[TN:Make up chapter for missing tuesday]
By evening, Leo arrived at the Arroyo Industrial Park as promised—partly to get paid, and partly because he was intrigued by the mercenaries.
[Transfer: +40,000 Eddies]
[Balance: 50,000 Eddies]
[Morton: Real pros get results. Wait a sec.]
Morton sat on a folding chair with his legs resting on an ammo crate, arms crossed. He was still wearing the same black combat suit from earlier that day—bloodstains and all.
Clearly, he was pissed.
After transferring the money, he spat on the ground. The saliva mixed with the blood below, and he turned back toward the people in front of him.
"You dumb fucks didn't think to tell my people right away? And you even bought shit from him?"
In front of him, five people were kneeling, tied up tightly. One of them, dressed in a suit, looked like he once held some status.
But now, his face was bruised, swollen on one side, still bleeding.
The others looked like hotel staff—front desk, maintenance, and janitorial workers.
They were all trembling. The man in the suit didn't look much better, caught between wanting to talk back and lacking the guts to do it.
"I asked you a question!" the Morton snapped, racking his gun and pointing it at the suited man.
"They—they said they were just selling stuff at a discount. I was cautious, but then—they pulled guns!"
"What the fuck was I supposed to do?! They had guns! They had guns!"
"Yeah, yeah, they had guns. Well, guess what? I got guns too. And now I'm gonna use one to blow your dumb ass away."
With that, Morton shoved the barrel into the man's mouth. The man's eyes flooded with tears as he shook his head frantically, teeth clattering against the metal, creating a horrible screeching noise.
Then everyone smelled it—urine.
After a few tense seconds, Morton yanked the barrel out. The man immediately collapsed and vomited on the floor.
The Morton pulled his legs back with a look of disgust, then gestured for his men to take over.
One of the Sixth Street gang members stepped forward and injected him with something from a pneumatic syringe. The vomiting stopped immediately, but the man now looked even worse.
"You let this shit happen. So what do you think should be done?"
The suited man nodded desperately. "I get it, I get it! We'll add your cut from the hotel profits. I'll only take 30%. No—20%. No, just 10%!"
"Good. Now get lost."
The door's electronic lock disengaged, and the suited man staggered to his feet, then fell, crawling and limping out the door—completely ignoring the terrified staff behind him.
The employees lay on the ground, surrounded by heavily armed Sixth Street goons and the stench of blood in the room. Their legs had gone limp from fear.
It took a while before the first of them stood up and stumbled away.
Once the first ran, the rest panicked even more, struggling just to get on their feet.
This place felt like a silent hell. The psychological pressure was enough to burst a heart.
But no one cared.
The Morton stood and moved to the adjoining meeting room.
"You really are my savior, Burger King."
V and Jackie raised their eyebrows—like, just him?
The Morton caught himself: "I mean… taking down that big-dumbass? You're all my saviors."
The tension eased slightly.
Leo asked, "That hotel boss?"
"Yeah." The Morton nodded and plopped into a chair across from Leo, seething with contempt. "Stupid-ass corporate lapdog."
"That idiot used to work for Night Corp. Got a little cash, greased a few palms, and opened a hotel in Santo Domingo."
"Said he wanted to create a high-end, quiet hotel for professionals."
"Those mercs were checked in there from the start—and even pitched their gear to him! And he didn't even tell me!"
"He wouldn't even have that 'high-end' hotel if I wasn't keeping the peace for him!"
"I only took 50% protection fee before! Is that too much? Huh? Is that too much?!"
V chuckled. "You think? That hotel's operating costs just jumped 50%. He's lucky to walk away with 10% now."
"Without me, he couldn't even open that hotel," the Morton shot back. Then he turned to Jackie. "Didn't you used to run with Valentinos? Their cut's higher than mine."
"Bullshit. Valentinos—"
Before Jackie could retort, Morton nodded furiously. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, Valentinos don't tax you. You just need to speak Spanish, be Mexican, get treated nicely, maybe get free meals and discounts now and then."
"If you wanna do biz, better get reborn as one of them—or hope they don't come around asking for money 'cause of family ties. You really think they charge less than me?"
"Bunch of racist bastards."
"Ahem." Leo, seeing Jackie about to explode, coughed twice and cut in. "Alright, that's enough. You really think paying for an old U.S. passport makes you any better?"
"What's wrong with the American dream? Open and inclusive. As long as you pay taxes, anyone of any race can do business—eh, you're right, I'm rambling."
Now, both Jackie and Leo were giving him the death glare. Enough with the BS—get to the point.
The Morton quickly shifted gears: "I made some calls. They said those mercs might be from out of town. Their gear too—definitely not local."
"If they keep this up, Santo Domingo's gonna be a no-go zone for business. So I want to hire you. This time, the payout's huge. Name your price."
"I name it? Last time, I handled your artillery problem for 300K. These guys are also throwing around the Sixth Street name, so 300K base doesn't sound unreasonable."
The Morton considered. He got fleeced by Leo last time, but the number wasn't outrageous. It was fair for the work.
"Alright, so—"
"Plus," Leo interrupted, "they're fully armed mercs, equipped with an anti-material sniper rifle. High risk. Tack on another 200K."
Morton's eyes widened in sudden realization. His face paled.
"They're carrying anti-materiel sniper rifles and hiding in the shadows. You don't have any solid intel—you'd be starting from scratch. Another 300K isn't too much, right?"
"You might as well just rob me!" Morton vented, then switched to a pleading tone. "Come on, man, we're really broke.
I won't haggle with you. You know I'm not lying. 500K is everything we've got.
Or... how about credit?"
He even turned out his pockets to show he meant it.
And honestly, Morton was being pretty sincere.
For a gang to get hit at their own HQ—that's terrifying. If they were a publicly traded company, the stock would've plummeted.
The loss would be like a car company halting production, or an electronics brand issuing a mass recall, or an audit firm collapsing under debt.
Worse still, after Leo beat him down, he faced internal rebellion. His strength had already waned, and he hadn't even had time to hire more people.
In the end, the Aldecaldos seized territory, hired workers, and even started up workshops—
Morton wouldn't dare go there for money.
Sixth Street's business? Pretty much finished.
It was only because this crisis threatened the entire gang that he was able to use public funds at all. If it were just his own money, no way he could afford this.
"Even if you don't care about me, you've gotta think of the people in Santo Domingo, right?" Morton spread his hands. "I know you probably think we're scum—but without us, who're the locals gonna count on? NCPD?"
"You don't think you're better than NCPD, do you?"
"Not gonna argue that."
At least he was honest.
The Sixth Street gang got its start when local veterans saw how bad things were in Santo Domingo and started a grassroots security group.
They cracked down on thugs, and yeah—they charged for it. But the neighbors were happy to pay, since it actually worked better than NCPD.
Over time, though, smarter thugs joined the gang. Protection fees became straight-up extortion.
Locals had no more to give, so the gang moved on to businesses. They rose, step by step, into what they are now.
They're corrupt, shady, and play favorites—
But really, NCPD's not much better.
Sure, there are a few good cops in the force, but they're rare, and overall, NCPD is no better than Sixth Street.
This world doesn't run on logic. On barren, ruined soil, people hope a small patch of grass can protect the other plants, make things better, maybe grow crops or flowers someday.
But as it grows, it turns to weeds, and suddenly it decides what can or can't grow.
Leo leaned forward slightly. "That being said... I have one more question. You said the hotel owner bought stuff from them?"
"Yeah, these." Morton sent Leo the item list.
Most were everyday goods—likely things used in a hotel. But the brands were rare in Night City.
All European imports.
"Besides that, there's cyberware, weapons... pretty much anything you can imagine. They said they had better suppliers and could sell to these little punks cheap."
In terms of medical goods, after the Burger King incident and the chaos that followed, Biotechnica refused to work with the Sixth Street gang anymore—
Unless the Morton offered bigger cuts. But offering more meant the gang would take longer to recover. Fewer goods, unmet demand, and the rebels took full advantage.
The same problem hit every other supply line—loss of credibility crushed the gang's ability to operate.
The Morton had no clue who these people selling cheap goods really were, but he was sure it wasn't simple.
V cut to the heart of the issue: "So you're charging protection fees, and banning them from buying elsewhere. How are they supposed to make enough to pay you?"
"I'm just—just protecting local businesses, man. Trade Protection Act, you know?"
It was really just about protecting himself. If these businesses could buy from someone else what he couldn't provide, even the best fighters couldn't hold power for long.
In a social context, following a strong guy might help you survive short term, but you lose your future.
Follow someone with resources and muscle, and you've got a shot at surviving and thriving.
So this wasn't just gang drama—this was probably an outside corporation trying to prop up a new supply chain.
If they could make money here, they could offset the massive costs of transoceanic logistics and establish a local branch.
This was European marketing at work.
"500K's fine," Leo said. "But I have conditions."
"What kind of conditions?"
"First, you're helping me take out the mercs. Second, this 'trade protection act' of yours? Protect me. I'll be your new supplier."