The air inside El Coyote Cojo had turned a little thicker the moment they'd opened that contract.
Three hundred thousand eurodollars.
Even staring at it a second time, Carl half-expected a glitch. He tilted the screen, refreshed the link, blinked twice. Still there. The numbers stared back at him like an ambush: big, stupid, and dangerous.
Jackie leaned forward over the table, elbows pressing into the old wood, his breath fogging slightly in the chill air-conditioned corner booth. "So, uh… this is all we get?" he asked, half in disbelief.
Oliver snorted. "No way. That's it?" He scrolled the same screen again, half-hoping a hidden page would unfold like a magic trick. "This doesn't feel like three hundred K's worth of info."
"Just three lines and a map marker," Carl confirmed. "Maybe they figured big numbers compensate for vague crap."
The mission brief was shockingly simple. They were to report to the Arasaka Seaport in Watson, meet up with a group of mercs from other fixers, link with the target's personal security, and escort said target to the Azure Tower in Little China. Two-hour window. That was it.
No name. No image. No background. Just "escort the package."
"Feels suspicious as hell," Carl muttered, scratching his neck. He glanced at Jackie. "What's your gut saying?"
Jackie grimaced. "Feels like trouble. Smells like trouble. And my abuela always said, if it sniffs like mierda..."
"It probably is," Oliver finished.
Jackie nodded solemnly, like a monk passing down ancient wisdom. "Exacto."
Oliver leaned back, arms folded. "They already got bodyguards. Why're we being called in? I don't like being Plan B."
"Try Plan C," Jackie muttered. "We're the warm bodies in case the first line gets smoked."
"Cannon fodder with chrome attachments," Oliver added, grim.
The two of them turned toward Carl. Customary. Carl made the call on whether they took it or not.
He looked at the screen again. Those numbers still glared at him. Thirty thousand had looked generous. Three hundred? That was the kind of money corpos used to buy silence—or graves.
Still, it was a real contract. Their first high-tier one. Backed by Faraday. And Carl had been itching to take something that actually meant something. Enough eddies to upgrade his chrome, fix the Hera's transmission, and maybe even—dare he hope—eat something that didn't come out of a vacuum-sealed foil bag.
"Yeah," he said, finally. "We take it."
Jackie nodded, lips pursing in anticipation.
Oliver cocked a brow. "You serious? You sure?"
Carl nodded again. "Faraday's delivering us himself."
Jackie scoffed. "So we go get our asses blown off, and he cruises us over like a damn limo driver? What's next, free snacks in the trunk?"
Oliver leaned in. "He better be offering platinum-tier trauma support at that rate."
"Faraday?" Carl chuckled. "Nah. But at least he got us the job. That's worth something."
"Right. He gets us the 'privilege' of being bullet sponges for three hundred K." Oliver's tone was dry enough to ash a cigar.
Carl didn't flinch. "He's got connections. We don't—at least not yet. That's what fixers do: they bring the door. We kick it open."
Jackie grinned. "Long as we're the ones doing the kicking, hermano."
But Carl's tone dropped a notch. "Still—if I find out he hid something important... he's done."
No one laughed. They knew he meant it.
They steered the conversation back toward the contract itself. Oliver tapped the glowing map on the screen again. "Arasaka Seaport. That's restricted, isn't it? Like, locked-down, biometric-level restricted."
"Means our target's Arasaka," Carl guessed. "Wouldn't be going in that deep unless they were part of the machine."
Jackie shrugged. "Company dog, corpo suit—don't matter. If he pays, I protect. I'll even fake a smile."
But Oliver's brow furrowed. "That's not the weird part."
He looked between them, serious now. "Faraday's rep? He's always been Militech-adjacent. I've heard more than one Six Street merc say he runs with their people. So why is he, of all people, handing us an Arasaka escort?"
That hit like a gut punch.
Carl's thoughts churned. Militech and Arasaka were oil and fire—two corporations that damn near leveled the world in the Fourth Corporate War. Getting involved in both? It wasn't just shady. It was suicidal.
"Yeah…" Carl said slowly. "It's weird. But big corps play their own games. We don't have the full picture. We're just here to move the piece across the board."
"Just hope we don't end up under it," Oliver said, though his voice lacked conviction. "Anyway, other mercs'll be there too, right? Maybe we can make connections. Tap new fixers."
Jackie gave him a side glance. "You expanding your portfolio?"
"Why not?" Oliver shrugged. "More gigs, more eddies."
Carl chuckled. "Just don't try poaching mine."
They all stood then, the heavy hum of the bar weaving around them—low music, the occasional clatter of a dropped glass, Mama Welles shouting at someone behind the kitchen to "wash the damn cutting board this time!"
Carl walked up to the bar and nodded to her. "We'll head out. Got things to prep."
Mama Welles turned, arms crossed, brow raised like she already knew what kind of trouble they were about to stir up. " Watch yourselves. Carl, Oliver, and you too, Jackie. Keep them safe."
"I got you, Mamá," Jackie said, puffing out his chest with mock seriousness. "Long as I'm breathing, they're fine."
Mama Welles didn't flinch. She jabbed a finger toward his chest. "You said the same thing last time, and came back with half a taco stuck in your hair."
Carl blinked. "Wait—what?"
Oliver turned from the door, snorting. "Oh no, I remember that. He said it was part of his 'distraction tactic.'"
"It worked!" Jackie insisted, throwing his arms up. "The guy was so confused he didn't even shoot!"
Mama Welles sighed, already turning back toward the bar sink. "Pfft. Next time use a helmet instead of a tortilla."
"You're breaking my heart here, Ma." Jackie gave her a crooked grin as he backed toward the door. "All I wanted was some encouragement and a kiss for luck."
She leaned over the bar and tossed a clean rag at his face. "Here's your kiss. Now go before you make my customers nervous."
Jackie laughed, wiping his face dramatically. "Best mamá in Heywood."
Carl and Oliver just shook their heads, grinning as they followed him out the door.
Outside, their battered but slightly-new Hera waited in the fading evening glow, parked awkwardly between a trash skip and a neon-drenched drink stand. Jackie climbed into the back without a word. Oliver slid into the front seat, only to freeze after tapping the ignition twice with the car not starting.
"Wait a sec… this is your car, Carl. Why the hell am I driving?"
Carl, already reclined in the passenger seat with his boots propped on the dash, lazily tossed the ignition chip over. "Because I don't feel like it."
Jackie leaned in between the front seats with a grin. "Because if Carl drives, we spend more time dodging potholes than bullets."
Carl shrugged. "Hey, Night City's roads are the real hazard. I just embrace the chaos."
Oliver narrowed his eyes as he caught the chip. "You 'embraced' that newsstand on 7th hard enough it still has your bumper in it."
Carl smirked. "Collateral damage. That thing shouldn't have been there anyway."
Jackie laughed, slapping the seat. "Wasn't it on the sidewalk, though?"
"…Details."
The Hera's engine purred to life. The interior filled with warm air and the faint smell of leftover takeout. Jackie cracked a window and immediately regretted it—it let in the scent of wet concrete and something distinctly like grilled rat.
As the city passed by in waves of sodium streetlight and neon reflection, Carl leaned his head back, staring at the dirty roof of the cabin.
In his mind, threads began to connect—stray details, unanswered questions, strange timing. The seams were starting to show, and Carl had the uneasy feeling that someone, somewhere, was stitching this job together with blood.
But for now, they had a mission.
And a hell of a lot to prepare.