From JoAnne's perspective, Nomads were neither mysterious nor admirable. In her eyes, they were no different from any criminal gang—calling them a "gang" at all was already giving them too much credit.
She believed they were nothing but anarchist drifters on the fringe of civilization, a band of rowdy opportunists addicted to violence. As far as JoAnne was concerned, Nomads had chosen bloodshed and rebellion by rejecting the conveniences of modern society. She saw them as outsiders from California or even farther away, living in rusty trucks and trailers by choice, reveling in filth.
They survived by raiding the convoys that shipped weapons and food supplies for megacorporations. In JoAnne's eyes, each and every Nomad was a murderer or rapist with clear-cut guilt, ready to kill for money—taking on the kind of bloody, cruel jobs no one else wanted.
It was precisely because she looked down on them that JoAnne had used Nomads as her test subjects. Even after dozens died, she felt no guilt.
"Get him out of my sight. Just looking at that trash makes me sick."
"Yes, ma'am."
The driver jammed the horn several times in quick succession. The shrill honking from the armored SUV made it obvious they wanted him gone. Yet the "Nomad" neither overtook the convoy nor fell behind.
He kept pace right alongside them.
"Forget it. If he won't leave, then let him stay for good. Kill him. This is the Badlands. No one's going to care."
Killing someone inside the city usually required a bit of finesse. In broad daylight, they had to pin some crime on the victim afterward—anything to justify corporate "righteousness." But out in this empty wasteland, there were no cameras, no witnesses, not even ghosts. If someone died here, you just left the body.
JoAnne already despised Nomads. In her mind, they were no different from cockroaches or rats, so she saw nothing wrong with snuffing one out. She announced the man's death sentence as casually as if it were nothing.
Only then did JoAnne notice the Nomad wasn't gripping his handlebars with both hands. He was using only one, while the other slowly pulled a kinetic pistol from his belt.
JoAnne froze, her mind going blank. She forgot to duck or do anything else to protect herself. Thankfully, the driver had training. He slammed on the brakes, making the tires squeal violently against the asphalt. Thick smoke rose into the air, and the stench of burning rubber filled the SUV. But at least the bullet barrage missed them, carving three distinct holes in a Joshua tree on the opposite side of the road and nearly cutting it in half.
"Director JoAnne, are you all right?" the driver called out, glancing anxiously toward the backseat as he maneuvered the SUV. If the R&D director got hurt on his watch, there would be hell to pay.
JoAnne lurched forward with the abrupt stop, then slammed back into her seat. It took her a moment to realize she wasn't injured. Only then did she let out a breath of relief. Her next feeling was confusion and fury.
She glared after the Nomad, who, after firing a quick three-round burst, had stopped shooting and sped away, already putting some distance between them.
"He actually dared to attack us? That filthy, lowlife Nomad?"
She could hardly believe it, her voice overflowing with anger and disbelief. An instant later, that gave way to a cold hostility.
"Go after him. Kill him!"
"Yes, ma'am."
None of the soldiers in the convoy—and not even the major who accompanied them—voiced an objection. In Night City, a deep chain of scorn existed: corporate executives looked down on corporate employees; corporate employees looked down on city dwellers; and city dwellers looked down on Nomads.
Because of groups like the Raffen Shiv, and the general public's inability to distinguish Nomads from those bandits, many people lumped them together in hatred and distrust. Add the endless media fearmongering, and that prejudice spread even further.
Though Nomads sometimes showed up in urban areas, they usually only blended into places like Watson or Santo Domingo, where people from all walks of life gathered. Districts like Westbrook or City Center didn't allow Nomads at all. If the NCPD found any, they were kicked out immediately. And now, one of those despised Nomads had attacked the vehicle carrying Biotechnica's R&D director.
"Alpha, Beta—he's yours."
"Alpha here, roger."
"Beta here, roger."
Two armored SUVs broke away from the convoy, engines roaring as they sped forward on either side to chase the "Nomad."
Leo glanced behind him. As expected, two SUVs had peeled off to give pursuit, but only those two. Not enough.
He twisted the throttle on the Brennan Apollo—the one he'd rented from Padre—and surged ahead. Armored SUVs were fast, but his bike was built for the Badlands, so it wasn't about to be left in the dust. One side pursued, the other fled, and before long, all three vehicles pulled far ahead of the main convoy.
Back in the main group, JoAnne frowned. She had assumed those two SUVs would finish off the Nomad quickly, yet now the three vehicles were nearly out of sight. She opened a comm channel and addressed everyone.
"Follow them. We're going, too."
"Director JoAnne?" the major blurted, startled. He tried to protest, but JoAnne had no patience. She ordered the SUV carrying her to veer from the main road and hurry after the distant black specks. The major had no choice but to direct the rest of the convoy to follow suit. At least they were in properly armored SUVs, so the odds of serious danger seemed low.
…
Leo drew the two SUVs away from the highway, deeper into the Badlands. After a long chase that felt like some twisted Wild West scene, his tactical goggles showed that the entire convoy was also trailing behind, JoAnne included.
He grinned, having predicted exactly that. Slowly, he eased up on the accelerator so the two pursuing SUVs could close the distance, letting their rooftop turrets line up on him.
At the moment the turrets locked onto their target, Leo slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched, kicking up a cloud of dust. A barrage of bullets tore into the ground ahead of him, churning the sand and gravel.
"What the—?"
The soldiers on both SUVs hadn't expected such a quick reaction. As they swiveled their turrets to adjust, Leo maneuvered the bike to slip between them, then circled around to the right side of one SUV. He flipped his left hand, lobbing a sticky grenade that smacked onto the turret perched on the roof.
Boom—
Amid the swirling smoke, the turret exploded into a spray of debris.
"Dammit!"
A soldier in the passenger seat lowered the bulletproof window and opened fire, sending a burst of hot lead toward Leo.