After several days of relentless intel gathering and cautious recon, we finally pinned down his location.
Brad Slater was holed up in the Red District of Neoz City—a festering artery of vice, ruled by gangs and mobsters who didn't fear the law because they were the law here.
The air reeked of cheap liquor, burning synth-opium, and lust. Neon signs sputtered in the gloom, casting sickly light over gambling dens, crumbling motels, smoke-choked bars, and brothels where sultry human women and hyper realistic sexbot cyborg courtesans prowled for customers. Some leaned lazily against graffiti-stained walls, their eyes glowing in predatory invitation. Others simply stared—measuring, assessing.
I walked in casually, but armed like an executioner. My newly purchased IBRBS armor fit snug to my form, the katana riding on my left hip, the CWL-G1 holstered on my right thigh. My hands gripped my auto rifle like it was an extension of my will. A small pouch at my belt held my ace in the hole—micro-bombs, discreet and deadly.
Harry padded beside me, silent as shadow, his sensors sweeping.
Every pair of eyes tracked me—some with fear, others with the wary respect reserved for predators. But no one moved to stop me. They could tell I wasn't law enforcement; there was no badge, no moral leash. Just a woman equipped for violence and entirely willing to use it. Around here, morality was worth less than the bullet it took to end someone's life.
My boots carried me to a squat, six-story motel whose flickering sign read VACANCY in bleeding red letters. Inside, the lobby smelled of mold and desperation. Without breaking stride, I leveled my rifle at the trembling receptionist.
"Where's Brad Slater?" I asked, my voice sharp as broken glass.
"S-s… sixth floor… room 6-7…" he stammered, hands rising slowly.
"On the floor. Face down. Don't move until I say so."
He obeyed instantly, sprawling on the stained carpet, his body quivering like a kicked dog.
"Harry, stay here. Control the perimeter," I ordered.
"Understood," came his crisp digital reply through text.
The stairwell groaned under my steps. When I reached room 6-7, I didn't bother knocking—I kicked the door open, splintering the cheap frame.
Inside, Brad Slater was mid-act with a sex worker, their tangled limbs a mess of flesh and synth-skin. He froze, eyes widening in shock.
He reached for the gun on the nightstand. My shot hit first—blasting through his cybernetic arm with a spray of sparks and shredded metal. The girl screamed.
"Out," I barked.
She didn't wait to be told twice, scrambling past me, naked feet slapping the hallway floor as she fled screaming.
"Who the hell are you?" Brad snarled, clutching his damaged limb. "What do you want?"
"You've got a bounty on your head," I said flatly.
He bolted for the window. Another shot tore through his legs, shredding servo-motors and actuators. He collapsed in a heap, cursing.
I dragged him, half-limp and swearing, up another flight to the roof. The wind cut cold up there, the city stretching out in a sickly neon sprawl.
Two more shots—both arms gone limp, his mechanical strength stripped away. I pinned him, pried open the hidden port behind his ear, and jammed in my hacking spike.
"You're up," I said into my comm.
"I'm in," Alex's voice crackled over the line. "Give me a sec…"
Minutes passed, filled only with the faint hum of Brad's damaged cybernetics and the distant bass from a club below.
"Done. You can pull it now," Alex said.
I yanked the spike free. Brad writhed, but his limbs were useless.
"Got anything?" I asked.
"Yeah," Alex replied grimly. "Another proxy. Class-M cyborg. Looks like this is a chain job."
"Class-M? Military grade?" I frowned. "And the hacker got in?"
"Not yet. Their proxy code's just hidden in the cyberbrain. Whoever's behind this is clever."
"We'll talk face-to-face. I'm coming to your shop," I said.
"Copy."
I pinged the Bounty Hunter system and marked the job complete. Within minutes, three smaller Guild drones arrived, scanning Brad's identity. Then a larger hauler drone—almost the size of a small helicopter—descended from the smog, its mechanical arms clamping around him before lifting him away into the night.
My bank chimed seconds later: Bounty credited—4,000 credits.
I left the Red District with Harry at my side, my mood sour, and a puzzle to solve.