The attack came faster than expected.
Faster even than Carl or any of them anticipated.
They had all braced for it to come right at the end—when they'd be the most relaxed, most off guard, pulling up to the finish line thinking they'd made it. They figured the ambush would come ten minutes from now. But the second they turned a corner and began their final approach toward Konpeki Plaza, the rear of their convoy exploded.
The blast cracked through the air like a thunderclap, and Carl—reacting faster than muscle memory—rolled out of the vehicle and into a low crouch. He scanned the scene, expecting gunfire, smart targeting pings, anything, but nothing came. It took him a heartbeat longer to realize that the explosion wasn't aimed at them.
It came from the back of the convoy.
"Rear vehicles got hit," Carl growled. "Guess the bastards finally locked onto their real target."
Oliver hopped out, cradling the recovered Shingen submachine gun tight to his chest, scanning the skyline. "Yeah. They've made their pick. I'm thinking that last group pulling out wasn't because they were low on numbers… it was recon. Testing who was who."
He glanced at Carl, eyes sharp. "They probably figured someone important might be hiding among the mercs. Makes sense—they engaged us first to sniff out the VIP. Once they figured we didn't have the goods, they pulled back."
Across the Alvarado, the remaining mercs were already disembarking, chambering rounds, checking mags, locking in optics.
Jackie turned to Carl. "Now what?"
Carl stood up, voice even. "We're going back."
He didn't need to say more. They all knew why. Arasaka had left them to rot earlier, sure. But this time? The VIP—the client—was with them. If the payload flatlined, they all walked away with nothing.
"You got a plan, KK?" Maine asked, serious.
Carl unholstered his Kenshin, and with absolute clarity said, "Yeah. We kill them all."
He wasn't a trained bodyguard. No special ops tactics. But he knew one truth: dead enemies don't kill clients.
There were ten mercs left in the squad, including Carl, Jackie, Oliver, and Maine. The other six? They'd clearly discussed something during the ride. As soon as the gunfire sounded, one of them nodded to Carl… and then bolted, sprinting in the opposite direction of the attack.
Cowardice? Abandoning the mission?
Carl narrowed his eyes.
Before he could question it, another of the six—a grizzled man in his forties with a map of scar tissue across his face—stepped forward.
"You're Carl, right? Heard your buddy call you that," he said.
Carl eyed him. "Who's asking?"
"Name's Brown. Listen up. We saw what you did earlier. You're the best we've got. When we move in, the VIP's protection falls to you."
Carl blinked. "Protection? Aren't we all protecting the target?"
Brown shook his head, voice calm. "We know the kind of heat that's coming. If we can't hold the line… we want you to grab the VIP and run. Consider it payback for saving my squad earlier."
Carl stared at the man. The four behind him showed no hesitation. Calm. Resigned. Like they'd already accepted how this was going to end.
He glanced toward the runner—the sixth merc sprinting into the distance.
Brown caught the look. "Kid's the youngest of us. If this mission goes sideways, he's the one who'll collect payment from the fixer. That money? It'll go to our families."
Then Brown brushed past him with his team, moving toward the sound of gunfire.
"Don't worry. We already gave him instructions. If none of us make it back and there's no eddies to bury us proper, he'll collect the bones and lay us down somewhere. Hope you don't mind sharing a grave with some old bastards."
Carl exhaled. "I don't mind."
Brown smiled faintly. "Good. Then we'll go ahead and clear a path. You just make sure you don't die before us, yeah?"
And with that, they rounded the corner. A second later, gunfire flared—sharp, chaotic, loud. The grin vanished into the smoke.
Maine clapped Carl's shoulder, a rare solemnity in his tone. "Guy's a legend. I'm takin' point."
That was what he'd said when he joined the crew: he'd be the one up front.
Carl let out a slow breath.
There was something heavy behind his eyes now. Something new. Something sober.
People talk about weight on your shoulders—but nothing weighs more than someone's dying request.
And Carl knew he couldn't take that lightly.
He, Jackie, and Oliver rounded the corner—and the battlefield came into full view.
Of the original thirty-seven Arasaka security officers, fewer than twenty were still upright. They'd backed themselves into a three-story convenience store, the Lake Guinevere crashed halfway through the front entrance like a crushed sculpture. The vehicle's doors were wide open. The VIP? Nowhere to be seen.
Charging the front were two distinct squads.
First: the attackers—armed to the teeth with Shingen smartguns, same as before.
Second: the Maelstrom freaks—hollering like lunatics, swinging modded iron, lit up with chromed-out madness.
"Pinche cabrones de Maelstrom," Jackie muttered, charging beside Maine with his Saratoga. "Let's fucking go."
The battlefield was a mess.
The client's defenders—what was left of them—had abandoned their cars and holed up in the store, turning shelves and counters into barricades. The smartglass had shattered, and neon signs flickered over spent casings and torn bodies. Somewhere in the middle of it all was the VIP, and Carl had no clue where.
The attackers and the Maelstrom psychos had joined forces, pushing hard at the storefront.
The mercs—Carl's crew—had just arrived on the flank.
Oliver grabbed Carl's arm, steady. "I'll back up Maine and Jackie. You circle around. Hit the rear entrance. If it's clear—get the target out."
He locked eyes with him. "Target's yours."
"You gonna throw your life away too?" Carl asked, frowning.
Oliver smirked. "Guess you could say I caught whatever's going around."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the smoke with the others.
Carl knew what he had to do now.
What Brown and Oliver had asked him to do.
Get the client. Get them out.
If the target escaped, the attackers would lose focus. The mercs might live. It was slim odds… but better than zero.
Carl had killed plenty since 2075.
But saving someone?
This would be the first.
He gritted his teeth, Kenshin steady in his hand.
"Yeah," he muttered. "This one's worth doing."