Chapter 63: The Trap Gig
Kiwi sat in the shadows of the warehouse corner, her deep red jacket blending almost perfectly with the gloom.
Although she had accepted Rebecca's invitation to discuss collaboration with Maine's crew, trust, in Night City, was a commodity harder to acquire than top-tier chrome. It required time, and combat, to forge.
"Alright, stop spacing out." Maine cleared his throat, his voice echoing in the cavernous warehouse. He looked at Rebecca first. "You found her. Make the intro."
Rebecca shoved her pistol into the back of her waistband and jerked her chin toward Kiwi. "Kiwi. Solo 'runner, good rep on the street. I talked to her at Lizzie's. Skills are supposed to be preem."
Her introduction was curt and direct, just like her.
Maine turned his full attention to Kiwi and nodded. "I'm Maine, crew leader. Rebecca vouches for you, we trust the intro. Welcome."
Kiwi looked up, carefully sizing up the members of Maine's crew. Her voice, filtered by her faceplate, was flat and controlled. "Kiwi. Rebecca gave me the basics. We can work on a gig-by-gig basis, see if it's a fit."
Her stance was clear: willing to work, but deeper commitment required proof.
"Good enough," Maine was satisfied. "We need a 'runner to fill the gap. And sitting around isn't an option." He looked at the whole crew. "We need to move. Take a gig, a real-world shakedown. See how this new setup flows."
Pilar chimed in, "About damn time! This new arm of mine hasn't even been properly field-tested."
Falco, still leaning against their vehicle, just pushed up his shades in agreement. Dorio nodded.
"It's settled then," Maine said, making the call. "I'll contact Faraday, see if he has a suitable gig. Kiwi, get your interface ready. We'll likely need you for remote support."
Kiwi nodded silently, her fingers already tracing patterns in the air, beginning to tune her network interface. Even without her full, high-end rig, interfacing with the crew's tactical net was basic netrunner hygiene.
Maine wasn't surprised by her detached attitude. He didn't expect her to become a second Sasha overnight, but as long as she was willing to work, it was a start. He wasted no more time and dialed a familiar number.
"Maine? A rare pleasure!" Faraday's slick, oily fixer voice came through the comm. "Heard you've been running in some very high-end circles. I figured you were too big-time for my humble little gigs now."
Maine frowned, in no mood for the song and dance. "Cut the scrap, Faraday. I'm not here for a smoke-screen. You got a gig for us? Something simple, delivery or escort. We need to... integrate a new member."
"Oh? A new member?" Faraday's voice instantly sharpened, like a shark scenting blood in the dark. "Someone you're personally bringing on? Must be preem. As it happens, I have the perfect job."
He paused, as if checking a file. "A run out of the city. North, to the derelict 'Route 66 Gas Station.' You're delivering to a guy named 'Stray.' The package is small, just an encrypted data-slate. Light, no fuss. Payment is standard market rate. How about it? Simple route, clear objective, easy-peasy, right? Perfect for a test run."
Maine processed it: out of town, abandoned station, simple hand-off. It sounded clean. Low-risk. It fit the requirements for a shakedown mission. He glanced at his crew. No one objected.
"Done," Maine said, agreeing. "Send the coords, the handshake-code, and Stray's ident-markers."
"Attaboy, Maine! Knew you were a pro!" Faraday's voice was almost too enthusiastic. "Info's on its way to your terminal. Good luck, chooms. I'll be waiting for the good news!"
The call ended. Maine's terminal pinged with the mission data. He scanned it. It was exactly as Faraday described. No obvious red flags.
"Alright, we have a job," Maine announced to the crew. "Falco, check the ride, fuel her up, make sure we have no surprises on the road. Rebecca, Pilar, inventory check. Standard loadout, just in case. Dorio, get ready."
Finally, he looked at Kiwi. "Kiwi, you'll be remote-linked to our tactical net. We've got our previous 'runner's rig here, you can use that for now. Handle environmental scans and data-support. Any problems?"
Kiwi shook her head silently, her fingers already a blur. She was already working. Her intense focus made Rebecca relax her critical gaze, just a fraction.
The team mobilized. Falco slid under the heavily modified Goodwood, checking the chassis and drivetrain. Rebecca and Pilar opened a weapons-case, counting out rifles, pistols, and ammo. Rebecca gave her plasma pistol a special check, ensuring its energy cell was topped off. Dorio moved to the side, beginning a series of simple, powerful stretches, her augmented muscles coiling.
Everything seemed routine, just like countless gigs before. The warehouse filled with the sounds of preparation: the clink of tools, the clack of weapons-assembly, the low rumble of the engine test.
They had no idea that on the other end of the comm-link, Faraday had ended the call with a greedy, undisguised smile. He immediately dialed another, heavily encrypted number, his voice a low, obsequious hiss. "Militech? Yes, it's Faraday. I have some... very interesting intel for you, regarding Maine's crew. They just took a gig from me. Heading out of the city, now. North, to the Route 66 Gas Station... Yes, the derelict one. This is solid-gold..."
In his mind, Maine's crew was just a tool, one that was becoming obsolete, or worse, a liability. Now that he had a good price for them, not selling them would be stupid. What happened to them after Militech was done... he didn't care. People disappeared in Night City every day.
But what Faraday didn't know—or didn't care to know—was how deep the water he was treading truly was.
After the global humiliation of the "Blackwall Broadcast," Biotechnica had become a rabid, wounded animal, tearing itself apart in internal purges and howling for revenge. Any entity with a recent grievance against the corp was put under a microscope. Maine's crew—which had recently hit a Biotechnica convoy and humiliated them—was at the very top of that list.
Furthermore, the crew's 'runner, Sasha, had a direct, personal vendetta linked to the drug scandal.
The corp's internal threat-assessment division connected the dots. The convoy attack, the netrunner's personal motive, and the impossible network takedown... it all led to a terrifying, but logical, hypothesis: Maine's crew had access to a top-tier, perhaps even forbidden-level, netrunner resource. The "Blackwall incident" was very likely their work.
A massive internal bounty was approved. Whether for revenge, or to seize the technology capable of manipulating the Blackwall, Biotechnica was all-in.
And Militech, which was already intensely interested in the "non-standard," devastatingly powerful weapons Maine's crew was using, was more than happy to "collaborate" when Biotechnica shared its intel and its objective. It was a golden opportunity to test their own new assets and capture rare tech samples in a single, clean op.
Faraday's betrayal was simply the perfect, convenient bait to spring the trap.