Chapter 51

Return to Dogtown was smooth. No chases, no gunfights. At the gates, Panam and I were met by a Barghest escort—three SUVs in their signature colors. They drove us straight to the Black Sapphire hotel.

The skyscraper really did look like a gem—albeit a stolen one.

Inside, the corporate luxury vibe was still intact. One of the few spots in Dogtown untouched by scavengers or the apocalypse. Everything sparkled.

"We'll wait for the colonel, then get started," Jago said as I lounged on a long leather couch, alone.

I hadn't felt this good in ages. The noose strangling me had been cut. I still had time for the rest. I could walk the streets of Night City again without feeling like a hunted animal.

The hall doors slid open, and Hansen walked in, flanked by his guards. This time, they hung back, relaxed. Across the room, one of his top enforcers, Chester Bennett, was idly leaning against a wall—his chrome face a blend of gorilla and bulldog. He didn't even glance my way.

Hansen strode over, firmly shook my hand, nodded at Jago, and sat down beside me on the couch. I could feel the furniture strain under the weight of his combat implants.

"Congratulations, Mr. Price. The death of an enemy is always worth a celebration."

With Abernathy? Hell, it's a full-on carnival.

"However, the situation remains unclear," the colonel continued. "Everyone thinks the hit was carried out by terrorists. They even assured me of it themselves. We spoke with them just yesterday. So, how was it really? Did The Harvest help, or did they hire you too?"

I expected a question like this. Assassinations of people like Abernathy are delicate work. If you don't hand over a target's head in a bag, you've got to prove you were the one who did it.

"The Harvest had nothing to do with it," I replied. "During the first attempt, we sent out a statement under their name to provoke an evacuation of the target. The Harvest were more than happy to take credit. Terrorist groups are a lot like newspapers and TV networks—they'll do anything to grab attention. Gotta impress the audience, sponsors, rivals. It's all about the spectacle."

"Everyone's heard about the first attempt," the colonel nodded. "Gunfire and explosions downtown echo loudly. But the bitch died differently, didn't she?"

"That's right. It was a neurovirus," I went with one of the press's circulating theories, the one I found closest to the truth. "A rare, custom-tailored configuration designed to target her implants and neural activity patterns. I can describe exactly what went down in the penthouse and the forensic traces they'll find on the bodies if you need proof."

"Go ahead. We're listening," Hansen said.

"It all happened fast. Claudette entered the penthouse, and within five minutes, the virus had activated in both of them. The program, engineered for Abernathy, induced a massive neural shock—like synapse-burning scripts, but far worse. Irreversible brain damage, a spike in blood pressure, a burst of aggression. They fought. Likely used whatever they could get their hands on—scissors, kitchen knives, office blades. The virus didn't hit Claudette as destructively; it didn't kill her outright but drove her insane. An autopsy won't reveal deep brain changes. Well, except for the effects of falling from the 75th floor, of course," I chuckled. "Abernathy, however, had good ice. It's possible she regained clarity a few times, tried to escape the penthouse, maybe even called Trauma Team. That's how she ended up on the platform. But the virus eventually took over again, and Susan stepped off the edge—or her friend helped her along. Gravity did the rest."

"Not a pleasant way to go," Jago commented. "Was that your way of getting revenge?"

"No. A sniper's bullet would've sufficed, but the target had a convincing double. Not just plastic surgery, but even digital footprints replaced. Moving to the second attempt—when Abernathy was on the roof, she stepped outside the corporate ice's protection. That's when I managed to extract some encrypted data from her. It's still being processed, but…" I looked at Hansen, then Jago. "As a goodwill gesture, I can name several lower-level Arasaka agents embedded in your organization. Not Bennett or anyone from his circle, though. I think this will perfectly demonstrate that Susan was my prize."

"Not as dramatic as a head over the fireplace but far more useful," Hansen replied. "A few minor agents for free, but the rest comes with a price?"

"If they're worth it to you. I'm open to further collaboration. The counterintelligence division is headless now. Perfect time to get acquainted, make contacts, cozy up to the new leadership."

No point wasting the dirt Susan collected on her own people. Some of it had already migrated from her mind to mine.

"We'll await your proposals," the accountant replied, glancing at Hansen.

The colonel made a subtle gesture, and moments later, one of Jago's bodyguards stepped up, placing a case before me. Gilded corners, a dog's head engraving in the center. Click. The case opened to reveal a mesmerizing sight—rows of credit chips nestled in red velvet. At the center was a plastic card adorned with a black sapphire against Bargest's green logo.

"Of course, you're already on the security list, so you don't need to carry the card," Jago explained. "It's more of a ceremonial symbol. Like business cards in Japan."

Well, well… I'd made it to the very top of the social gutter. The Black Sapphire—a club where the best of the worst and the worst of the best mingle.

"As for Arasaka," Hansen continued as I turned the sleek pass over in my hands, "we'll need to reexamine and adjust our relationship. I make my living off wars, but a profitable war needs to be far from home."

"I understand," I nodded. "In the near future, I'll visit some former colleagues, see what's happening inside the corp."

I left Dogtown with a case full of cash and a head full of plans. There was a thrilling sense of being carried by fate out of treacherous, murky waters to the shores of fortune. It was time to share the joy with my crew—joy and, of course, money.

Six hours later, the four of us were gathered in my apartment around the prize case. Alongside it, we had extra credit shards and some cash for splitting. The goal: divide everything evenly.

I immediately took a hundred grand as compensation for operation expenses. From the remainder, I claimed fifteen percent as the one who organized the job. The rest was split four ways.

I walked away with a total of 426,000. The others got 191,000 each.

"Holy shit…" Becca breathed. "Do you know how much booze and firepower that could buy? We could take over Northside!"

"Why not start with something simpler?" Lucy teased, clearly hinting.

"All of it! Right now!" Becca started counting her cash. "Let me just grab a calculator."

From Abernathy's caches, I had another 120,000. My total savings were approaching 1,177,000. It was breathtaking. I wasn't at the level of corporate bigwigs or celebrities yet, but I'd financially outstripped a good chunk of the city.

Still, everything had its price.

I could feel the weight of my personal closet full of skeletons, their bony fingers scraping at the doors, eager to burst out and dance a deadly jig. I needed to deal with this. At least when it came to Lucy. We'd started drifting apart. A veil of secrets stood between us—thin and insubstantial but stronger than corporate ice.

I had two major vulnerabilities for Jory to exploit: Lucy and The Netwatch.

With the first, I could try taking preventive measures. But the Watchers… those weren't people you could patch things up with in advance. And once again, I stood at a crossroads.

There are two ways to secure yourself: either go completely underground or build enough connections and influence to become a tough target. I'm going with the second option for now—especially if I plan to dig deeper into the dynamic between Arasaka and Barghest.

As for Jory, I'm ready to help him cross over into the New Net and even take a body, if it's possible. Because if it is, that's my shot to be rid of him for good. Behind the Blackwall, he's untouchable. He can keep blackmailing me, waiting for a crack to send messages through. So, I'll pull him into the real world—when I figure out how—and then wipe him out like anyone else.

But first, I decided to play the spy game. The very next evening, I made a serious move in that direction by visiting an old colleague.

A corporate apartment for mid-level staff. It's been a while since I've been in one of these places. The place was small and cheap at its core, but they tried to make it look upscale with appliances, a decent paint job, and an air purifier.

I sat in a synthetic chair, its vinyl-like material creaking under me. Above me, a smiling girl stared down from a poster surrounded by text: "Live Your Best Life." Yeah, right. If I had to look at that shit every day, it'd be demotivating as hell. Come home after a twelve-hour shift, and there's this perky slogan. Makes you ask yourself: Is this really my best life?

I heard the front door open and close, some shuffling from the entryway, and then the lights came on overhead.

"Maybe swap out the poster, Frank?" I said as my ex-colleague walked into the room. "Something more honest, like, 'You're doing it for the eddies' or 'Hang in there, champ.'"

Frank Nostra flinched, his right hand moving toward his back.

"Don't be stupid," I said casually. "First, I've got backup. Second, I can fry your brain or cut your throat faster than you can pierce my armor. Let's just talk."

"Like civilized people?"

"Exactly." I nodded, slowly pulling a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my black jacket.

"Back to suits, huh?" Frank said, cautiously stepping to the side. "But now with a touch of the street."

I was wearing a loose black blazer, open to reveal a pricey armored vest underneath—styled after what Jack Mauser used to wear.

"The suit's reinforced, too," I said. "Not your average fabric. Won't rip from a knife or small shrapnel. Expensive, sure, but it lets me balance safety and style."

"Looks like you found new work?"

"In a way. You don't have to be a corpo to be a professional."

"Convenient stance," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "But it begs the question of standards. Is a homeless guy selling smokes on the corner a proud entrepreneur too?"

"The standards are simple, Frank. Even a kid could get it: eddies, power, and strength. The three pillars holding up Night City. Doesn't matter if you're a corpo or a street rat—what matters is where you stand in relation to those axes."

"Still got the gift of gab, I see. If you're here to ask about your status after Abernathy's death, then…"

"I know that already. The bounty's off, and I'm not in the NCPD database."

"Then why the visit, V?"

"How'd you feel about Susan's death? Relief?"

"God, no. It's a tragedy—for the department and the corporation."

I lit a cigarette, exhaling as I said, "You've got Stockholm Syndrome, my friend. Advanced stage. Your brain's been hardwired not to see the obvious. Otherwise, you'd already be celebrating little Susan's untimely demise."

"Don't talk about her like that," Frank muttered, leaning on the counter.

"Would you rather I call her a bitch or a dead piece of shit? Frank, her death pulled you out of a vortex heading straight for rock bottom. Remember Cape Town? There was a hundred-thousand-eddy difference between allocated funds and actual expenses, wasn't there?"

"V, that op was a success. We—"

I cut him off with a gesture from my fleshy hand.

"She told you it was fine, right? That the budget would be adjusted later? But she never did, and you know why? Classic setup, Frank. When the time came to get rid of you, that little discrepancy would've been all it took. A hundred grand's not enough for jail time, but it's plenty to get you fired."

"We didn't steal anything. I can prove it. The money went to weapons and medical supplies for the rebels. In our line of work, you take risks sometimes."

"Agreed. But Suse kept shifting all the risk onto you. At first, you took it as a sign of trust, but the 'trust' just kept piling up, didn't it? Your job turned into walking a tightrope that kept getting narrower. In that shady deal with Metacorp, you were already using your own accounts to move cash. That didn't set off any alarms for you?"

"Well… we pulled it off," Frank muttered, clearly nervous. "Even got a bonus."

"And what if you hadn't?" I said with a poisonous grin, flicking ash from my cigarette onto the floor. "Let me remind you: Dawson, Mikami, Velasquez—all people Susan 'trusted.' Where are they now?"

"But…"

"At best, they'd have thrown you out on the street. At worst? You'd be lucky to walk away with just a metal arm like mine."

"Shit…"

"Exactly. And here you are, standing in front of me, all loyal and upright. Scratch the surface, though, and you've got skeletons screaming for air. Not one charge, but multiple. The kicker? You didn't pocket a single eddy. Everything was by her orders. You just signed the damn papers."

"So, what? You here to blackmail me?"

"Consider it therapy for now. The goal: cure your Stockholm Syndrome. Repeat after me at bedtime: 'Abernathy wasn't my friend. Abernathy just used me.'"

"I still don't get why you're here… but I think I'm starting to guess."

"Go on."

"No, V. I won't be your mole. Especially not for terrorists."

"Oh… wait. That's what you think?" I laughed, standing up from the chair.

Frank tensed but didn't reach for a weapon yet.

"You deny it, but the pieces fit. The Harvest took out Susan, and it's a damn convenient move for you."

"If it makes you feel better, I'm not working for Crimson Harvest. My ties are... elsewhere."

With a swift motion, I pulled out a "Black Sapphire" passcard and twirled it in front of Frank's face.

"Ah… So this is the kind of 'business' you're in now," Frank nodded, seemingly more at ease.

"Rat, traitor," I sneered. "Let's skip the spy thriller clichés. Barghest and Arasaka aren't enemies. Can you really see Hansen declaring war on one of the world's biggest powers? No. He's just trying to play it smart, test the waters for a partnership. Problem is, Susan's management style left an especially thick cloud of distrust. That's what's holding back some very profitable alliances. But you and I? We can fix that."

"You mean I feed you info, and you sell it?" Frank smirked.

"Something like that. And in return, you'll get your cut. Not just eddies—intel, leads. You'll climb the ladder fast. Used to risk your neck for Abernathy's pocket change; now… less risk, more rewards."

"So, bribe or blackmail?"

"Yeah, pretty much. How'd you think Militech or any other corp recruits? They've got both the carrot and the stick ready at all times," I chuckled, remembering my first chat with Soyka.

"Alright, fair enough," Frank admitted. "But let's keep things quiet. No high-profile hits on top execs or anything like that, yeah?"

"Of course. That kind of shit's not my style anyway. We're all about smooth, profitable business here."

"Good, 'cause I'm looking to take a few more steps up the corporate ladder."

"Ambition's great, Frank. But climbing too high has its risks. Sure, the air's fresher at the top, and the view's killer, but… lightning strikes up there. Not everyone can take the hit. Just ask Susan."

"Yeah…" Frank sighed. "She always seemed invincible to me. The perfect example of what a corporate manager should be. You really think it was terrorists?"

"Of course not!" I grinned. "They just picked up a trophy nobody cared to protect."

"Then who?"

I leaned in, lowering my voice. "FIA, most likely. Their style."

Frank nodded, buying into the theory—it wasn't far from the truth, anyway.

For the next half hour, we talked about how the attack had shaken up counterintel. Turned out, it was better than I'd hoped. Abernathy's death wasn't just pinned on Crimson Harvest and forgotten. People were digging into her legacy, not just for gossip but officially. Suddenly, all sorts of shady deals, budget overruns, and blatant breaches of chain-of-command were coming to light. Apparently, she'd been stepping on too many toes in other departments.

The same folks who couldn't speak out against her while she was alive were now practically dancing on her grave. Disgusting? Maybe. But it played perfectly into my hands.

While the infighting and power grabs raged on, I had the perfect window to recruit agents. Soon, I'd have access to Arasaka's counterintel treasure troves again—without even punching a clock. I'd sell the intel, not just to Hansen. Buyers weren't hard to find if you knew where to look. The trick was selling it clean, so neither I nor my agents ended up screwed. Frank was right—big assassinations weren't on the menu.

This was how you shift from street jobs and heists to full-on fixer work. Sure, I'd still have to draw a gun or blade now and then—not a problem for me—but leaving money on the table with alternative streams of income? That'd be just plain dumb.

So, my immediate business plans? Recruit agents, stockpile weapons, train, and upgrade my chrome.