Chapter 67: 6th Street Justice is Bullshit. Business is Business.
Rhys watched the man in the cowboy hat approach. Judging by Reiner's respectful position behind him, this old-timer was a 6th Street lieutenant, at least. The worn, bullet-dented medal pinned to his vest screamed one thing: veteran.
Soon, the group stood before them. The sudden influx of armed men immediately drew the attention of the hospital's security bots. They swiveled, their red optics locking onto the 6th Street gangers. But after a quick scan, they just as quickly swiveled back to watching Rhys's crew. Alarm disengaged. 6th Street. Not a threat.
The old redneck looked straight at Rhys. "Reiner's already filled me in. Maine's crew, right? You're Rhys. And you're Maine?"
Maine stepped forward, crossing his massive arms and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Rhys. His silence was its own answer.
"What do you want?" Rhys asked.
"I'm here for two reasons, kid," Gunner said, his eyes fixed on Rhys. "First, there's been a misunderstanding between you and my man, Reiner."
He spoke quickly, "We were after Martinez because she's done contract work at the clinic under our protection, and we're currently investigating corruption within that clinic. We intercepted her to get information. We learned from the EMT you threatened that you were the reason they changed course. We also know why you clashed with Reiner."
"You were worried Gloria Martinez would get... 'disappeared' if she was taken to that clinic, right? So, you know what's been going on there."
Rhys narrowed his eyes. He remembered David saying back in the car that Reiner... didn't seem like a bad guy. The rest of the crew had laughed. In a city with a 40% crime rate, a city that was basically a free-fire zone, who the hell could call themselves a "good guy"? Even Rhys, who tried to hold onto his principles, had probably gotten innocent people hurt.
But now... "good guy" or not, it seemed there was a misunderstanding.
Gunner continued, "We wanted Ms. Martinez for questioning. She's one of the longest-serving EMTs who's worked in that clinic. We weren't going to hurt her. We would have provided treatment in exchange for intel. That's the first thing. To clear the air."
"And the second thing?" Rhys asked.
"Your crew hit one of our facilities," Gunner said, his voice hardening. "You zeroed a lot of my people. And you stole our hardware. Correct?"
Here it comes. Rhys just smiled. Behind him, he could feel the crew tense up, ready for a fight. Fighting in a hospital... The thought was morbidly thrilling. With their current strength, this small squad wouldn't last a minute.
But the tension was instantly shattered by the old man's next words.
"But I'm not here to start trouble over it. Because, in the end, you actually did me a favor."
Gunner's tone shifted. "As you've seen, 6th Street isn't exactly unified. Your conflict with Reiner was because he thought you were working for Marcus—the bastard currently running that clinic—and that you were sent to stop us."
"So, I'm here to clear that up. And to introduce myself. Name's Gunner. Captain in 6th Street. A 'lieutenant,' in your terms."
Rhys was losing patience. "What do you actually want from us?"
"To clean up that hospital. To take out Marcus, that cancerous tumor in my own gang. His greed for eddies and power is out of control. If we let him continue, a lot of people in Santo Domingo are going to get hurt. 6th Street was founded to protect Santo Domingo, to shield its people from corps and other gangs. But that bastard is preying on civilians, working with Scavengers... The body count in the last year is climbing, all because of him. I'm here to stop it. And I need your help!"
Gunner's voice rang with... justice? He was a hell of a speaker; his face was flushed—whether from passion or booze, it was hard to tell—but the effect was compelling. The 6th Street gangers behind him, including Reiner, stood tall, chests puffed out, looking every bit the righteous militia.
On Rhys's side, Jackie was eating it up. His throat bobbed. The romantic son of Heywood was hooked. Protecting the neighborhood, shielding the people... fuck, that's what being a man is all in about!
Dorio was moved. Rebecca's eyes were shining. Even Sasha looked on with a rare, quiet respect.
Only Kiwi watched with cold indifference, and Maine... Maine just rolled his eyes.
David, born and raised in Santo Domingo, just looked conflicted. Protecting the people? In his entire life, the people who had terrorized Santo Domingo the most were 6th Street. He remembered, years ago, when 6th Street was trying to take turf from the Valentinos, they didn't hit the gang; they terrorized the civilians living on the border. He wanted to tell Rhys not to trust them.
But Rhys spoke first, his voice flat and bored. "So, what's that got to do with me?"
"Your crew is active in Santo Domingo. You live here. Surely you want to see it become a better place, don't you?" Gunner pressed. "This is about justice. We have a common enemy. Help us take out that bastard Marcus, and I guarantee 6th Street won't come after you for what you did. And... you'll have my friendship."
"Your friendship? How many eddies is that worth?" Rhys laughed.
Before Gunner could answer, Rhys cut him off. "Stop bullshitting me, old man. Justice? 6th Street justice is bullshit."
Rhys believed this vet was probably sincere, that he really did want to protect his version of Santo Domingo. But that was the problem. He only wanted to protect his people, his America. 6th Street was a massive gang, over two thousand strong, and it was rotten to the core. They'd long since devolved from a community militia into a violent, xenophobic gang. They were rabid, far-right patriots.
Rhys remembered the mission in the game. 6th Street was notoriously hostile to anyone not like them. They might not be Voodoo Boy-level traitors, but trusting them was idiotic. And as for justice... how could 6th Street even compare to the Mox? 6th Street's creed was "Revive America." They were Militech's attack dogs. The Mox's creed, inspired by Lizzie Borden, was to protect sex workers and the downtrodden from violence. Susan might have had to compromise that ideal to survive, but the core was still there.
Rhys wasn't about to be suckered by some redneck's patriotic speech. This wasn't about justice; Gunner just wanted a deniable asset, a tool to win his internal pissing match.
The rest of the crew, hearing Rhys's sharp rebuke, snapped out of their trance.
"We're mercs," Rhys said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You want us to do a job, you pay us. Your friendship, your justice, your ideals... what the fuck does any of that have to do with us?"
"Go fuck yourself."
Rhys raised his hand and, with a gesture Rebecca would have been proud of, flipped a very large, very clear middle finger right in the old veteran's face.