Job Record 005 - Don't Let the Witch Live (4)

Luckily, he managed to wake up in the morning the next day. It was heading into mid-November, and the sun hadn't risen yet, but the muggy air felt close to twenty degrees. Los Angeles only remembered one season: summer. At least when the rain poured down for a few days straight, the heat eased a bit, and a chill wind brought some relief.

There was something new on the desk. Two priest flashbangs, linked together Bellwether-style. A note was stuck to them. It looked like Valentina's handwriting.

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Maybe because he'd dug up her public road racer background, the word "faster" on the note seemed punched with extra emphasis. To public road racers, speed was everything. Faster was better.

At least next time, he could handle things without Nadia's help. Assuming the flashbangs didn't set the office on fire.

He hefted them a couple times, then stowed them in the gear case. Only perfectly prepped gear lets a man respond perfectly.

Morning routine number one: gun cleaning. A daily-use weapon needed daily maintenance. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠This task always settled his mind. A familiar feel, a nostalgic one. Back in middle school, every dorm morning started with gun cleaning. He'd probably miss that sound someday. But the past was the past, longing was longing.

He disassembled, cleaned thoroughly, reassembled, and bagged it. Even on non-shooting days, smog could cake the barrel like fouling. With maintenance done, he checked his phone. An unfamiliar notification glowed. Bellwether logo... He tapped it. Mercenary Management Division.

First personal gig? Perfect timing. He'd crashed hard yesterday, body in top shape. The flank gunshot had healed scar-free.

He hit connect. Phone to ear—a bit more natural now, but the awkwardness of handling an old-school device lingered, like rediscovering a kid's flip phone at twenty-something.

Ring, then a gravelly voice. Old man, but weirdly vigorous.

"Metz... what? Anyway, first gig, so yeah, I can cut the rate. Like you said, experience matters more. What's the job?"

The jagged tone sounded German. Bellwether started in Germany, so it tracked. He'd heard "Metzgerhunt" before.

"Don't even know what Metzgerhunt means, huh. Anyway, opened a little eatery here, and already ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the gangs are shaking me down for protection."

Eatery and gangs. Small-time shakedown crew—not big enough for a full agency. Personal merc made sense.

"Four or five of 'em... Sweep 'em clean, and I'll wire 1200 credits clean. Shop's new, can't go higher. Already discounted."

1200 credits. About a third of his old Bellwether monthly pay. Guarding lives paid less than ending them. Fair rate too—mercenary work ate fixed costs. Lucky for him, injuries didn't drain cash or downtime like others. Starting advantage.

Mental calculator done.

"Full intel, right? You handle things crisp—smells like ex-big corp."

"Bellwether alum myself, so yeah, called up a security trainee for some seasoning. Full intel incoming. Photos too. Sent."

He muted, checked screen. Five crisp shots—post-processed sharp. Two middles matched faces. Cheap cybernetics gleamed rusty. Map attached. Back to ear.

"Clean. I'll report on completion. Verbal contract, but Stephanet'll verify..."

Stephanet perks for Bellwether comms. And her drafting it confirmed the targets as real gang—listed crimes, kill auth. Reformation was a privilege. Life decided eligibility. Bellwether saw potential, not hope.

"Solid. Contract clean, job clear... Done before lunch. Call ya."

"Crisp. Expect max efficiency. Finish pre-lunch, lunch on me extra."

Old Bellwether farewell—decades back, pre-Berlin's fall. Would've been senior if active. But nah—Bellwether ran on efficiency, not favors.

Call ended. Shirt off, vest on, shirt over. Synth-leather coat hid it. Carbine bagged. One last check: Tina's room next door. Knock. "Me."

Door opens. Nadia inside too. Quick wave. Tina held a nugget box with someone's photo—no more fake food vibes.

"Whaaat? Bulletproof vest says you're heading out... Need a driver? Can't leave Nadia solo in the officeee. Huh?"

"Personal gig needing a driver? Laughable. Was gonna ask for a spare ride instead. Borrowable?"

Tina twirled her light brown ponytail, flashed lazy grin.

"Got one I bought to mod—road racer'd call it insane. Lend it? Don't trash it. Yeeaah?"

Years back, racer days. Fine for used.

Nod. "Cash'd get me '80s junk. Yours is perfect."

She grabbed a key from the wall rack—her modded ride's too. Grinned wide.

"Flashbangs for saving us and not snitching on Nadia? Felt cheap. Gig vetted solid?"

"Yep. Contract?"

Tina mock-frowned, nodded, scanned, thumped his armored back.

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"FM perfect, whoever wrote it. Go get 'em, Boogeyman."

Senior vetting: job's legit. Carbine slung, armored helmet grabbed. Sky threatened rain.

Tina's key fit office lot bike. '94 model—still newish, common. Underseat held carbine bag. Near Bellwether license twin. Corps standardized everything.

Map up, trace route mentally—no calcware. Easy path. Cross Sepulveda Blvd's rotten sea stink to coastal slums. Old rich traces. Ocean self-cleans—clean in twenty years, then realtors sweep. Not yet. Slum central.

Follow coast, enter slums. Helmet on, bag out. Target hundreds meters off. Phone: merc app, Stephanet link.

She'd wiped him. Didn't know him.

Zone set—no cops or Bellwether response to gunfire. Bike in. Old AR would've overlaid zone. Not now.

Target house: old mansion, wrecked. Voices inside. Carbine safeties off, eavesdrop.

"Yo, merc nearby. Not us?"

"Nah? Neighbors noisy yesterday—probably them. Zone up pre-arrival. Scanned waves—no contacts."

Shakedown barely a crime in Bellwether turf.

Wait by door. Kick inside. "Kid, remember that guy who picked the lock and sprayed? Scout it!"

No drones. Footsteps. Cracked marble under sneakers. Door creaks.

Eye contact. Draw hip pistol—loud chamber. Trigger.

Bang cracks ear. Wires spark, blood sprays. Good helmet call.

Voices left. Pistol left wall, fire bursts. Yell:

"Slapped the shopkeep? Got him. Rest, hand to Bellwether mobile—claim no link, out in days. Disarm, out."

Carbine swap.

Sigh like annoyed death. Twins emerge—oppo sides cyborged. Conjoined maybe. Contract matches. Messy blonde woman. Blue fluorescent tat guy. Five total.

One twin smirks. Can't see burst-fire toggle.

"Fuck, told ya? Kept him out, you'd be door corpse. Hand perp to merc lord, we live—sweet!"

Muzzle down slow from ceiling.

Other twin uneasy: "Wait... merc report done—"

No more out. Four clean. Trust no foe words. Orders come top-down.

Muzzle on them. Trigger light.

Blue tat turns purple-red glow. Smart twin crawls backdoor long—other jaw/neck pulped, flops. Druggy woman under, unbothered.

Step in. Headshot crawler. Slumps. Quiet scene—stoned on decayed marble.

Confirmations: one each remaining four. Done.

Chat post-job.

"Nope. Wasn't done. Now it is."

Phone. Helmet off—blood-splashed. App, Stephanet.

"Job complete. Slum—no cleaners. Cam confirm?"

Show bodies. Five down, contract matches. Screen green-checks.

"Relocate, then call. Thanks, Stephanet."

Bike up, flee rotten coast. Lingering'd stink clothes. No thanks.

Out slums, corp billboards appear. Park charger, phone out. Safe.

"Safe spot. Client connect, Stephanet."

Link auto. Shields personal info efficient.

"No clingy lover begging stay. Shop... Got it. Heading."

Shop mid-residential. Not fancy detached—villas, apartments, wind-whirl trash hub.