"Are we the mercenaries, or are they? I told you we should've gone to the Afterlife to find proper mercs."
Anderson asked Benny earnestly.
Inside the Dewdrop Inn, Anderson and Benny hid behind a wall, watching a man covered in bulky cyberware hurl a television out the window.
They'd been running with Cannon. They hadn't expected Cannon to die before he could get anything done. He hadn't even pulled off anything major-he'd been gunned down in the shop while collecting protection money.
Sergeant looked kind, but at heart, he was still a gang boss. When dealing with traitors, he'd rather kill an innocent than let a guilty one go.
These small fry hadn't actually rebelled, but that was only because Cannon had died so suddenly that they'd lowered the traitors' flag halfway through raising it. Search their pockets, and you'd still find it.
Benny angrily let loose a torrent of abuse. "All day, it's Afterlife this, Afterlife that! Look at your damn self. You think you know, and Morton doesn't?!
Shut your damn dog mouth! Brain-dead idiot! You'd get dragged off by Morton's goons and fed to the rats before you even reached the Afterlife!"
That was right. The mercenaries they'd found were picked up off the street.
Everyone in Night City knew that the best mercenaries were at the Afterlife Nightclub.
So could they go there to find mercenaries?
No. First, they might not even get in. Second, they had no money-and then, as they drank on the roadside, planning to get drunk to death, they actually found a mercenary willing to take the job.
That mercenary was now by the window. He stood two meters tall, and both arms had been elaborately modified. Not a single cable was exposed; all they could see was expensive alloy armor.
Morton