"As a passenger—especially one who's not exactly into high-speed chases—don't I get a say in this?"
Karl gripped the ceiling handle tightly, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. Reflected within were the stubborn silhouettes of several pursuers, clinging tightly even after a sharp turn.
"If you ask me, we should just take them out."
With a crisp click, Karl chambered a round with one hand. "Let me blow out a few of their tires, or hack into their control systems—guaranteed they'll learn what manners mean real quick.
"Do we really have to play this little street-racing game with them? Even in racing sims," he muttered, watching sparks fly past the guardrail outside the window, "I only play the ones with rocket launchers."
"What?" Johnny Silverhand jerked the wheel, tires screaming against the asphalt. "You think I can't shake these bastards?"
"I didn't say that."
Karl ducked low just as a bullet punched through the rear windshield, spiderwebbing the glass with a smoking hole at its center.
The pursuers had clearly given up on capturing them intact. Now they were aiming for the tires.
"Keep this up…" Another burst of rounds clanged off the undercarriage, "…and your beloved ride's gonna end up in a junkyard."
Johnny suddenly grinned. His synced cybernetic limb mimicked his motion as he reached for a cigarette with his right (prosthetic) hand, the left arm still controlling the vehicle mid-drift.
The acrid stench of burnt rubber and gunpowder flooded the cabin, but Johnny casually whistled through the chaos.
"When you had it modded, did you get V and T-Bug to program in a whistling subroutine too?" Karl scoffed.
"You were just pretending to be heartbroken about your car, and now you're driving like it's a goddamn punk rock riot."
Another bullet whizzed past the side mirror. Johnny finally clamped the cigarette between his teeth, lit it one-handed, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke that mingled with the powder haze, making Andy—clutching him tightly—nearly gag.
"Cough… I hate secondhand smoke…"
Andy's heavily-modified lungs could handle it, but that didn't make it pleasant. Still, despite his discomfort, his arm remained firmly wrapped around Johnny's waist.
Though his police training kept his grip steady, part of him wanted to kick Johnny Silver-ass right out the door.
Suddenly, Johnny slammed the brakes.
With a teeth-grinding screech, the world tilted. Karl watched as one of the pursuers' sedans veered wildly and slammed sideways into a fire hydrant.
A geyser of water shot into the air as the Porsche 911 slipped into a narrow alley with millimeter precision—an insane move only someone totally unhinged would even attempt. But Johnny Silverhand had always been exactly that.
Taking advantage of the momentary chaos, Johnny yanked the wheel again. As the tires regained traction, the Porsche shot down the alley like a bullet.
"If you smoke in the car again," Karl coughed from the smoke, "I'll shove that cigarette somewhere you won't like."
But he had to admit: that drift just now? Damn clean. Johnny had picked the perfect moment and spot to pull it off.
Motorbikes that tried to follow couldn't maintain grip and crashed out mid-turn, while the few other vehicles fast enough to keep pace couldn't squeeze into the narrow alleyway. Those that tried ended up smashing themselves at the entrance, blocking the path for any that came behind.
But just because they'd shaken off this wave didn't mean the trouble was over.
These carjackers—bold enough to pull heists in broad daylight in Night City—clearly weren't lone wolves. They probably knew these roads better than the city's own Department of Transportation. Plenty had already radioed in backup, and what had started as a precaution was now about to pay off.
At the alley's end, two black SUVs blocked the road completely, their roof-mounted heavy machine guns trained directly on them.
They hadn't fired immediately. Their target was never the passengers, but the Porsche 911—any classic car lover's wet dream.
The earlier chase had seen bullets aimed mainly at repairable parts like the tires. But those mounted guns? One burst and the Porsche would be scrap. The ambushers hoped the barrel of a gun would convince the trio to surrender the vehicle peacefully.
But Johnny Silverhand wasn't the kind of guy to hit the brakes just because someone pointed a gun in his face.
The engine roared as he floored the pedal. "I'm a rocker, goddammit. I smash guitars—I don't hand them over."
The 911 surged forward like a missile. Madness danced in Johnny's eyes, and a maniacal grin twisted his projected face.
The ambushers, watching from inside the SUVs, immediately sensed it—this lunatic would rather die than give up the car.
"Should we shoot? Blow him up?"
A carjacker in the driver's seat turned to his partner. They weren't high-ranking members—just guys assigned to watch the edge routes. No way they'd make a solo call like that.
"Shoot? Blow up a ten-million eddie ride? You want the boss to skin us alive? Remember what happened to the last guy who damaged the goods? They peeled him."
Message received.
The two drivers exchanged a look through the windows—then yanked their steering wheels hard.
They knew damn well what this Porsche 911 was worth on the black market. One just like it had sold for a fortune in Dogtown last year. Even if it got wrecked, fixing it up would be enough to let them retire in luxury.
"Screw it, ram him!"
The driver snarled and slammed the gas. "Let's see if this ancient tin can can stand up to two armored SUVs! Worst case, we sell the wreck to the Old Captain—he buys everything!"
And so, in that narrow alley, a deranged death ballet began. All three vehicles charged head-on, all drivers flooring it—everyone betting the other would flinch first.
Karl watched the oncoming SUVs with his usual calm.
"Johnny, you've got a few seconds left to ask me nicely to save your car."
"Shh."
Johnny suddenly eased off the pedal. His cybernetic fingers traced a complex gesture across the dashboard.
"Watch closely, Karl. Time to show them the 'Silverhand Special.'"
A moment before impact, Johnny's body shifted. While his cyberhand remained on the wheel, something ejected from his torso.
Karl recognized it immediately.
Liquid nitrogen grenade—procured from Dogtown, once stored in the Hera transport. God knows when Johnny had slipped it into his internal inventory.
It shattered through the front windshield and exploded mid-air. A shimmering ice sheet instantly coated the road.
Both SUVs spun out like tops, their tires—modified for Night City's streets—now deathtraps on the slick surface. Anti-slip systems screamed warnings, but it was too late. They skidded uncontrollably, opening a narrow path between them.
Johnny tapped the wheel one last time like striking a drumbeat.
Unlike the SUVs, which had lost control, the Porsche 911 maintained top speed. As its tires began to slide, it jammed its nose into the exact gap between the two spinning trucks.
The Porsche knifed between them like a blade on ice.
Its tires etched spiderweb cracks into the frozen road.
Before it could lose control, the cars boxed it in—giving it just enough friction to stay stable.
Three vehicles performed a slow-motion kiss of steel—the Porsche's nose scraped like a wedge between the SUVs' sides. Sparks flew like fireworks through the icy fog.
"Hold tight!" Johnny yanked the handbrake.
The Porsche's rear fishtailed, slamming into the right SUV and sending it crashing into a wall. The left SUV was flipped over by the impact. Its poorly reinforced door—thanks to shoddy aftermarket mods—flew off, revealing two stunned carjackers.
"Time for a little excitement, boys!"
Johnny whistled and lowered the window.
As the mist cleared, the hijackers were greeted by an unforgettable sight:
In the driver's seat sat Andy in full NCPD uniform. One leg braced his posture, one arm clutched a grinning Johnny, the other leveled a Constitutional Arms "Liberty" pistol straight at them. Light gleamed off his badge, reflecting a deadly chill.
"According to Night City Code Chapter 7, Section 3," Andy said icily, "you are charged with illegal modifications, endangering public safety, and attempted assault on a police officer."
He pulled the trigger with the grace of signing a warrant.
Bang! Bang!
Two shots—clean and surgical.
The first hit the onboard fire extinguisher, masking the second, which passed through the fog and punched through the passenger's forehead—then into the driver.
Karl noted how Andy had deliberately avoided hitting the fuel tank. Professionalism, to a terrifying degree.
After finishing the job, Andy turned to the other SUV now crumpled against the wall. Blood seeped from beneath its warped doorframe.
"A cheap crash bar, faulty airbags, and…" He pointed at a scatter of sex doll ad chips inside. "This crap is deadlier than bullets in a crash."
"Their mods killed them," he added. "The doors were too thin for emergency exits. Poor shock absorption. Too much junk in the cabin. Death traps."
Karl nodded in agreement.
Johnny Silverhand, after confirming both SUVs were wrecked, rolled down the window.
"Told you I didn't need your help," he snorted, glancing sideways at Karl.
"My cooperation with Officer Sunshine here is going great."
Oh? Weren't you just trashing the "kid from Santo Domingo"? Now it's "happy police-civilian cooperation"?
Johnny, when did you get so good at switching masks?
As Karl prepared a sarcastic remark, a soft chime came from Andy's bodycam:
"Law enforcement recording synced to cloud. Facial recognition confirmed four suspects. Identified as part of a recent Watson District carjacking ring. Officer Andy, for risking your life in the line of duty, you are recommended for the NCPD Third-Class Electronic Medal of Honor and eligible for 8 hours of administrative leave—"
The voice continued:
"Disguising yourself as a vintage car enthusiast and successfully luring suspects into capture will be submitted as a Classic Case for the NCPD Annual Archive."
Johnny's projected face twitched slightly. He turned to Andy.
"When the hell did you report all this?"
"Back when you first drove the car out."
Andy replied calmly.
"I'm still a cop, after all. I knew where this might lead."
"So you used my little road trip with you and Karl…"
Johnny's eyes narrowed. "All that trash talk about my driving—was that on purpose?"
"No. That was just Santo Domingo honesty," Andy replied.
"When it comes to driving, Santo kids don't lie."
Meanwhile, the recorder kept chirping:
"Notice: Per the Chief's latest orders—1. Lockdown radius expanded to three blocks. 2. Drones dispatched to recover vehicles. 3. Civilian assistants eligible for 'Model Citizen' award."
"Vehicles involved…"
Johnny's eyes widened in horror. "Hey—Santo boy—don't tell me my car's getting confiscated too?!"
Andy casually reloaded his Liberty.
"According to the updated Night City Public Safety Act, Article 88, civilians involved in incidents are required to cooperate in filing police reports. However…"
"However?"
"…cooperation can be delayed. And civilian contributors can submit records later."
"So it can be delayed…"
"But your car isn't exactly roadworthy now," Andy added. "You drive too rough."
He turned to Karl. "Shall we walk the rest of the way?"
"Of course."
Karl popped the door open, stretching as the cold wind rushed in.
"Besides—" he yawned, "we're almost there anyway."
"…Almost there?"
Johnny's cybernetic eyes zoomed in. Only now did he realize—Andy's hand had never stopped holding him in a tactical grip. And Karl's "helpful suggestions" had been guiding the whole route.
The memories rewound like a braindance: every flashy drift, every near-miss turn—they weren't enjoying the ride. They were taming a wild beast.
"You two…"
As Andy helped him out, Johnny's reinforced joints groaned under the strain. He glared at the two smug bastards—Karl still flicking through maps on his phone, Andy calmly contacting backup.
Police sirens wailed in the distance. Johnny's expression finally cracked into pure disbelief.
"I just pulled off the most insane death race of my life—and you two were running real-time GPS navigation?!"
"You picked it yourself."
Karl turned the screen toward him—high-res alley maps, every "improv detour" labeled in red.
"Gotta hand it to you," Karl smirked, tapping the screen.
"You always chose the flashiest route."
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🔥 CYBERPUNK: THE RELENTLESS
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🔥 THE STORY DOESN'T STOP HERE. NEITHER DOES HE.
Night City breaks people every day.
Some crawl away.
Some disappear.
And some simply refuse to stop.
Cyberpunk: The Relentless has 500+ chapters ahead available for readers who want to keep going.
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⚡ NO BRAKES. NO MERCY. NO TURNING BACK.
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⚔️ One relentless road forward
Every victory creates another enemy.
Every enemy leads to something bigger.
And Night City always wants another body.
🔥 500+ CHAPTERS AHEAD.
👉 Why stop now?
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