Chapter 63: The Old Soldier of 6th Street
In a small, cramped office, an old man wearing a cowboy hat, body armor, and a worn, bullet-dented medal on his chest narrowed his eyes. He cracked the seal on a bottle of rum and spoke, his voice a low growl. "What's the situation in Charter Hill?"
"It's a mess, Captain. The higher-ups put a stop to the war with the Tyger Claws, which should have been good for us. But now the Claws are hitting us with constant guerrilla tactics, picking us off in the shadows. We've had to pull back, gave up territory."
The Captain's name was Gunner, a veteran of the Fourth Corporate War. He might look middle-aged, but he was in his sixties, a true old-timer. After the war, he'd grown sick of the endless fighting, disillusioned with the politicians and their pointless goals.
He'd mustered out and come home to Santo Domingo.
But in the post-war "Red" period, with the NCPD having fled the city, Santo Domingo descended into chaos. Under the leadership of another veteran, Colonel Solomon Reed, 6th Street was born. A band of seasoned soldiers united to pull their home back from the brink.
As time went on, 6th Street changed, splintering into different factions. Today, Gunner ran his own outfit, protecting a few core blocks of Arroyo. The gang was split three ways: Investigations, Operations, and Management. Gunner was Management.
He listened, then calmly began tamping tobacco into his pipe. He lit it, took a deep pull, and exhaled. "Doesn't matter. Once the business in Heywood is finished, the mess in Charter Hill will sort itself out."
"I'm more concerned about the hospital," Gunner said, tapping his pipe. The eyes under his brim narrowed. "Why has our cut from the clinic's revenue dropped so much?"
The young man in the camo beret and blue track jacket snapped to attention. "About that, Captain... the clinic's profits haven't dropped. They're up. But the NCPD is taking a bigger and bigger slice. They're getting greedy, sir."
"Explain," Gunner said.
"I sent some men to look into it, undercover. It's hard to get inside; the cops have it locked down tight. But I did get one piece of intel." The young man, Reiner, stood straighter. "NCPD and Lieutenant Marcus... they're running some kind of operation inside. It's... it's..."
He hesitated, unsure if he should continue.
Gunner's eyes flickered. He set his pipe down. "Spit it out."
"The mortality rate, sir. It's up thirty-seven percent from last year. People brought in from accidents, cyberpsycho attacks, gang crossfire, domestic disputes... once they go in, almost none of them are coming out."
Gunner's hand froze on his pipe. He turned, his face an emotionless mask. "Are you prepared to stand by that statement, Reiner?"
"Yes, Captain! I am!"
Gunner stared him down. After a long, tense silence, he slammed his fist on the old wooden desk, his voice a sudden, furious roar. "So they're preying on our own people now? On the civilians of Santo Domingo?"
"Pull up every file we have on that clinic. Now!"
"Yes, Captain!" Reiner spun on his heel, left, and returned moments later with a datapad. He brought up the files he'd already compiled.
"Based on the investigation, NCPD started changing protocols back in March of last year. In June, Lieutenant Marcus made contact with them. By August, the number of 'malpractice' deaths started to skyrocket."
"Our clinic, sir, it's supposed to serve the local community—the poor, the factory workers. The facilities are basic, the staff isn't top-tier. It doesn't attract high-paying clients, so profits have always been low. But since last August, those profits have shot through the roof."
Gunner took a ragged breath, the pressure building in his head. He grabbed his pipe, took a desperate pull of the drug-laced tobacco to steady his nerves, and ground out the words: "They're working with the Scavengers?"
"I... I couldn't confirm that, sir," Reiner admitted.
"You need to confirm it?" Gunner's voice was dangerously low. "High mortality rate, soaring profits, and a sudden, heavy police presence? You really need me to draw you a picture, son?!"
SLAM!
His fist hit the desk again, this time with a sound of grief. "When did we become this?! When did we become the monsters?!"
Reiner's eyes reddened. He held his breath, his body rigid. As one of the many kids Gunner had practically raised, he knew this old soldier better than anyone. Gunner had killed many, many people, both in the wars and in the decades since. He wasn't a good man, not by a long shot. But for the people of Santo Domingo, he was a protector. The orphanages, the food banks, the street patrols—those were all his initiatives. He was the last remnant of 6th Street's original ideals, a stubborn, old-fashioned patriot.
"In the beginning," Gunner's voice was quiet, full of pain, "we had one shipment of arms from the Heywood precinct. With those guns, and with our brothers at our backs, we saved Santo Domingo. We brought it back from the brink faster than any other district. But then the corps came back... and everything changed."
"Infighting, backstabbing... all for eddies. Selling out to the corps, to the NUSA... Is it Militech's NUSA, or the NUSA's Militech? Does it even fucking matter?"
"Money. How much more money do they need?! Aren't the weapons and blood money from Militech enough?!"
"I love my country..." Gunner whispered, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. "But my country... my country doesn't fucking love me back."
Reiner squeezed his eyes shut.
"Give me the dispatch report for the ambulances. Now," Gunner commanded, his voice hard again.
"Sir!" Reiner accessed the data. Five seconds later, "Captain, a trauma-van was dispatched fifteen minutes ago. Location is the overpass connecting Santo Domingo to the City Center."
"Send a team. Intercept that van. I want to see exactly what kind of operation Marcus is running," Gunner ordered.
"Sir, yes, sir!" Reiner saluted, his voice sharp.