knees were pulled to her chest and her head was resting on them. The woman's bony arms were at her side, the right one splotchy from the multitude of injection sites. They were both shaking.

It was an image that didn't surprise him; he'd seen plenty of that on outer colony worlds during his time in the ODSTs and in the few days he'd been here. That didn't make him feel any better about it. He knew what people could do to each other. He was special forces, he'd done more than his share of those things, but it always bothered him to see what people could do to themselves.

Then again, addiction was a different animal entirely.

As he marched past her, James kept his eyes straight ahead. He couldn't help her, he wasn't here to help her.

It reinforced what he had been thinking: 6th Street was a gang. The slums, he could understand, sometimes there weren't enough resources available to an outfit like a street gang. That didn't excuse letting the people under their 'care' suffer like this.

Sounds a bit naïve, doesn't it? It isn't any different than what I saw at that big ass 'megabuilding'. If that's what this city is like, I'm gonna have to suck it up.

Fourier turned right at the end of the hall to see a dimly lit flight of stairs. His armored boots thudded softly against the concrete as he began climbing them. Even if he wasn't trying to be quiet, the vibration and impact-absorbing soles did some of the work for him.

That was true but…

Good or bad, Fourier was proud he retained some form of ability to introspect. It's something a lot of people in his business lose, especially when fighting a war against a genocidal alien conglomerate or fundamentalist Innies.

Then there were those groups who just wanted to be left alone and only fought because UEG didn't want to leave them alone, for whatever reason. James didn't have much control over where his team went but he tried to do the best he could when deployed in environments like that.

At the top of the staircase, the third story, James found himself standing at the entrance to a large, square room that looked like it took up the entire top floor. It was furnished with couches, chairs, tables, a few large screens, and a… small armory tucked into the corner.

It wasn't in much better shape than the hallway he'd entered through. At least it was well-lit.

Sure enough, Reggie was standing near the middle, talking with a half-dozen other gang members. When Fourier drew into view, the massive borg fell silent and turned to him.

"James", he said in his scratchy, synthesized voice after a brief quiet. "Got told you were playin' soccer with some of the kids earlier."

"Not surprised. I'd be hard to miss out there."

Reggie nodded. "True. Seen more subtle cyberpsychos. I also got told you were lookin' for work."

They have comms. No surprise there.

"That's also correct."

"We got a group goin' to pick up some iron from the Aldecaldos in about an hour. Was gonna send Dwayne as muscle. You know how to handle yourself, I'm guessin'."

Fourier nodded. "That's an affirmative."

"You ever do a swap like this?"

A swap? They're buying something. Iron? He wasn't sure, but he could guess that meant weapons. As for providing security…

"It's been a while but I've run security on exchanges before."

Reggie shook his head. "This ain't like dealing with folks in the military."

"Oh, we aren't talking about regular ops. Covert exchanges. Places we weren't supposed to be and no one wanted to see regular uniforms."

The large borg crossed his arms. "You were spec ops? What outfit?"

"Prying." James cocked his head. "Would it be too played out if I said "that's classified"?"

"It would but I get what you're sayin'. Long as you know what you're supposed to do, who you shot in the past is your problem."

"Quick question", Fourier said. "Who are the Aldecaldos? Are they regular suppliers?"

"Yeah", one of the men with Reggie, an older black guy with a shaggy, unkempt beard said. "Iron, glitter, chrome, whatever you want. We got a good runner with them."

Reggie looked at the man. "You good with this, Vox?"

"Shit, Panam won't do anything. Long as FNG don't do something stupid, we'll be cool."

"Alright, you got your job, James", Reggie said. "Vox, introduce him to your boys and delta. We need that shipment."

"You got it, boss", Vox replied and marched toward Fourier. "C'mon FNG. Yank and Jamie'll love to meet you."

I'm sure they will…

Fourier didn't have any concerns about handling himself in a fight but this wasn't just going to be a fight. He was diving into a world he'd only dipped his toes in occasionally. And always within operational parameters. Well, mostly.

He followed Vox back downstairs and out into the night.

Do I think this will be any more dangerous than any normal operation command has sent me on?

There was no support, no intel, and he had very little working knowledge in this situation.

Good thing I've spent the last decade figuring out how to improvise then…

Improvising would only go so far.

But no, it wouldn't be. At least… if it was, this city had much more dangerous gangs than anywhere he'd ever been.

Vox led him around the building and down another set of stairs. The path took the two of them into the middle of the building complex. The narrow walkways between the buildings weren't much wider than the slums and, here, he wasn't flanked by flimsy, one-story shanties. On either side of him were concrete walls that rose 10 meters on either side. Anyone on the roofs would look down to see two sitting ducks.

That wasn't likely to happen. As far as he knew, no one here was trying to kill him.

Despite that, some instincts were hard to turn off and the ones that told him to avoid confined spaces with no good escape routes was one of them.

"Lemme make this easy, FNG", Vox said as they passed out of the narrow passage and started down another set of stairs. "You're there to help if we need it. No talkin', no sudden moves. You stand there, look scary, and let anyone who might wanna try something know it'd be a bad idea. Got me?"

"You said your contact wouldn't do anything", James replied. "Are you expecting more company?"

Vox glanced at him. "You don't know much about Night City."

It wasn't a question but Fourier still shook his head. "New here."

"Word from the wise: if you got something worth anything, someone's gonna try and take it. Iron's the next best thing to straight eddies around here. Sometimes it's better. So it's worth something and someone might try to take it."

This place is sounding better the more I hear about it… "And who might try to take what we're getting?"

The smaller man barked a laugh as the two of them descended into a sub-level parking garage. It was dimly lit and James wasn't quite sure it wouldn't collapse on top of them, judging by the multitude of cracks in the concrete.

"It's iron, FNG", Vox said. "Mercs, gangs, corpos, some strung out gonk thinkin' they're tough shit. Whoever."

Gonk? What the hell kind of slang is 'gonk'?

No prizes for guessing how they'd be getting to this meetup. There was a blacked-out van with two other 6th Street gang members standing beside it, talking. One was an older woman with hair cut short over a grizzled, scarred face and cybernetics replacing both of her arms. The other one, a guy probably around James' age, didn't have any prosthetics, which was an oddity in this place. Or maybe they just weren't visible, hidden under clothing. Both of them were smoking, a great habit for life expectancy.

"Jamie, Yank", Vox called, "meet FNG. He's our muscle for this trip. Dwayne gets the night off."

The older woman flicked her cigarette away and frowned at James. "Reggie's puttin' an FNG with us? Or muscle ain't supposed to need babysittin'." She put her hands on her hips. "The fuck kinda borged out psycho are you? Not gonna lose your shit in the middle of this, right? Don't need to be ridin' around with some tickin' bomb."

That was a warm greeting. Fourier wasn't an idiot and he wasn't a liar, especially to himself. He had no problem admitting when he got nervous and was pretty far past that. Not only did he not know what was really happening, he was surrounded by a bunch of unfamiliar people with no access to support. 20 minutes ago, he was… relatively confident about asking for a job. Now that he was standing here, in front of a few strangers, about to go off and meet some arms dealer with them, the pit that had settled in his stomach was growing.

This wasn't his team. He didn't know how they'd react and couldn't trust them in a difficult situation.

Not trusting the people he was with was the fastest way to make him nervous.

"I'll be fine", James said. "It's been about 11 months since the last time I lost my mind."

While that had been a joke anyone who knew him, and his team, would understand, apparently that was the wrong thing to say around these guys.

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" Jamie demanded.

James held up a hand. "Sorry, inside joke. Has to do with- it's about a friend from back home. I'm not mentally unstable, since that's what you're worried about."

"Where's back home?" the younger man asked.

"Midwest."

"The fuck you get chrome like that in the Midwest? Militech?"

Chrome? Is 'chrome' what they call body mods?

Fourier shrugged. "Not information I'm interested in parting with at the moment."

"It's whatever", Vox interjected before either of his companions could say anything else. "Reggie said he's our muscle, he's our muscle. Load up, boss wants us out there early."

The two others looked at the older man for a few seconds before relenting. Jamie climbed into the driver's seat and Vox into the passenger. Yank swung the van's rear doors open and climbed in.

"You're back here, FNG", he called.

It was a cargo van so… hopefully it had enough suspension to handle half a ton of extra passenger.

The metal floor groaned in protest as James wedged himself inside. The back didn't have any seats so he crawled his way to the front and sat, back against the front seats, facing the rear doors.

Yank pulled them shut and the van burbled to life. Music started blasting almost immediately.

As Jamie pulled it out of the parking garage and up the ramp onto the street, that little voice in the back of James' head started chirping again.

Compounding being in a new, alien place with people he didn't know and cut off from support, he didn't know what to expect. There were, apparently, an endless number of people who might come after this exchange. Granted, if guns (which is what he was assuming they meant by 'iron') were as ubiquitous as it seemed, a single shipment small enough to fit in a cargo fan wouldn't raise any alarms.

"What's that piece?" Yank asked, pointing at Fourier's hip or, more accurately, the M6 he had clamped to his thigh. The other man was sitting near the rear doors, back against the van's side. Without windows in the back, it was dark enough James doubted he could see clearly.

Unless he had artificial eyes or something.

"Something I brought with me from back home."

"Weird model, never seen it before." That sounded like an accusation.

"It does the job. I've used it plenty."

"Oh yeah? Heard lotsa big talk from newbies."

James fought the urge to roll his eyes, then remembered his face was hidden behind his visor and rolled his eyes. They knew he was new to this city but something told Reggie he was military and even if his armor was alien to them, he had no clue what newbie they thought would wear kit like his.

More likely than not, this was him posturing.

This is a gang. Appearance means a lot. He'd seen it before, nervous or threatened people putting on a tough face. More than a few in the UNSC and local militias had done it too. Guess no one likes feeling as though they're at someone else's mercy.

"There isn't anything I can say that will make you feel better", James said. "I'll watch your back. That's all I can give you."

The van jostled as it hit a hard bump before turning left.

What the hell was he doing out here? He knew the reason he decided to do this was information gathering. He needed to know what kind of environment he was dealing with and doing a favor for these guys might win him some brownie points. Brownie points here could be spent on connections. Connections could get him more information. He knew the logic behind the decision he made.

But the monkey part of his brain was still screaming at him this idea was insane.

No more insane than the possibility of being in an alternate timeline.

Yeah but in the event of an alternate timeline, at least he could do things that wouldn't be throwing him into completely unknown situations.

That's rich. Being in an 'alternate timeline' is an unknown situation. I still don't know how I'm gonna survive here or what my objective is. All I'm doing right now is getting my feet under me. If they're willing to send someone they met two days ago on this, it probably isn't high risk. So I need to relax.

While that was true, the pit in his stomach wouldn't go away. He was improvising, doing what he needed to survive. That's what he was trained and conditioned to do. Sitting back and waiting had never been his style. That being said, this entire situation felt like it had gone so sideways, 'sideways' was his new down.

That's an accurate assessment.

The van turned again and accelerated. Probably getting on a freeway.

"This goin' to Hector's guys?" Jamie asked.

"That's right", Vox replied. "Maelstrom's been giving them some problems. Bosses decided they needed bigger shit to shoot."

James heard the old woman grunt. "And we get their sloppy seconds, huh?"

"Ain't no one attacked the block in a long time, Jamie."

"So the fuck what? I'm tired of getting people's leftovers. I want some new shit of my own."

"You wanna join Hector's boys, you get some of the new iron."

Maelstrom? Probably another gang.

That was another thing: James was familiar with the bullshit politics that took place throughout his command structure. Thankfully, he got to ignore most of them. Not many people wanted to dive into the mess that was playing politics with Spartan Ops, especially considering how many 'off the books' operations they had, like any special forces outfit.

Now, he had to not only reacquaint himself with politics, they were gang politics which made a whole lot less sense and tended to involve a lot more violence. Well, more violence than intra-military politics.

While he worked through his concerns with his current predicament and chosen course of action, James stayed quiet, listening to the intermittent chatter between his new friends. The blaring music made it hard to concentrate. It was some strange mixture of hard rock and synthesized. He wasn't a music aficionado, he left that to Liam.

A bitter pang shot through his gut as he felt the van turn off the freeway. His team, whatever happened to him, he'd left them in the lurch. To get dropped here in the middle of a high-risk op. It wasn't his fault, he had no clue how this happened.

Still, he wasn't there for them.

What about Damon? The kid had been on point. He'd been in front of Fourier when… whatever happened, happened. Did he get sucked in too? Dropped into this new timeline? Or was this just him?

If he'd been sucked in with me, he would have been next to me on that dam.

At least, that's what James wanted to think. He really had no idea. He didn't know how he'd ended up here, how was he supposed to know what would have happened to that pain in the ass?

A grin slipped across his face. At least Damon had been making progress.

James took a deep breath and pressed himself against the back of the seat.

The work they'd been putting in was finally starting to have an impact.

If Damon had gotten caught in… whatever this was, that would leave Liam and Amanda to finish the op on their own. They were good. He- he had to trust they could handle it. Not like he could do anything about that now.

"FNG", Vox barked from the passenger seat. "We're almost there. Gonna park up. Get out with Yank, make sure we don't got anyone lookin' to get in on our deal."

"Copy that", James replied.

A minute later, the van trundled to a stop. Dirt was crunching under the tires.

Yank got to his feet and opened the door with a hollow, tinny clank.

He hopped to the ground and James followed close behind.

Even though his first instinct was to pull his M6 off its mount, Fourier left the handgun where it was. This was an exchange meetup, not a gunfight.

Outside was… outside. They weren't in the city or one of its suburbs. Instead, James found himself standing on a dirt road, glittering lights of the massive metropolis 10 klicks in the distance. The view still amazed him. Not because he hadn't seen glass and steel towers climbing into the sky like these ones, but because they had those existing alongside the massive squalor and rampant drug use.

To his left was a short rock face that ran parallel to the dirt road, to the right was a rolling field with the occasional rock outcropping. They were in a desert. Or the start of one.

At some point, he should ask someone specifically where they are. That could wait, for now, he had to do something he was actually familiar with: run security. The most obvious spot for an ambush was the rocks above them. The face was only five or six meters high, he could reach the top without having to climb.

He didn't want to do that. If he could hold one card close to his chest, it would be his physical capabilities. They already knew he was unfamiliar with the area. They didn't know what kind of fighter he was. Best he kept it that way, for now.

"That shelf", James said, pointing toward the rock face. "I want to clear that."

Yank cocked an eyebrow at him. "Ain't no one up there."

Fourier frowned. "You're worried about someone attacking this exchange, right?"

"Yeah, but that ain't for another half-hour. No one's camped out that early."

What? Why? If someone wants the guns they're buying, what's arriving an hour or two early? He didn't voice the concern for two reasons: they were more familiar with these operations than he was, and the same reason he was guarding his physical capabilities. Maybe these guys are friendlies, and maybe they stay that way but, for now, he was going to hedge his bets.

There were other ways to check the shelf. It was low enough to see over from some of the rock outcroppings nearby.

James shrugged. "Alright. I'm gonna take a look around."

"Go for it, FNG."

They were being real welcoming.

As he paced toward the closest collection of boulders, maybe 40 meters to the west, in the direction of the city, he scanned the desert for other potential risks. While the rolling landscape could conceal someone from a casual observer, none of the dips or crests were large or steep enough to prevent discovery from a more dedicated search.

There were plenty of other places to hide, like the outcropping he was approaching.

Yank might have a point. Even if another party might try interrupting this little get-together, this is a civilian operation, not a covert military one.

Even so, James didn't know what he was in for so he wasn't taking any chances.

Climbing into the two-meter-tall collection of rocks, he was high enough and far enough away to see nothing was waiting for them on that shelf. Same with any of the dips within a few hundred meters.

But just because Yank had been right didn't mean Fourier wasn't going to check the same way if he had to do this again. Complacency is how people die. Well, one of the many ways people die. Like any job, there were best practices to do the job right and get everyone home safe. He wasn't about to discard those because he was dealing with gangs.

Not after how much he pounded that into his team's collective head.

The others were less invested. Jessica and Vox were standing at the front of the van, talking. Yank was ambling around the dirt road behind it. None of them seemed concerned with the idea someone would try to intercept them or their supplier.

Maybe that's why Reggie put me with them; it was incredibly unlikely this meet would have been hit.

Whatever the case, James climbed down off the rocks and marched back toward the van. He'd stay attentive because that was the right thing to do. He had a feeling that would be a waste of energy but…

It only takes once.

X

Fourier heard the approaching vehicle as it crunched across the dirt road, engine rumbling toward them. He hadn't seen, or heard, any other vehicles since they arrived. And, considering it was 0115, almost half an hour to the minute since they arrived, this was probably their supplier.

That being said, his hand still drifted down to his M6.

Headlights spilled over a crest a hundred meters ahead of them.

"Panam's here", Vox announced. Judging by the fact his companions were already watching the vehicle appear, they didn't need to be told.

It was a truck of some sort. Like every other vehicle he'd seen since almost being hit by one, the model was completely unfamiliar. All he could tell was the LED lights were incredibly powerful, washing away the desert's darkness, and it had a large caliber turret on the roof.

That was interesting. The truck was obviously civilian, without the characteristic, boxy, utilitarian aesthetic most military vehicles had. That meant the turret was an add-on.

One hell of an add-on. 'Panam' must do a lot of supplying. And it would have to be more than a few guns to rate something like that.

The truck burbled to a stop beside their van and Fourier took note of the crates in the back.

"Vox!" Panam exclaimed as she swung the door open and stepped out. The woman was tall, taller than Vox, well-tanned, with curly hair tied back, and wearing a slim jacket and pants that didn't leave much to the imagination.

"Panam", Vox responded, much quieter. "Thanks for the rush delivery."

"I don't mind doing it for repeat customers." She marched around to the rear of the truck and dropped the tailgate.

"What's up with the borg? You guys afraid something might happen?"

Vox glanced at me before shaking his head. "New guy. Dwayne was supposed to be with us but boss wanted FNG out here. Speaking of- HEY FNG!"

I can see where this is going. "Yeah?"

"Come grab this and load it in the back of the van!"

Fourier hesitated a beat. It was stupid, yes, but being told to do grunt work left a sour aftertaste. He didn't like it. He'd spent a decade in and now, just because these guys didn't know him, he was back at square one.

Oh well…

He marched forward, examining the turret that had been mounted to the truck's roof. James expected it to be a hack job, spotty welding or a rough, homemade bracket holding it in place. Yes, it was held down with a bracket that had been welded to the roof but the bracket looked like it had been purpose-built for that turret and the welding was pretty good. She'd even kept wires for whatever control system it had hidden to remove a weak point.

"Not bad", he muttered under his breath.

The gun was large bore, probably 25mm. That size, it was likely loaded with either HE or airburst rounds. Both were shrapnel loads meant to shred unarmored targets with limited anti-armor capability.

How is it controlled?

They didn't have time to sit around and compare notes. At least, James didn't want to spend time sitting around doing that while on a job to buy guns from a 'private' dealer in the middle of the night while out in the desert. Not high on his 'to-do' list.

Once at the back of the truck, he could see why Vox wanted him to carry the merchandise. It wasn't one crate, there were three set side-by-side. Each was a meter wide, half a meter tall, and a half-meter long. If they were full of guns, each of those could easily weigh north of 100 kilos.

"Yank, Jess, get over here and help out!" the group's leader shouted.

James glanced at Panam. She was a regular supplier for these guys. Arms dealing at the very least. That likely wasn't all. It had been a while, but he'd dealt with these types before. Even if they have regulars, they don't trust those regulars. Payment in advance and armed protection. He didn't doubt she was packing but that wouldn't be enough, not for someone like her…

Panam returned his gaze, eyebrow cocked.

No… she wouldn't be there on her own.

Fourier took a few seconds to scan their surroundings again. Whoever she had watching her back, they'd be far enough away it would be difficult or impossible to notice them, and with a good view of all potential places someone could be waiting to attack her.

The rock shelf. Farther back.

His eyes drifted across the landscape's only significant feature. They settled on a spot, probably 250 meters away. There was a break in the rock face, not enough to be anything worthy of note, maybe a few meters below the rest of the shelf.

A perfect spot for a sniper.

At this distance, and with the deep shadow cast by the surrounding rock, he couldn't see if anyone was there.

But he knew. He had a rifle aimed at his head and that's where it was coming from.

They won't do anything unless we do. Bad for business to shoot clients for no reason.

As much as he hated knowing- feeling himself in a crosshair, Fourier did his best to shrug mentally and turn back to the truck. He lifted the first crate out of the back and started toward the van. The crates were large; with all three of them loaded, there wouldn't be much space for James and Yank in the back.

There would… probably be enough. They'd just have to make sure to arrange them carefully.

Vox and Panam started talking while Fourier carried his cargo back to the van, passing the other two on the way. Panam, like everyone else so far, seemed fairly nonplussed with his presence. It… made sense, if he considered the circumstances. The problem was he was so used to catching stares whenever he was around civilians, it was disconcerting when that didn't happen.

A minute later, all three crates were loaded. He'd been right, even with the boxes shoved to the van's passenger side and stacked as well as they could be, there would barely be enough room for him and a regular-sized person.

Panam slammed the tailgate shut and walked back to the driver-side door of her… modified truck. "Thanks for the business, Vox. I'll see you next time."

"Don't worry", the older man said. "Way things are lookin' that won't be long."

The way things were looking? Did that mean they were doing a lot of fighting? If those crates were full of guns and ammo, they could supply a platoon. At least. It was a lot of ordinance for a civilian gang and, apparently, it was all going to 'Hector's' group.

Mercenaries, arms dealers, corporate agents, and gang members that are cyborgs seen regularly enough on the streets for people to mistake me for one… What the hell is going on in this city?

To get back in the van, Fourier had to squeeze himself into the cargo area's driver's side. Even then, the front of his chestplate was scraping the wood as he shoved himself past. There was just enough room at the front, behind the front seats, for him to sit. Between the boxes of munitions and his weight, the suspension sagged and groaned under the load.

Making room for Yank was similarly challenging. He had to sit beside the boxes, against the rear door.

Hopefully, Jessica wouldn't take a right-hander too quickly. Getting hit with one of those wouldn't be pleasant.

Once Yank had slammed the rear door shut, the van started up and trundled away. James considered telling them about the sniper who had probably been watching them from the rocks. It might do them some good, to pay more attention to that sort of thing.

Then again, they may have suspected Panam would have someone in that position and didn't care. That kind of nonchalance to a potential threat could get them in trouble and/or dead.

He wasn't sure which was worse: not thinking about it, or not caring.

Their trip back both felt like it passed quickly and seemed to take forever. Every time they went around a right turn, the boxes felt as if they were looming over Yank, threatening to topple over. That meant James, and the gang member, spent most of the ride watching the potentially lethal cargo, figuring out how to stop the boxes from falling if they started to go..

Well, potentially lethal without the guns inside being fired. It made every turn take an eternity.

But, when the van burbled to a stop and Jessica killed the engine, it caught Fourier by surprise. The drive out had been half an hour. Did that much time really pass? To him, the drive back seemed like it had just started.

Vox and Jessica climbed out of the front seats while Yank twisted himself around to reach for the rear door's latch.

When Fourier extricated himself from the back of the van, half a dozen 6th Street gang members were standing by. As soon as he was out of the way, they began pulling the crates and carrying them off.

"Thanks for not doing anything stupid, FNG", Vox said. "Reggie should still be up top, I'm hittin' the sack."

Without waiting for a response, the older man marched away from the van, maneuvering around a pair struggling with one of the crates.

Jessica and Yank didn't even give him that much consideration. The two of them walked off, talking quietly and leaving James standing next to the van.

His only companionship, the gang members unloading the van, barely spared him a glance. As with every experience he's had since arriving, there had been plenty to learn over the last two hours. The problem, now, was figuring out what to do?

Standing here won't get me anywhere. It was a little amusing Vox assumed he remembered where 'up top' was. Or maybe he didn't care… probably option two.

As James started walking to the staircase that had brought him down to the garage, he was unbothered by the thought. Why wouldn't they be irritated with him being there? He was an 'FNG' dropped into their laps when they had a normal team and routine. Fourier had to wonder why Reggie had stuck him with them.

The complex of concrete buildings wasn't anywhere near as busy as the slums were at this time of night. Outside of a few stragglers, one of them clearly on a bad trip, clawing at a wall across the street from James, it was empty.

He wasn't naive enough to think Reggie had sent him with them as a favor. Reggie was probably scouting him to see if he'd be a good fit for their gang.

Unfortunately, regardless of his performance, the answer was 'no'. It wasn't because James was principally against this type of organized paramilitary force (okay, maybe that was part of it, he'd spent a lot of time fighting people who weren't too dissimilar), he didn't know who was who and aligning himself with one gang with there were other groups in play might close off doors he needed open.

As James climbed back through the cramped, dirty, graffiti-strewn complex, he tried to guess what this conversation would look like. His audience claimed to be ex-military. That meant he could expect a few things: direct questions, a certain amount of assumed deference, considering Reggie was the 'senior' in this situation, and clear expectations.

Something that might help here was a little bravado. Yes, Reggie was ex-military, but he was also a gang member. In James's experience, they liked people who seemed like they could take charge and were in command.

The building he'd found Reggie in earlier was looming just ahead of him.

What did he want from this conversation? Information? No, he didn't want to ask them about anything. There might be questions someone even from the Midwest would know the answers to. If he asked those, it might poke some holes in his already flimsy story.

A pathway. Some way of making contacts outside this gang.

Okay… how would he do that? It would have to make sense considering his situation and skillset. If he asked to be put in touch with the police or some corporation, that would raise red flags.

And those were probably groups he wanted to avoid for the time being.

He stopped just outside the door he and Vox had exited.

His thoughts turned back to the idea of freelancing. It had positives and negatives. If he was gonna do this, he had to figure out how to get into that world.

David Martinez.

That's right. That kid was a mercenary. Mercenaries rarely worked directly with clients. They had 'agents'; people that helped them filter jobs, form intel networks, get resources, and verify contacts. The mercenaries were generally the action-oriented party. The agents were the face of the relationship.

James was 'ex'-military, he had high-quality hardware, and didn't want to go through normal channels. In a city that… seemed to have a freelance economy, mercenary would be a good position fit for him.

… He'd have to lay down some ground rules if he was doing this. That's something he could sit on. Reggie didn't need to know about his reservations. For now, he just needed to talk with them about how he could enter the profession.

Walking into the building, the woman who had been there the first time was gone. The main hallway was empty aside from the trash.

Voices were drifting down the stairs as he marched up to the third story again. One was Reggie's distorted growl, he couldn't tell who the other belonged to.

When James emerged back into the massive room, the large cyborg was leaning against the far wall. In front of him was, from what Fourier could tell, a completely unmodified woman. Her dirty blonde hair was tied into a tight bun and the woman's stern, weathered face was set in a frown.

Both of them turned to him.

"James", Reggie mused. "Welcome back. Didn't hear anything from Vox and he ain't here to bitch so I guess you ain't a gonk. Good job."

Fourier approached the two, studying the woman. She didn't look like a gang member, not the ones he'd seen around here. Her clothes were too clean, crisp, and new, she didn't have any of the telltale scars the others he'd seen did, and, the obvious one, she didn't have any implants or prosthetics.

Something about the way she held herself was wrong too, James couldn't quite put it into words.

"If you get to know me better, I can probably start annoying you pretty good", he said as he pulled his eyes from the woman to Reggie.

Reggie shook his head. "You don't know the shit I put up with."

Probably not.

"If you're any good, you can help with some of it."

"Gang-related?" Fourier asked.

His host's face twisted in his approximation of a frown. "Got somethin' on your mind?"

He'd been right: straightforward was how this guy did business.

"Yeah." James nodded. "I'm thinking about getting into the freelance game."

"If you ain't trying to get involved with the streets, merc ain't the right profession."

"I didn't say I wasn't interested in that, I'm just looking for some way to put my talents to use."

Reggie's frown deepened. "'Talents', huh? Sounds like you think a lot of yourself. You don't got a crew. Solos are a rare breed. What I told you the other day's still true: this city'll turn you into its bitch then flatline your ass."

James couldn't tell if the man was irritated or not. Best to give a neutral response, then.

"I know." He nodded. "I don't doubt it, either. I'm not trying to insult you with this. If you need a job done, provided it doesn't violate a few conditions, I'm your guy. It's the least I owe you. All I'm saying is I think there's more I wanna do."

There was a brief moment of quiet as Reggie stared into his visor. It was a look he'd gotten more than a few times from superiors. With some, it was because they were trying to figure out the best way to tear him a new asshole, with others, it was to see how well he could hold his liquor. If it was option one… that would be the end of this relationship anyway. If it was number two, yeah, the guy was large and imposing but James had been through a lot of fights with 'large and imposing' enemies.

After a few seconds, the frown disappeared. "You've been around the block a few times. Alright, I'll make you a deal: you give us first priority and discount on all jobs, we'll show you where you can meet a fixer."

So it was option two.

James cocked his head. "First priority?"

"Yeah. Unless you got something pressing, we call, you pick up." He stood up straight from the wall. James wasn't used to having to look up at people, not for a while. Reggie was a solid 10 centimeters taller.

"And you don't attack my guys, you copy?"

That was fair enough. For now.

Fourier nodded. "Copy." But there was one thing. "No objections? And you're gonna help me?"

Reggie's massive mechanical shoulder shifted in the rough approximation of a shrug. "I get an unaffiliated merc on call and forcing you to stick around here wouldn't help anyone. I don't waste opportunities, so if hookin' you up buys us a favor, I'll do it. Not like it's hard to drop you off with a fixer. Those assholes'r everywhere. You get zeroed before I can call in that favor, there'll be hell to pay."

It was a decent enough explanation. If Reggie tried to force him to stay- well, he wouldn't have. And then they wouldn't have gotten anything out of him. This way, at least, he owed them a favor. It was a tenuous agreement, while James liked to think he had integrity, he was also pragmatic and had some limits to what he'd do.

He'd do his best to keep his word, though. It's worth something.

"Deal."

"Good", Reggie said, nodding. "Get some grub and a cot. I'll set you up with one of the boys in the morning."

Grub and a cot. Their 'grub'... well it was edible, that's about as much as he could say about it.

X

Sleeping regardless of circumstance had been a skill James developed during training. He had to. A 'good' time to sleep might happen in the middle of a bombing campaign.

So, when he woke up leaning against the wall of a secluded hall with a sealed-off door at the end, it didn't bother him. It was just past 0700, according to his HUD. Without knowing who to look for or where to find them, he decided to wait in front of the building for someone to find him.

It didn't take long. A short, stocky woman dressed in what he could only describe as a long-past-expiration BDU waved as she approached.

"James", she said in a voice that betrayed a chronic smoking habit. "Reggie said you were in the market for a fixer." She waved for him to follow. "Got a car waiting." Reggie was even nice enough to provide him with a ride. He must really want that favor.

As he drew abreast with her, walking down toward the low side of the complex, he asked, "What's the name?"

"Johnson", she replied. It was about as short as two syllables could be.

"Fair enough. Where are we heading?"

"Santo Domingo. Industrial district. Plenty of small-time fixers work outta that area." She glanced up at him. "You lookin' for anything in particular?"

Small-time? That sounded promising. "Not much notoriety but they know their way around the city. Some kind of contact network would be good too."

Johnson snorted. "This is Night City. You can trip over whatever biz you want on your way to the store. If you don't catch lead from some zonked-out Maelstrom asshole or whoever." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her hip pocket and lit one up.

"Detes, chrome jock."

Is she trying to overload me with slang? Biz? 'Zonked out'? Detes? Chrome jock?

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

They reached the bottom of the hill and turned right. There was a beat-up-looking pickup truck sitting a few meters away.

She took a long drag on the cigarette, paused, and blew it up at his head. "You wanna get dirty, right? Zero some gonks? Don't look like someone who does quiet."

Even if the smoke wouldn't get through his suit's air scrubbers, he didn't appreciate getting it blown on him. He hadn't done anything to warrant the disrespect and he wasn't in the mood to tolerate her posturing.

"Please don't do that again."

Johnson cocked an eyebrow. "Afraid of a little smoke?"

"Doesn't matter", he replied. "I'm just asking you not to do it again."

She grunted. "Like I was sayin': quiet don't look like it's your thing."

While he wasn't sure if that meant she agreed, he'd let it go. It didn't really matter. As for her observation…

You'd be surprised… Covert operations were a regular part of his daily life. That being said, James didn't want to deal with that here. Not yet. Better to get a lay of the land first. Taking on bounty contracts wasn't something he was keen on either. He didn't know who was who and what kinds of jobs would be… acceptable.

"Let's start simple. Security. Courier. That sort of thing."

"What?" she asked before taking another puff. She aimed this one away from him. "Some chromed-up solo takin' on low-rent shit like that?"

"Yeah. Do you know anyone who fits the bill?"

Johnson gave him a bemused frown before shrugging. "You want small-time, someone who knows people, and deals in basic jobs." Another drag. "Yeah, we can find you someone like that." She hooked a nicotine-stained thumb at the truck. "In. The back. I don't need you fuckin' up my seat."

"Fair", James said and climbed into the bed.

It still amazed him they were this willing to help. Reggie's justification made sense and all but…

Maybe I'm thinking about this the wrong way. They don't know what Spartans are and, it seems, body modifications and superhuman combatants aren't uncommon. They look at me as an asset with no ties to their gang.

As the truck rumbled to life and they pulled away from the complex, Fourier tried to recenter his perspective. He had to start thinking about this like, to the people here, he wasn't a big player.

That could work to his advantage. He didn't know what kind of fighters they had here, or how they compared to Spartans, but he was confident his skills, abilities, and experience were enough to make this work. As long as he was careful and got the chance to learn his new environment.

Johnson piloted the truck into the subdivision bordering their 'turf', joining the morning traffic as people drove, probably, to work. James would have been lying if he said he didn't feel conspicuous, sitting in the bed of her truck. More than a few commuters stared. Some of them looked confused, others looked worried.

It wasn't hard to guess why if people like him or David Martinez were able to get regular work as mercenaries. Gang warfare is rarely discerning and, if they thought he was a corporate agent, considering what he knew about them thus far, they might have just as much reason to be concerned.

They trundled through the city in stop-and-go traffic, surrounded by other cars, for the better part of half an hour. With the congestion common in major cities, it took a lot longer to get anywhere. Last night, they'd gotten all the way out of the city in that time. Now, they were still in the shadows cast by the massive buildings and overhead walkways. They'd only traveled a couple of miles by the time Johnson pulled the truck out of traffic and into a large parking lot packed with other vehicles.

She found an empty spot, killed the engine, and they both climbed from the truck. In front of them was what looked like an outdoor mall mixed with a flea market. Stalls were set up between the buildings with lines stretching away from many of them. Clothes, food, and… guns?

What the fuck?

There was a large stall Fourier could see at the far end. Even 100 meters distant, he'd recognize the shape of firearms displayed on the back wall.

They just… sell guns out in the open here, huh?

Firearm stores weren't alien to him, both the inner and outer colonies had vendors where civilians could buy. Those were licensed and regulated. This wasn't that. The stall looked like it could have been selling produce.

Instead of heading into the market, Johnson turned left and marched toward a squat, wide, two-story building. The few windows facing them were broken out and boarded up. Not unlike the 6th Street's complex, most of the wall was graffitied over. Even the upper floor.

Someone was determined to get some clean canvas, I guess.

It looked like the walls had been tagged, then someone else decided they didn't like what the last person painted and went over their tag with a new one. And that process repeated a dozen times. Maybe James wasn't a connoisseur of street art but, frankly, it all looked terrible to him. It could have been the overlapping paintings though, who knows.

When they entered the building, the story changed. A little. The room they walked into was relatively clean with no spray paint adorning the walls or trash on the floor. There was a small desk tucked into the far right corner with no one at it and a half-dozen people either walking to the door they'd just entered or through one of the two doors at the other end.

As soon as James ducked through the door, those looking in his direction froze. It… made sense. He was a massive cyborg-looking man with a gang member. They probably thought something was about to pop off.

Johnson didn't seem to notice or care. She marched to the door on the left side and James followed.

On the other side was a hallway with numbered doors. They were in an apartment building. An… interesting place to find a 'fixer'.

Turning left, when she reached the fourth door, she pounded on it with the side of her fist hard enough it shook in its frame.

"Craig!" the stocky woman barked.

Fourier could hear shuffling and muted swearing coming from the other side for a few seconds before the door swung open.

An old, massively overweight man with white hair so thin it might as well not have been there, cybernetic eyes, and wearing a blue jumpsuit greeted them with a glare.

"Trish, I got a damn camera", he growled. "What do you want?"

'Trish' jerked her toward Fourier. "This guy's lookin' for a low-rent fixer who knows their way around."

When Craig looked up at him, the anger disappeared. It was replaced by a thoughtful frown. "Low-rent, huh?" He stepped back from the door and waved them in. "Let's talk."

James didn't know what to expect when he stepped inside. It wasn't the massive computer bank against the wall to his left and a multi-screen workstation just in front of it.

The bank was humming quietly, accompanied by soft instrumental music drifting through an unseen speaker system. The rest of the apartment was neat, with a clean kitchen, and a tidy living room area that had a large, comfortable-looking couch in front of a massive TV.

It could have been any modern apartment, not what he'd come to expect from this place.

"Why's someone like you looking for small-time work?" Craig asked as he settled behind the workstation.

He didn't know this guy and revealing too much might get him in trouble. If Craig knew he lacked knowledge, he might try to take advantage of that. But he can't hide his unfamiliarity, not entirely.

"Trying to keep my head down for the time being", James replied. "I don't know anyone in the industry."

Their host nodded. "Makes sense. Night City can be a mother. Place is a meat grinder. A lot of folks come in here looking to make it big, make a name for themselves. Most don't last more than a few weeks. Some make it a few months if they're lucky. Even the best ones don't get far if they're too ambitious."

He studied James for a few seconds before turning to his collection of screens. "If you aren't looking to make big money or get your name up in lights, you might have a shot. Gotta say, I know my implants and armor", he glanced at Fourier again, "what you got ain't any Arasaka, Militech, or whatever other design you wanna throw at me."

That much was true, no point in lying. No point in offering any new information yet. This was one of those situations where he could only make things worse by talking.

Craig seemed to catch on after a moment of quiet. "Don't worry, I know the biz, I won't pry. If it's half as tough as it looks, low-rent should be no problem for you. If Trish brought you here, means Reggie's probably vouching for you. Guy's got a good eye."

"'Vouching' might be a little strong", Trish said. "This guy wants to run solo, Reggie thinks he can get some favors outta him."

"Sounds about right." Craig was scrolling through something on his screen. "I like getting favors from Reggie so…" he stopped scrolling and frowned. "What's your name, mystery man?"

"James", Fourier replied.

"If you don't know folks in the game, James, you'll get taken advantage of at every turn. Honest people don't make it far. You seem like you got a good head, staying quiet when I said your kit don't look right was a good call, but even smart people make mistakes" The portly man started tapping his index finger against the desk.

"Your best shot is to get with someone who's probably a little too honest themselves. They gotta be savvy enough to know when and how people will take advantage of that…"

The man fell silent as he thought.

Things were moving awfully fast. That was one of the few things since waking up that didn't surprise Fourier. In these types of environments, trust is as important as it is difficult to earn. People who trust one another in the underside of a society will do almost anything for each other because of how valuable that trust is. That kind of relationship greases wheels.

Plus, this guy clearly wants and is probably getting something out of this. It seemed like he has a relationship with 6th Street and this likely isn't the first time he's done something like this.

Guess I got lucky someone as… reputable as Reggie is backing me. For now.

"Think I know someone", Craig finally said. "She's a good kid. Smart, good heart, wants to help people." He smiled. "Terrible traits for this city. Sending you the detes, Trish."

"Thanks, Craig. I'll bring some fresh cuts tomorrow. Need to offload my cargo first."

The old man sat up straight in his desk chair. "Hey, don't mess around with this one", Craig pointed at Fourier. "6th Street doesn't need any more headaches. Go there, get him set up, make sure everything's preem. Got me?"

His guide was quiet for a beat. It wasn't long, but it was enough to notice.

"I gotchu."

Craig nodded.

As they left the apartment, and James swung the door shut, he caught Johnson stealing a glance at him.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Craig's a fixer for fixers", she replied, turning to face him instead of heading toward the door like he expected. "Was in the game for decades. Left before it got him. Now he does this. He knows everyone, got a good eye for talent. And trouble."

So my appearance and your boss's arrangement with me didn't make you take me seriously but this guy's word did?

Seemed like Craig was someone who had pull. Might be a useful contact in the future.

Let's see how far this newfound respect goes.

"Where to next?"

"Bar not far from here. Apparently, that's where Becca hangs out. We can walk through the market." Trish waved toward the door. "C'mon, let's delta."

Walk through the market? He'd drawn enough attention riding in the back of her damn truck.

Before he could protest, she'd already started back down the hall.

… Oh well. He'd have to trust she wouldn't be reckless.

Like when they'd entered, whoever was facing them as they left froze. One woman had her hand tucked under her jacket, grabbing something at her waist. Either a gun or knife. He didn't get a chance to see which before they were out the door.

"Seems like people get nervous around me", James said as they headed toward the market. "I won't make a scene?"

She shook her head. "They see chrome jocks all the time. After they see nothin's gonna happen, it'll be preem."

Preem? Craig had said that too, did that mean "fine"? He'd need to get a slang thesaurus or he was spending a lot of time lost in the local vernacular.

Nearing the stalls, market-goers began noticing them. Several hurried to get away, a few others turned to face them. A group of four started to approach, two with their hands at their waist. They were dressed in an odd assortment of cargo pants and loose jackets. Easy to hide weapons.

Trish stepped in front of him before the group could get within five meters. As soon as they saw her, their postures changed. The guy at the front pulled his hands away from his waist and held them out to his sides.

An instant later, the four of them were moving out of the way to let them pass.

"Those 6th Street guys?" James asked just loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

His guide nodded. "Yeah. They weren't gonna do shit. They'da just made sure you weren't starting anything."

I'm sure.

Once they were past the small group, they entered the market proper.

As had been the case every time he was in such a busy, tightly packed space since joining Spartan Ops, James took slow, deep breaths. He picked individual elements of his surroundings to focus on and concentrated on keeping his heart rate down. 'Sensory overload' is what the shrink told him. After spending almost 30 years with the senses of a regular person, having all of those dialed up to 25 was a major strain on the human brain. Even one that was conditioned to handle it.

The pressing crowd around him, sounds crashing down on his head, constant movement in all directions around him, and the feeling of having unknowns at his back all assaulted his consciousness. It was, at least, better than it had been. Those first few months after the procedure were rough. His first PR event was a struggle. Too many people he didn't know around. He ended up standing in a corner, back to the wall. It helped but not much.

In a situation like this, his go-to was looking for threats. Fourier's eyes were constantly switching between his surroundings and his motion tracker. The system was both accurate and had a high degree of granularity. Even so, there were too many bodies on top of one another for him to track individuals.

What it did give him was a good idea of the crowd's general direction. That meant he could look for patterns. The trend he was seeing was people either moving in random directions or away from him.

The details assaulting his eyes, when he looked up from his motion tracker, told him the same story: a bunch of people hurrying around a crowded market. The crowd was a collection of various, colorful clothes, some of the same implants he'd seen in the slum, and all manner of hairstyles. He was tall enough to see over most of it and the random collection of colors and features didn't change. If anything, it got more hectic the longer he looked.

On top of the sights, the sounds of cooking food, shouting patrons and owners, and the cascade of footsteps crashed down on his ears. He could have turned the gain on his audio down, he wanted to, but it was something he'd learned to tolerate. In an environment like this, he couldn't risk being unaware.

Every few steps, he'd glance behind them or down a different aisle of the market. It was a lot of work trying to keep track of the crowd's general movement but it was necessary.

It was why, after they'd gone about two-thirds of the way through, he noticed someone following them.

The icon on his motion tracker, a small, pale blue dot in the swarm of other dots, had caught his attention a moment ago when they were passing by a stall selling noodles and something called "synth-meat". There were five stools at the stall's small bar, all of them full of people slurping from plastic bowls.

Over the next 30 seconds, that dot stayed the exact same distance behind them.

That might have been nothing. He was still testing the possibility.

"Hey", James said. He kept his arm down and tapped Johnson's forearm. "Don't look at me. We might have a guest. We're taking this next right past the clothes vendor."

"Copy", Trish replied. Her voice had changed. Even over the din of the crowd around them, he could hear the 'business' override her former brashness.

They turned past the stall that was full of a mismatched assortment of styles and colors. The next aisle to the left was about 10 meters ahead of them. Plenty of time to see if the mystery dot followed.

It did.

As they approached the next turn, James said, "left."

They turned and, a few seconds later, their guest followed.

"Yep. Company."

Weaving through a crowd like this, especially with how large he was, it would be impossible to lose whoever this was. Besides, Fourier wanted to know who was following them and why. Were they following him or did they see a cyborg-looking guy and decide to tag along.

"You ever deal with tails before?" Johnson asked.

"A few times, yeah." James's eyes were roaming the market in front of them. The far end was 30 meters away. They'd need to take another left to reach the exit. In front of them were storefronts.

That could work. Pull this person into one for a little quiet time.

"We'll take a left up here to head for the exit. You keep walking, I'll intercept."

Despite his warning from earlier, Trish did look up at him, frowning.

"When I say 'intercept', I don't mean 'kill'."

She shook her head. "I ain't worried about you flatlining the gonk. We don't need a scene around here. This area ain't ours. A lot of other gangs are tryin' to get control of it."

Oh. "I'll keep it quiet. Lowkey operations aren't new to me."

"Really." Johnson sounded doubtful. "Craig said 6th Street doesn't need another pain in the ass. Something poppin' off here would be another pain in our ass."

What had Vox and his friends been worried about the night before?"

"If shit goes sideways, blame it on me being a cyberpsycho." Whatever that was.

She snorted. "Whatever."

They were approaching the turn. "We're good?"

"Yeah", Trish replied. "Let's see why Craig thinks you're hot stuff."

The two of them turned left toward the exit. As soon as the aisle they'd been on was out of sight, James slipped past an oncoming group into a shop on his right. He was watching his motion sensor and the dot that signified their unwanted guest the entire time.

It turned the corner a few seconds later.

Then it was abreast with him.

Snatching his M6 from its mount, he slipped back out of the store-

And found himself directly behind an incredibly familiar bright yellow jacket.

He didn't have time to be surprised David Martinez was following them. He took a long stride forward and clamped his left hand down on the mercenary's shoulder. His right hand jammed the pistol into his side. James was careful to position himself so the gun would be blocked from the view of anyone unless they were standing directly in front.

"No words. No movements I don't tell you to do. That speed trick won't work so don't try it. Keep your hands at your side but away from your waist. I know about your arm cannon too. Keep your eyes straight ahead and follow me into the store on my right. Nod if you understand."

The young man hesitated for a moment before nodding.

"Good. On my count. Three. Two. One. Now."

Slipping to his right, he made sure to give David's shoulder a firm tug and keep the barrel of his handgun pressed to the kid's side, just over his right lung.

The store wasn't dead, but it was a helluva lot quieter than the market outside. It would have to be good enough. There were plenty of questions bouncing around in Fourier's head. The first, and maybe most important considering Mr. Martinez's profession, superseded all of them.

"Why are you following me, David?"

Next Chapter: 6/28, A New Solo