E142°10′, N27°45′.
This location?
Karl checked the coordinates—it pointed to the Ogasawara Islands, under Tokyo Prefecture.
A subtropical island chain, once a go-to spot for beaches and diving. But now?
It belonged entirely to Arasaka. Private property.
Judging from the note, someone inside Arasaka had discovered something out there—something so sensitive it had to be moved in silence, the old-fashioned way, using discreet land transport and handed off only to select individuals.
Maybe the secret got out. That would explain the mid-route ambush—by Arasaka operatives themselves.
Whatever it was, it was important enough to warrant this ancient-ass way of communication. Practically prehistoric.
As for what it actually was? Karl had no idea.
But he knew one thing for sure: the rhombus-shaped wooden block he picked up was part of it. That meant the other crates probably held similar blocks. But those were long gone—ripped away who-knows-where by the brutal storm that tore through the Badlands.
Whatever intel those pieces carried had been blown away with the wind.
But even if the data was lost, the trail wasn't.
Karl could still dig up who commissioned that Arasaka shipment, who handled the logistics, who was supposed to receive it in the end. With enough effort, that kind of information could be traced.
And Karl had two things going for him: relentless curiosity, and contacts inside Arasaka.
He wasn't about to bring Militech into this, even though they'd be all over it if they knew. As a merc, whatever he picked up during a gig was his—unless the contract said otherwise.
Sure, he found it during a Militech job. But this wasn't part of the mission objective. If it had been, he'd turn it over without a second thought.
But it wasn't.
So it was his to deal with.
Put simply—
Let's say someone hires you to carry a sack of flour across a river. You do the job. But along the way, you spot a gold nugget in the stream. Are you only there because of the job? Yeah. But does that gold belong to the client?
Hell no.
Beep-beep.
Karl's call went through almost immediately.
A middle-aged voice, weary but sharp, answered:
"Hey, Karl. What's got you calling at this hour?"
"I came across something. Just to be clear—this was during a gig, so I'm not disclosing anything about the client. What I can say is that I found something that was being moved in secret, using seriously outdated methods. I thought you might want a look, Mr. Ken'ichiro."
"Something from a job…"
Ken'ichiro's cybernetic eyes lit up with a cascade of data as he sifted through intel tied to Karl.
"This morning, you took an armed cab from the city center. And then…"
He scanned further.
"Your signal popped back onto Night City's grid just over an hour ago. And right around then… a sandstorm hit outside the city."
He was putting it together fast.
Karl hadn't said much, but Ken'ichiro was already filling in the blanks.
"You picked up something out there, didn't you?"
Recognizing the weight of the situation, Ken'ichiro didn't name anything directly—no mention of the Badlands or the shipment. Just careful wording Karl would catch.
"Something like that. But this line probably isn't secure, so let's skip the details. You interested in a face-to-face, Mr. Ken'ichiro?"
"Very."
He already had pieces of the puzzle. A convoy had vanished during the sandstorm—one technically managed by Arasaka's Night City transport division. But there were no listed recipients in the system.
If Karl hadn't called, Ken'ichiro wouldn't have even known what to look for.
How could he not be intrigued?
After the recent board purge, Ken'ichiro had earned Arasaka Michiko's approval and stepped into a long-awaited VP position. He thought things would be cleaner internally after all that.
But clearly, too many rogue elements remained. And he, fresh in the seat, still had blind spots.
"Then let's meet soon."
Hearing that, Karl tucked the note into the inner lining of his jacket and ended the call.
He'd memorized the coordinates already—but there could still be hidden data on the paper. Ciphers, invisible ink, something embedded in the fibers. You didn't just burn evidence like that.
He hadn't set a location in the call. Didn't need to.
If Ken'ichiro was serious, there was only one place he'd show up.
Karl left his apartment, took the elevator to the top of his megatower.
Most megatower rooftops—terraces included—were rented out to wannabe elites. People who couldn't swing a North Oak address but still thought they were above the street-level crowd.
Usually gang lieutenants. Execs too proud for Corpo Plaza or Charter Hill.
They liked towering over the rest of the city. Literally.
But not in this building.
Why?
Simple.
On a past gig, the rooftop tenant had been Karl's target. After dinner, Karl and Oliver went upstairs, finished the job—clean and quiet.
Since then, no gang boss has had the guts to move in.
That rooftop's been empty ever since.
.
.
.
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