"Dexter DeShawn." Dexter had just returned to his hidden residence in Wellsprings when a voice echoed from the shadows. At the same time, th
"Dexter DeShawn."
Dexter had just returned to his hidden residence in Wellsprings when a voice echoed from the shadows. At the same time, the motion sensor lights flicked on, revealing the wide living room—and the five armed figures standing in it.
The sight of the fully geared team made Dexter freeze on the spot.
He had bodyguards, sure—but as a cautious fixer, Dexter only had them follow him around in public. Every time he came back to this hideout, he dismissed them. He didn't even let them know where the place was.
In other words, right now, Dexter DeShawn had no protection.
Even if he tried to call his bodyguard, it would be too late. He'd hired someone dim-witted on purpose—didn't even know this place existed. Even if he sent the guy an address, it'd take at least ten minutes. And ten minutes from now…
If these five wanted him dead, he'd be long gone.
Not that his bodyguard would make a difference. Dexter had been around long enough to size up professionals. These five weren't amateurs. All their weapons were high-grade. One of them carried a Constitution Arms Liberty—an outdated Militech sidearm—but the others had serious heat. Dexter even spotted a Yinglong.
That wasn't something just anyone could get their hands on.
"Who are you people?"
His voice was steady—no trace of panic. Panic got people killed. They hadn't killed him yet, which meant they wanted something. And if they wanted something, there was room to negotiate.
"There's no rush to learn our names, Mr. DeShawn. Please, have a seat."
A man with an utterly unremarkable face gestured to the couch and smiled. "We're just here to offer you a little help."
"Help?"
Dexter didn't scoff or act incredulous. He followed the man's lead and sat down. Right now, survival was the only thing that mattered. He'd done a lot to stay alive. Betrayed people. Sold out partners. If talking kept him breathing, he'd talk.
"Before we get into it, I should introduce myself. Seems only polite."
The man sat across from him, still smiling. "I know your name and background, Mr. DeShawn. No need for intros on your end. You can call me Allen."
"Allen?"
The name meant nothing to Dexter. He ran it through his head, trying to recall any big name in the biz—nothing.
Another group hiding behind aliases, trying to use me as a pawn?
He instantly suspected the name was fake and figured out their angle. But his face gave away nothing.
That initial panic was fading, replaced with calculation. Could he turn these people to his advantage?
He might be big, fat, and dark-skinned, but he'd earned a reputation as one of the sharpest fixers in Night City. Now that his life wasn't in immediate danger, his instinct to chase opportunity kicked back in.
"I don't believe I've heard that name before," Dexter said. "But I'm glad to meet someone who clearly knows what they're doing."
It was flattery—and Allen didn't even blink. "Since you're open to meeting, then let's talk business."
Allen's tone was calm, even pleasant. But the words that followed stabbed right through Dexter's chest:
"We want in on your current operation, Mr. DeShawn. Think of us as an extra set of hands."
Current operation…?
Dexter's heart thudded hard in his chest. He'd suspected they knew, but hearing it aloud still made him want to bolt upright.
How the hell do they know that? Who are these people?
He almost blurted it out—but caught himself just in time.
Swallowing his panic, he met Allen's eyes. "If you know what I'm involved in, then you must also know how dangerous the other side is."
He paused. "You're basically asking me to get myself killed. And if I'm going to die anyway, maybe I don't need to agree to anything."
"No, Mr. DeShawn," Allen said, still smiling. "You won't die. At least not yet."
"So the difference is between dying sooner and dying later?"
Dexter's eyes narrowed slightly. The blunt honesty didn't bother him—it actually got his wheels turning.
He hadn't joined Militech's op by choice. They'd backed him into a corner. His plan had been simple: get the job done, flee the city, and forget about rebuilding his rep.
But now…
Now a second faction had appeared. And clearly, they knew a lot about what Militech was doing.
Could he muddy the waters?
Still waters run deep—but in a muddy pond, blackfish can slip through.
Maybe, just maybe, this was his shot.
"Let's talk."
Just as Allen had expected, Dexter DeShawn—ever the calculating fixer—wasn't about to die a loyal Militech pawn.
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🔥🦾 CYBERPUNK: THE RELENTLESS 🦾🔥
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