Chapter 31

(V is still speaking in Russian)

I took the file off the table and opened it. Damn. Hard copies. Not a shard or an e-mail, but actual paper. I started leafing through it, seeing what info these mercs had on me.

Vincent Price. Twenty-two years old. I actually forget sometimes just how young I'm "officially" supposed to be.

The file had a whole spread of photos, eight shots in total. Not just promo pics from Academy speeches but full-on surveillance—profile, frontal, even one from behind.

Medical data, identifying marks, fingerprint scans. They did their homework. The part about "atypical neural shock" and "low tolerance for implants," though? Old news.

The file noted I'd disappeared with a customized JKE-X2 Kenshin and a Yukimura.

"Known for wearing a vest, using taxis and rentals for travel. Cold under pressure, blunt, and even rude in conversation."

That last part? Bet that was Frank Nostra's handiwork. Still bitter about my crack about Abernathy and his balls.

Nothing specific about "murdered colleagues." Just a vague line with no names or details. I wondered if that meant just Lucas, or Lucas and Okamura, or if they'd added even more to my "reputation."

Overall, it was a solid write-up, clearly pulled from official records. But I was confident in my current cover. The Kenshin was stashed away, and you couldn't tell about the mods without a close look. Plus, I had the ultimate disguise: my language. This was a world where most people relied on chips for translation. No need to learn languages with an implant doing all the work. And they had me pegged as a born-and-bred Night City boy. English as a native language, Spanish at an A2 level. No Russian whatsoever. Language chips do exist, but they're rare, since most don't need them.

Alright. This little review was useful for identifying what to mask next. Vik swapped out my prints during the last surgery. Might be time to tinker with the voice too.

Back to business.

"Bounty hunting. Guess some things American films do get right. So, this Price guy—dead or alive?"

"Just find him," Nash kept it vague. "Leave the rest to us."

Smart-ass, barely clever. He could tell me too much if he wasn't careful. Probably hadn't told Panam everything either. Like, say, what's the actual reward on my head.

But I needed those fixer's notes. Especially the confirmation details on my "neutralization." What would counterintel need to confirm my tragic demise? Could I fake it? I'd thought about staging Vincent Price's death before. Never got around to it—everything just moved too fast to set up properly.

Well then.

Lucy did good coming here to Afterlife. Nash could be the ticket to finding the fixer behind my bounty.

No way Nash was the only contractor on this. Odds were, there was a whole roster of hunters scrambling for the prize. Fixer probably shared my profile with a select circle of mercs, letting them compete for the payday. According to the late Fujioka, my bounty was forty-five grand. Fat cash. Tempting enough to dig in.

I wasn't the only runner in Afterlife tonight, and Nash was sloppy, roping in anyone nearby. Guess he's not a big name in the city.

The more seasoned mercs would already be tipping off private investigators, sleazy cops, maybe even nosy journos—all the info-scavengers.

"Can I take the file or just snap a copy?"

"Take it," Nash shrugged. "We got a deal?"

"Da," I replied, grinning as I extended my hand.

He shook it, and so did Panam.

"In the USSR, they keep their word, right?" Nash asked, like he was testing me.

"Of course," I replied, all friendly. "But only…" I paused theatrically. "If we have a drink to seal it! You got Bolshevik vodka?"

Let's see if some alcohol loosens Nash's tongue. He strikes me as the kind who's either open as a book with a few drinks or turns into a berserker.

I had my own little backup, too—the injector stashed in my pocket with a medical cocktail to keep me conscious even on the brink of a blackout.

"Haven't you had enough vodka in the Union, comrade?" Panam grinned. "How about some local flavor? Tequila? Whiskey? Bourbon?"

"Definitely," I nodded. "But I want to start with something familiar. Give me a moment…"

I got up and headed to the bar, paying way too much for a bottle of vodka. It was worth it though. We'd stolen enough cash today that a little splurge was nothing. Lenin on the label seemed to stare at me with disapproval, probably not a fan of the "anarchic free-for-all" embodied by the merc scene.

I grabbed four shot glasses along with the bottle.

"Back home, we call this 'just a little one.' But, as they say, from small things come great deeds," I said, pouring out the cold shots.

I remembered Kaoru Fujioka's trip to some spot near Vladivostok. Snow, a wooden sauna. For him, it was all a strange exotic experience. But that memory had dimmed, fading fast. Looked like Kaoru's fading out for good.

The vodka burned, but I kept a straight face. The others downed theirs too.

"So, you're with the Scavs?" Nash asked.

"With the Scavs? Nah, more like… around them," I smirked. "If you need contacts for implants, I can hook you up. But big gangs aren't really my thing. Especially the Scavs... You know them. Abandoned buildings, blood everywhere, shooting up on a filthy mattress. Some people are into that, but I came to Night City for the good life. Fancy hotels, clubs, parties, charming ladies," I said, giving a long look at Lucy with that last line. Kusinada flirtatiously tilted her head, brushing a stray strand of hair back with a graceful flick.

We made for quite the contrasting pairs. There were Nash and Panam, both in road jackets—though Panam wore a few bright colors while the Raffen looked like he dressed in blackout mode. She barely had any makeup on.

Then there was Lucy and me. She was high-tech cyberpunk through and through. Me, all bright colors, flashy glasses, and a grin that rarely left my face.

"Pretty life like that costs a lot," Panam replied.

"I love money," I admitted. "And the feeling's mutual. Let's have another round. To mutual affection!"

Then I really started rolling with it. In a good way. Three shots down, I was laying out the story of my life, making it up on the fly. Improvisation. But I kept every fact consistent, checking what these nomads might know about the Union.

"Got this saying back home: the law is the Taiga, the prosecutor is the bear. I was born in the middle of nowhere. Probably why I've always felt drawn to big cities."

I gave Panam's outfit a mock-inspecting look.

"Aldecaldo. That's a clan that moved into Night City, right? And the boss is named Saul?"

"Quick learner, Alex," Panam noted.

"Interesting hearing about your feuds," I grinned. "Every other news report in Night City reads like an adventure novel. Every third one, a comedy. Every fifth, horror. Fascinating. So, your friend, is he Aldecaldo too?"

"No. He's from far away," Panam replied. "The Badlands only seem big. When you're doing two hundred on a straight road, all of America is just around the corner. It's just a question of where you're wanted."

"Vodka's… done. Guess we're onto this whiskey of yours. Let's head to the bar. Help me pick my treat!"

The nomads didn't argue. Good. Let's see who's left standing in the end.

Panam followed me to the bar, giving some drink recommendations. Meanwhile, I discreetly pressed my injector, feeling the meds hit my bloodstream. Just a bit. My head cleared up a little, the drunk haze easing, but I was far from sober.

"Bourbon," we finally ordered. "Two bottles!"

The favorite drink of dear departed Arthur Jenkins. Wonder if Abernathy pinned his death on me? That'd be ironic.

"So why?" I kept prodding back at the table. "Why'd you leave? Got tired of clan rules? Orders from up high? Or, like me, just wanted the good life?"

"Nomad clans are more like families," Panam objected, swirling her bourbon before taking a sip. "They don't have orders and bosses the way you think."

Of course, I knew that. But it'd be stupid to flaunt too much knowledge. I might as well blurt out something like: 'Nash's a Raffen, Rogue will screw you over, just go back to the clan, and we'll steal a Basilisk.' And that would just lead to questions. Lots of them.

"Sounds nice," I nodded. "Then why did you leave?"

"Sometimes it's easier to walk away than watch your family…" Panam started, then shut herself down. "I don't want to talk about it. Screw it! I'm on my own now. End of story."

"No problem," I grinned amicably. "Family or not, it's all about having the right people around. Take us, for example…" I nodded toward Lucy. "Once, I went a bit too far, and luck didn't seem to be on my side. Thought I was done for. But Lucy here pulled me out. Didn't even charge me."

"And you didn't charge me, either," she chuckled. "Our first meeting was… interesting. The second? Even more interesting."

"Yeah, and now we're partners. Got each other's backs. I don't know if you'd call it family, but… it feels like it."

"Not what I pictured runner life to be like in the city," Panam said. "What do you think, Nash?"

The big guy was already pretty tanked and had hit his quiet mode. Just sat there, chugging the free booze, staring at us with a gaze as heavy as his jaw.

"Out here, you can't throw a rock without hitting either corps or NCPD," Lucy replied. "Sometimes, it's safer to take bullets than try hacking through corporate ice."

"Why don't we go for a drive?" I suggested. "Hit up a few clubs and bars. Yesterday was a lucky day for me. And if you're gonna blow money, might as well do it in good company."

"How about Lucy and I take my Warhorse?" Panam offered. "And you and Nash go together. Sound good?"

"I'll take my own ride," Nash grunted, speaking for the first time in fifteen minutes.

He shot up from the table, walking straight enough, but somehow… awkward, like a zombie. Meanwhile, Panam was starting to sway a bit.

"Don't… worry about it," she said with a grin. "I'll keep my grip on the wheel steady."

We spilled out onto the street, where the pre-dawn haze was just settling in. The night, so reluctant to end, was slipping into a misty, damp morning.

Panam, wobbling a little, headed toward her vehicle—a masterpiece of nomad engineering, reworked from a standard Thornton to fit nomad needs. A marvel, like a regular Mackinaw only in its shell. A vehicle designed to tear through endless wastelands.

Not far off stood Nash, already waiting beside his own rugged nomad ride, a little more stripped-down.

Lucy and I lagged a few steps behind.

"Funny bunch, huh?" I whispered.

"You enjoy playing with them?"

"Maybe I'll get one of them talking. Or drunk enough to do a little pickpocketing."

"And you did that often in the spy biz?"

"Unfortunately, no. Otherwise, I'd have stayed there longer."

"I have an idea about Nash. We should swing by the Kabuki market."

"I've got an idea about Nash too," I smirked. "Alright, let's catch up before our new friends disappear without us."

Lucy got into Panam's car, and I crashed into the front passenger seat next to Nash. The back seats were piled with bags, gas cans, and random car junk. The car was a total mess. Even for me, not a nomad at heart, it was clear Nash saw this ride as a throwaway—just another expendable piece. Said a lot about his view on life. And on death too…

Both cars roared to life, sending late-night drunks and early risers scattering with the engines' rumble.

"We're stopping by somewhere on the way," Panam's voice crackled over the comms. "Lucy wants to pick something up."

Kabuki. She's probably after a shard or some netrunning tool. Sure, I could just consume Nash, even though he is a risky target. But better to work up an appetite first. I overdid it a bit with Fujioka; don't want to find out what happens if I overfeed on something bigger.

I made a show of sipping from a half-empty bourbon bottle, but Nash was genuinely downing it like it was nothing. Then, without taking his hands off the wheel or slowing down, he reached back for some janky inhaler. I had no clue what kind of garbage he was into. He took a few puffs, shook his head, then held it out to me. I barely breathed it in—smelled like straight-up acetone.

We pulled up to the Kabuki market. I watched Lucy step out of Panam's car, disappearing among the stalls selling all kinds of tech junk.

"You banging her?" Nash asked out of nowhere.

"Yep," I replied honestly.

No point lying today.

No further commentary. Nash took another hit from his inhaler. His eyes were wide open, unblinking. Then he suddenly slammed his head against the steering wheel, making the horn blare for a second. Seemed like he was fine, though. Maybe even more awake.

"Need more booze," he declared.

"Gimme a minute," I said, stepping out and heading to the nearest store.

Inside, a groggy Chinese guy in a stained white shirt greeted me.

"Something strong to drink," I ordered. "And any pills? For the nerves. Life's rough these days."

"Got it," he nodded, looking to the side.

Then a young dude in Tiger Claws colors approached us, asking, "Need Glitter?"

"Nah. Need something to chill me out."

The Tiger handed me a red plastic dispenser with some powder. From the guy behind the counter, I got a bottle of some cloudy moonshine. Making sure Nash wasn't watching, I poured the powder into the booze. Perfect. Even a thick-headed brute like Nash won't resist this cocktail. As long as he doesn't fall asleep at the wheel, we'll be fine. I'll just distract Panam, and Lucy will take care of the rest. Soon enough, Kusinada was back, and Panam's Thorton honked for us. I swirled the bottle once more, took a fake sip, and handed it to Nash.

He took a swig, muttered, "Tastes like shit," and… then had three more gulps.

"We're heading to 7th Hell," Lucy informed me.

Yeah. Perfect spot. Dim lights, flashing strobes, dancing. Nash probably wouldn't notice a hammer to the head right now. Lucy can get a chip in him no problem.

"Fucking Hungarian bastard, fucking dogs!" Nash muttered suddenly, taking another swig.

Not much point talking to him now. He barely registered me anymore. His mind was swimming in an alcoholic-chemical haze. Amazing he was still driving without hitting everything in sight. Guess that skill's hardwired deep or something.

Finally, we arrived. Alive and well. The nomads parked their battle-worn rides near the club. At the entrance, a bouncer from Animals was waiting. Big as Nash, and hard to tell the gender. Maybe once a woman, but it's best not to wonder what those black pants conceal after all the hormones and enhancers.

"Five hundred per head," the bouncer demanded in a raspy falsetto, scratching their squared jaw with a giant fist.

"Hell no," Panam spat, her arm around Lucy's neck—or maybe leaning on her.

"It's fine. I got it."

I transferred two thousand, and the bouncer moved their "hooves" to let us pass into the 7th Hell's red-and-black chaos. Good sleazy club. Best of the ones I know. Flashy, loud, and filthy, like a street hooker.

Lucy and Panam made a beeline for the bar. Nash was wandering aimlessly through the room, still chugging from the bottle. How the hell is he still conscious? I followed the girls, keeping an eye on Nash.

The music blasted, and the dance floor was crowded with the die-hard partiers. It was morning already, after all. In the background, a few more Animals bouncers stood watch. Guess the club was paying the gang for security.

Lucy, getting a drink for Panam, walked over and whispered to me, "Keep her busy. Five minutes."

Got it. Time to keep Palmer distracted while Lucy downloaded the info from Nash. She whispered something to Panam, winked, and slipped out of her embrace.

"Been a while since I got this… wasted," Panam smirked, jabbing me in the shoulder. "But you're, like, sober as glass."

"High tolerance," I nodded. "Soviets like me are tough to out-drink."

"Come on! If Bob or Cassidy Ryder were here… damn!"

Panam swore, stumbled, spilling her drink a bit on the floor and her jacket. I caught her by the arm, just in case.

"I left all that behind! I'm done! So why the hell can't I stop thinking about it…"

"Some things you can't shake off that easy."

Some of that past might even come back to kill you. With a couple nomads' hands, for example.

Lucy had circled around close to Nash. She seemed to be dancing, but then casually slipped close enough to slot the shard into his port. I'd say give it a minute and every bit of info from his calls will be on that chip.

"And you're not bad, for city folk," Panam said, her breath warm on my neck.

Damn. I'd let go, but I don't trust her not to fall. And she kept going:

"So, you worked with Rogue? What's your take on her?"

I didn't answer right away. Glancing over, I saw Lucy passing near Nash again. She made a seemingly casual hand gesture, but a magnetic catch embedded in her palm activated. The chip slid out of his port. Mission accomplished. Time to wrap this up.

"Hell of a party," I nodded. "But I think it's time to head home. I'll call you a cab. Not that I doubt your driving skills…"

"I'm good!" Panam objected, as I handed her over to Lucy.

I glanced over at Nash, realizing that things were about to get not good. A couple of Claws had zeroed in on him. One looked barely fifteen, already rocking gang colors. As Becca used to say: they swagger around like they're Saburo Arasaka's personal chamber pot carriers.

"You from the BDSM club, man?" asked the pink-haired runt in Japanese, standing in front of a glazed-eyed Nash. "All in black, huh? Definitely a freak. So, top or bottom? What's your rate?"

The Animals weren't intervening. Either they didn't want to mess with another gang or they were waiting for a fight to break out. They loved a good brawl.

Nash didn't respond. He kept moving sluggishly in a general direction, staring blankly around the club. Then one of the Claws, or "clawlings," tripped him. The big guy didn't fall, but he was clearly shaken. His eyes suddenly flashed with anger. He didn't know exactly what was going on, but he knew they were messing with him.

That's when Panam suddenly jumped in. With surprising speed for her state, she rushed over to Nash, grabbed one of the straps on his jacket, and started dragging him toward the exit.

"Alright, alright," she said firmly. "We're outta here, Nash. Time to go catch our train."

"Oh, here comes the mistress!" the clawlings laughed as they watched. "Taking her little pet for a walk? How's he do? Does he sit under your golden shower?"

Other nasty comments followed, but Nash probably didn't understand any of it. He followed Panam with the obedience of a golem—until suddenly...

He stopped.

"Bark for us, doggie!" one of them called after him.

"Nash, let's delta…"

Wham!

Pana barely got the words out before he burst forward in a blur. Sandevistan. Within seconds, one of the clawlings was sprawled with a smashed-in head, the other thrown five meters back.

And just like that, Nash was gone. He'd knocked them out cold and zipped away on his Sandevistan. We had to get out too. But the Animals weren't about to let us go.

"They're with him! Get them!" boomed a hormone-altered bass voice.

Shit! It was about to go down…