They always show up when I've got nothing left in the tank and no reason to hit the brakes.
The van showed up in the mirror. Matte-black, cracked left headlight, just like before. Reaching behind me, shoulder stiff from the angle, my fingers found the vodka bottle I'd tossed in the back seat. I twisted the cap off with my teeth and took a long swallow. The burn hit hard.
Their van closed in fast, engine howling.
I hit the gas. Tires barked against the slick road. The engine coughed and roared like it was ready to die. My alternator had been fading for weeks. HUD flickered. Headlights dimmed under strain. I kept going. My eyes locked on the road, brain running escape calculations.
Static gave way to a wall of guitar feedback as I flipped the radio back on something old, full of dirt and distortion. It blared loud, half-drowning out the hum of the van behind me.
The outro faded. ["—good morning, Seraph Block and Metro South. Mayor Elson Creed has officially taken office today, promising infrastructural renewal, cleaner tech zones, and expanded drone enforcement. Your safety is our mission."]
The van surged forward. Gunfire cracked from behind, forcing me into a hard swerve through the wreckage of a construction site, concrete barriers blurred past, one close enough to scrape paint. More rounds tore past wild, blind, guessing where I'd gone. Another burst of SMG fire followed, rounds smashing into the crates ahead. I ducked lower behind the dash, gripping the wheel tight.
Gunfire shattered the rear glass. The sound cracked through the cabin, followed by the rush of cold wind and street noise. I ducked low, one hand still on the wheel, the other stretching across the seat for my pistol.
The van veered left, trying to flank. I twisted hard into a side corridor beneath the broken edge of the highway viaduct. The path narrowed quickly, lined with bent fencing and shallow puddles from the night's rain. They followed too fast.
Lights off, I let the car slide into a controlled drift, tires cutting across grease-slick concrete. The turn shaved the side mirror clean off. Behind me, their headlights bounced as they overcorrected and fishtailed.
The engine coughed again, choked on its own heat. My bumper clipped a stack of plastic crates, scattering debris. I spun the wheel hard, let the car drift wide behind a pile of construction junk, and killed the engine. Their van surged past in a blur and slammed into a stack of crates, skidding sideways. It settled crooked near the barricade, front end still steaming. No one left at the wheel.
Dashboard lit up like a dying Christmas tree, coolant failure, powertrain error, zero charge. I left the wreck to sputter and die behind me.
The bag was wedged behind the seat. I yanked it free and threw on the old armored vest behind the open car door. The straps dug in as I tightened them. It smelled like oil and smoke but it had kept me breathing more than once.
Gun up, I stepped out behind the open car door, using it for cover. One of them kept the pressure on with short bursts, pinning me while the others flanked wide. Their engine growled as they skidded to a halt. Doors flew open. Three of them spilled out painted faces, chrome jaws, gang tags stretched across armored vests. Monkey gang. I couldn't see the fourth, either still inside or hanging back.
Somewhere behind me, a second engine echoed through the alley. Not the van. A fourth came in on a bike, throttling hard through the rain. Probably tailing them from the start. Just waited longer to pounce.
One of them rushed from the passenger side, shotgun slung low and reckless. I fired twice before he could level it. The rounds punched through his vest and dropped him mid-stride. He collapsed sideways, scraping over the wet asphalt as momentum carried him forward.
Bullets chewed the crate stack again. I ducked back with clenched teeth. The radio hissed, cutting to another segment. ["—weather tonight includes moderate acid rain with street-level flash pooling across the Eastside. Sanitation drones will be active after 0100 hours. All nonessential foot traffic should reroute."]
I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing the bottom of the cigarette case. Empty, or so I thought. The case crumpled. Then one last stick caught on the edge. I fished it out, held it steady in my lips, and lit up with a sharp snap of my cybernetic fingers. Smoke filled my lungs as gunfire raged around me.
Mag felt light. I exhaled slowly and leaned out over the door frame, lining up my shot. The one crouched by the hood caught a round in the thigh spun off balance and dropped, yelling. He clawed his way back toward the van, trailing a smear through the rain-dark pavement.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the vodka bottle where it had rolled against the curb. I bent low and scooped it up, took a pull with the cigarette still tucked between my lips. The glass felt cold and solid in one hand, gun warm in the other. My left—the bottle hand—whirred faintly.
The biker flanked in from a side alley, cutting wide to box me in. Waited until he committed to the turn. I backed into the narrow service lane, where dumpsters and rusted panels boxed me in. Braced my cybernetic arm against one and pivoted. The arm jolted once, overcompensating. First shot missed wide. I gritted my teeth, recalibrated by instinct, and fired again. The second punctured the tank. Fuel hissed out, caught fire near the exhaust, and the bike lit up. The rider bailed too late, bike and man hit a pillar, flames chasing them down. He had a pistol out. Never got the chance to raise it.
Heat spread in waves. Rain hissed as it hit metal.
He knew it was done. The last one stepped out of the van, slow and favoring his side. He didn't even lift the shotgun—just leaned on it like it was holding him up.
"You're gonna die." He said.
I drank, bottle swinging loose in my hand.
"They said you'd be half-dead already."
Gun stayed up. "Who sent you?"
He didn't answer just stared, almost amused. Then a grin, metal teeth flashing. "Doesn't matter. You're already on the list."
"Whose list?"
He shrugged. Blood was blooming through his side, must've caught one when the van skidded in.
"They just said to find you. Nothing personal, it's all about money."
Held him in my sights a second longer just another hired hand sent to do someone else's dirty work.
"You picked the wrong job," I said. "Bad investment."
I fired. His jaw slackened before he hit the ground.
His coat shifted when I turned him. Something slick slid out and hit the ground. A data shard, thin, slick, etched with two words: Kill Order. My own face stared up at me from the ID.
When it went quiet, I moved in. Stepped over the bodies one by one. The one by the crates bled out behind the wheel. The biker was a charred smear. I checked them all. None were getting back up.
Rain streaked my face. The vest clung wet to my back. I lit a cigarette, breathed in, slow. Monkey gang. Someone paid bottom-feeders to do cleanup work. I didn't pull the trigger on myself but reality already counted me out. They just sent goons to correct the mistake.
"Guess I'm not the only one who thinks I'd be better off gone."
I slipped the shard into my pocket as the bottle tapped gently against my thigh.
Distant sirens began to build, faint but rising. The radio crackled again under the static. ["…unauthorized conflict recorded. Local enforcement rerouted."]
There was nothing to wait for. I turned and walked.
Warehouse 72 wasn't far.