Chapter Thirty

The Slav decides to tail after the unknown transport at a safe distance, following his partner's advice after being unable to identify the owner nor pierce the shroud of sand with his eccentric waves and pantomiming to convince the other driver to pull over.

Yet, something odd about the box truck that you are quick to hone in on; even with your clouded sight, it's clear that the vehicle is shuddering and jostling far too much; the shaking is only worsening as the unidentified truck speeds up in response to the flashing of your lights.

The harsh eastward winds have the terrifying effect of pushing the truck onto only its leftmost wheels.

"He's going to fuck himself up if he keeps doing this."

The now-useless second member of your team comments and seems almost excited from his tone of voice.

"Whatever he's got in it is valuable enough to risk totalling the whole truck; keep after him, Ivan!"

"Call me Ivan again, and I will kick you out of this car without stopping."

You don't bother voicing your own opinion; it was a near-certainty that both partners would agree to continue this pursuit; catching any unauthorised vehicles trespassing your patrol sector would be a net benefit for your Employee Evaluation.

You wouldn't mind the complementary bonus that comes with exceeding corporate expectations; maybe enough to get Chloe some proper glasses rather than the oversized goggles she wears now.

But thoughts of responsibility and increased expenditure are paused when, in an expected twist that everyone saw coming, the truck heaves to the side in a failed sharp turn and collapses like a wounded beast with a great crash that forces into the air unsettled soil.

"Called it!"

The previously useless watchman giving a running commentary on the chase from his vantage point in the shotgun seat is the first to clamber out, raising his SMG and flicking its safety off; slowly advancing towards the crashed vehicle, barrel pointed at the only exit point the driver would have.

You've fixed the machine gun's sights on the truck's rear doors, which have been hooked together with a sturdy metal chain and lock, one strong enough that you wonder what they're keeping inside.

You see the driver of this poor vehicle clambering out from the passenger side, covered in dust and sand; his face bloody and hair dishevelled.

His clothes have become an indistinct brown blur from all the mess and the obfuscation of your goggles; you know not what gang or group affiliation the man claims, but he seems to show a degree of cooperation, hands in the air and slowly following the bellowing instructions of your partner.

Ivan now decides to leave, joining his partner up near the wreckage; his interest sparked by the mystery of what's inside the truck, something that doesn't take long to discover as with enough threats and a harsh slap, the driver fishes out a key from his jacket; passing it over to the heavyset Slav.

He doesn't hesitate, with one hand pointing a handgun at the truck's doors and the other now trying to jostle the key into the padlock; the chain slips off, and he can nudge one of the doors open.

You can hear him shout at whoever is inside, scrambling from the doors, his gun pointed at the truck; you react similarly, finger slowly resting on the trigger, waiting for any sign from your partner or the fallen automobile that shit's about to get ugly.

What peaks its head through that door and soon falls onto the desert sand, unsteady and heavily bruised, is not what you expected but should have considered when chasing the truck.

Slowly, the occupants march out, their hands in the air or nursing one of their wounds, you hear some of the sobbing, but most are quiet, tension and fear gripping them in equal measure as they huddle up as a group beside the truck.

Their clothes are worn and made for comfort, outdated fashions; they carry backpacks and smaller pieces of luggage; their faces are unusually youthful, blessed with a childhood away from the chemical-entrenched air of Night City.

None of them looks threatening enough to be gangsters, nor would the Aldecaldos try to cross the demarcation zone in such a shoddy vehicle.

That's when it clicks.

You've intercepted a Coyote.