"Roland's Butcher Shop."
Jackie looked at the name painted on the storefront, committed it to memory, then slid aside the iron door and stepped inside.
The moment he entered, a pungent stench—a mix of plastic and raw blood—hit his nostrils. Still, Jackie's expression didn't flinch.
Synthetic meat joints always smelled like this. For a meat lover like Jackie, it was preferable to the rancid stink in some other places.
He glanced around, his eyes sweeping across the shelves lined with synthetic meat.
Each cut was neatly vacuum-sealed in clear plastic, radiating a glossy red hue. Behind the counter stood a Black man in a greasy white conical hat and a shiny, sweat-stained tank top.
'That Placide?'
The man looked back at him, prompting Jackie to step forward. "I'm looking for Placide."
"Placide, huh."
The man's expression remained flat as he pointed at a security camera mounted nearby. "Look there."
Jackie followed his gesture. The camera rotated and began to scan him.
ID verification?
Jackie thought, mildly surprised by how cautious the Voodoo Boys were.
The guys at the church must've already informed this butcher shop. And still, even over such a short distance, they ran a second check?
'Getting to the bottom of their secrets won't be easy,' he muttered over the team comms. "These Haitians are paranoid."
"The more paranoid, the more valuable the secret," Karl replied. "They've probably been hit hard already."
"Maybe even one well-equipped 6th Street squad could wipe them out," he added.
"That's a stretch," Oliver said. "6th Street's full of wannabes—like I used to be. You'd need a proper team: military gear, high-end tech, the works."
"I always thought you pulled your weight just fine back then," Karl added.
"There's always a few who know what they're doing."
As the scanner moved from one team member to the next, they chatted briefly. Once the blue light sweep finished, the man behind the counter gave a curt nod.
"All good. Go on through. Placide's waiting in the back."
So he wasn't Placide.
Two location changes and a verification just to meet the guy. The Voodoo Boys didn't mess around.
Jackie took the lead again, moving to the right side of the shop. He pushed open a door and entered a dimly lit corridor—when something hit him.
A familiar scent.
Blood.
Not the plasticky synthetic kind. This was fresh, iron-heavy blood thick in the air.
He moved deeper into the back room—and that's when he saw it.
A burly Black man was butchering a chicken at a stainless steel table. The source of the blood was obvious.
"Placide?"
Jackie called out. The man turned to face him, still holding a knife.
He looked Jackie up and down before speaking. "Maine?"
"That's me."
The man nodded. "Then you're in the right place."
He added, "I'm Placide."
"So you're the next contact, huh?" Jackie asked. "The guy at the church sent us. Not gonna lie—this is a hassle. Back and forth, circles on circles. When are we actually getting the job? Give me something solid. At this rate, the sun'll set before we start."
Placide didn't respond to the sarcasm. He quietly scanned each of Jackie's teammates, as if memorizing their faces. Then he turned back to Jackie.
"Follow me."
He left the half-butchered chicken on the table and picked up a comm device.
"Someone come handle the meat in the back. Get it prepped and in the freezer. We'll need it in a few days."
He wiped his hands on a cloth and walked toward a rolling shutter door.
'Cold type. Doesn't want to chit-chat, huh?' Oliver muttered. "What's his deal?"
"Probably figures there's no point making friends with people who'll be dead soon," V said as Placide opened the shutter and stepped out. "What now?"
"We follow," Jackie answered.
They followed Placide through Pacifica's winding alleys until they entered a dense residential zone.
'More people with guns now,' Karl observed. "And yeah—way more Black folks here. This the core of the Haitian enclave?"
"Could just be a community militia, like 6th Street," Oliver replied. "But I've noticed the tattoos—arms, shoulders. Weird designs. Know what they mean?"
"Voodoo symbols," Karl said. "Don't know the specifics. But one thing's for sure—this is deep inside Voodoo Boys turf. Get ready for whatever's coming."
Karl silently memorized each armed face.
If things went sideways, these were targets they'd have to eliminate.
The group followed Placide up several levels, eventually arriving at a balcony.
The Haitian enclave was centered around the Batty Hotel. They were now on the third floor.
Placide stopped by a floor-to-ceiling window. From here, half of Pacifica sprawled below them. In the distance, the outline of Dogtown was visible.
"Ever been to Dogtown?"
Placide asked, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
As a top-tier netrunner of the Voodoo Boys, he had almost certainly dug into Maelstrom's operations before this meeting—and yet he still asked the question.
So this job's tied to Dogtown, huh?
Jackie looked in the same direction and replied, "Spent some time there. Why?"
"We need you to go back," Placide said, turning toward him.
"There's someone you need to eliminate."
"His name is Slider."
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