10. Jack Wells

The Wild Wolf Bar in the Haywood Valley area was not hard to find. After all, in a place surrounded by judicial buildings like the City Hall, the mayor’s office, the courthouse, and the NCPD headquarters, a bar that clashed so starkly with the surrounding architecture was bound to stand out.

Parking by the roadside, Oliver hesitated about whether to put on the bulletproof vest he had bought with the money he earned yesterday. Having grown up in a neighborhood controlled by the Sixth Street Gang and once being a former member himself, he felt a twinge of fear toward the Valentino gang. Although many from the Sixth Street Gang reportedly maintained covertly good relations with the Valentino gang, deep down, Oliver was still uneasy.

Who knew if the Valentino gang members gathered in this bar would try to kill him just because of his former Sixth Street Gang identity?

While Oliver was still hesitating, Carl had already efficiently slipped on his bulletproof vest beneath his clothes.

Once dressed, Carl glanced at Oliver with some curiosity. “What are you hesitating about? We’re about to meet the employer. If we don’t have basic protective cyberware and bulletproof vests, and we’re just mercenaries ready for a mission, any employer would think we’re idiots.”

Indeed.

Oliver finally realized he was still influenced by his old gang mindset. Back in the Santo Domingo district, whether as a civilian or gang member, there was no need to be constantly on guard because the entire territory belonged to the Sixth Street Gang. But now, as an unemployed mercenary, he needed to show strength through his gear. Mercenaries don’t get jobs by just looking good; they need to demonstrate their capability.

They certainly weren’t legendary mercenaries famous enough to stroll through crowds in shirts, one hand holding a pistol and the other gripping another, mowing down enemies effortlessly. Those types are sought after by missions, not the other way around, so they don’t need to dress heavily armed—they just look cool. But Oliver couldn’t pull that off, so he had to appear as threatening as possible.

After putting on his bulletproof vest and jacket, Oliver holstered his revolver, the New Star, in a gun holster. He imitated what he had seen in movies by leaving the holster unfastened, allowing a quick draw and flashing the grip to let others know what kind of weapon he carried.

“A real man uses a New Star—fierce and bold.”

Unaware of the psychological drama his partner was having over a gun, Carl simply holstered his Lexington pistol. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided not to bring the Copperhead assault rifle from the trunk.

They were just going into a bar; a handgun would suffice. Bringing an assault rifle inside would look like an act of provocation.

Fully prepared, the two novice mercenaries stepped into the Wild Wolf Bar amid curious gazes from Valentino gang street members lingering outside.

Upon entering, the dimmer lighting inside was immediately noticeable. Unlike the streets outside plastered with countless advertisements, the Wild Wolf Bar only had a few neon lights. If it weren’t for the bright bar area and the sparse groups drinking inside, one might suspect the bar was closed during the daytime.

Behind the bar stood an elderly woman clad in a leather jacket, her hair pure white. Despite her age, she appeared very spirited. At first glance, if one didn’t notice her hair, it would be hard to guess her true years.

“Oh, two young faces I haven’t seen before.”

Seeing Carl and Oliver enter, the woman greeted them warmly. “You’re a bit early, but I’m glad to see you. What would you like to drink?”

“Mrs. Wells—I'll have a bottle of Blue Note Vodka.”

Before Carl and Oliver could respond, a patron at a distant table raised his hand, signaling for another round.

“No, Ernesto, you’ve already had a bottle today. You’ve got things to do tonight; go sober up.”

“How come? I was planning to wait for Jack to come back and have a drink together.”

“Jack’s not allowed either.”

During the exchange between Mrs. Wells and the man—clearly a Valentino gang member by his attire—Carl caught a familiar name.

Jack?

Could it be that Jack? Jack Wells?

If so, Carl knew him well. In the demo, Jack was a close brother and teammate of V.

It was probably just a coincidence of the name. Jack was common enough.

As Carl pondered, Mrs. Wells turned back towards them. “So, what will it be, kids?”

“I’ll take a bottle of Bros’ Best Lager,” Oliver quickly chose a low-alcohol drink that wouldn’t affect his ability to take on a mission.

“All right, one lager. And you?”

Under the kindly gaze of the elderly woman, Carl scanned the bar’s menu and picked a drink with Chinese characters on the label.

“I’ll have a sweet tea and an order of fries.”

“Find yourselves a seat; I’ll bring your drinks and food shortly.”

Mrs. Wells nodded and began searching behind the bar, while Oliver led Carl to a spot where they could see anyone entering through the door.

“You’re at a bar but only drinking non-alcoholic tea and ordering fries… I wish I could be like you.”

Compared to beer, Oliver preferred soft drinks. He felt it wouldn’t be right not to order alcohol at a bar, but Carl didn’t mind.

“Well, I can share some fries with you later.”

“Deal. I’ll eat yours first, then order some more to share. I love fries.”

“I’m more curious about what they use to make these fries.”

As long as it wasn’t made of bugs, he was fine.

While waiting, they observed the patrons inside. Most were just drinkers. Only a few, like themselves, had ordered food or drinks while wearing weapons and bulletproof vests—or cybernetic subdermal armor—clearly mercenaries.

Well, at least as Oliver’s father had said, this place was a good spot to find work. There were plenty of mercenaries here, but they all looked like bottom-tier freelancers with no handlers.

Oliver lowered his voice. “Honestly, the middleman business is basically like mercenaries. The best ones can interfere in corporate affairs; some only handle small fry missions or neighborhood vendettas. But mercenaries who don’t even have cooperation with the lowest-level middlemen—that’s just miserable.”

He spoke without realizing that both he and Carl were exactly those miserable mercenaries he described.

“Who knows.”

Carl replied casually, but his peripheral vision caught someone entering through the bar’s door. Something about the figure seemed familiar, prompting him to look directly.

The newcomer was a tall, burly man who blocked the sunlight coming through the door. He had black braids, obvious cybernetic modifications on his cheeks, and an open leather jacket revealing a tattooed chest. He looked extremely intimidating.

That man was...

“Jack Wells!”