Gearbound: Cyberpunk 2077
Chapter 303

Clap clap clap—

Hector smiled as he applauded. "Well said."

He glanced at the others. "Hmm? Why aren't you applauding? Do you think what he said is wrong?"

The henchmen standing behind the lieutenants joined in the applause, but the lieutenants themselves remained uneasy.

Hector ceased clapping, and his expression darkened.

"Mad Dog."

The man known as Mad Dog, who had stood respectfully to one side after Hector had cut off the elder lieutenant, immediately showed deference.

"Mr. Hector."

"How long have you been with me?" Hector asked.

"Five years," Mad Dog replied.

A trace of reminiscence appeared on Hector's face. "Five years—time really flies. Sometimes I feel like I met you on the street just yesterday."

Mad Dog's eyes shone with sincere respect as he said, "Yes, Mr. Hector, I feel the same way."

"Everyone sitting here, except for Mad Dog, has been with me for at least ten years. Ask yourselves, haven't I treated you well?"

Silence fell over the room, and even the elder lieutenant's Adam's apple bobbed as he struggled to find words.

Finally, Hector stopped pretending and let his rage show.

"My son is dead! My only son! The heir of the Salamanca Cartel, the future King of Tijuana!"

"Money! Money! Money! All you ever mention is money! If I hadn't elevated you, if I haven't let you suckle from my success, would you still hold the positions you do today?"

Shock crossed the lieutenant's faces. Had they not been on chairs, some would have collapsed to the floor. Fear appeared on the elder lieutenant's face as he hastily lowered his head, showing humility.

"Mr. Hector, we fully understand how you feel. If the killer who caused your son's death were standing before us right now, I would be the first to execute him myself."

Hector gave a slight laugh, and the elder lieutenant thought the matter was settled—but then Hector's next words sent a chill from his tailbone to the top of his skull.

"Is that so? But why do I find myself unable to believe it?"

"Mr. Hector?" the elder lieutenant nearly trembled.

"You praise me with such flowery words, yet you secretly plotted against me? If Mad Dog hadn't tipped me off, I wouldn't even know that under my nose, you had a secret meeting place—and that it went on for years!"

The elder lieutenant went pale. He glared at Mad Dog in disbelief. "Mad Dog gave you the tip? That's impossible—we were all thoroughly searched when we arrived. He couldn't have smuggled in a locator."

The older leader's expression at that moment brought Mad Dog a sense of delight, precisely because of that expression he sneered, "Idiot. I had a ripperdoc implant the locator right into my body, wired it to my heart. Even if you scan me, you'll only think it's a sub‑implant aiding my cardiac function."

At his words, everyone's faces changed dramatically as they stared at Scavdogs with looks reserved for a monster.

"Implanted into his body? Wired to his heart?"

"Madman! He's insane!"

The older leader's face turned ashen—he realized he had lost completely. Originally, he had planned to invite Mad Dog over to eliminate the one loyal enough to strike at Hector before he could act—but instead, he had invited the wolf inside his den.

Since the façade was already shattered, he decided to abandon pretense. Pointing at Hector, he shouted, "Hector, don't blame us for opposing you. Look within: do you have no fault at all? I won't even bring up past affairs. I'll ask just one thing—what consequences did you consider when you ordered the attack on San Diego Airport? Why did you do it?"

Hector remained calm. "If I hadn't sent people to bomb San Diego Airport and take hostages, those bastards would have returned the killer of my son, right back to his father. I had no choice but to take this drastic measure."

The older leader's voice cracked with fury. "But this will unite the entire Western States against us! Other Mexican cartels won't come to our aid—they'll help finish us off. You've sacrificed the entire Salamanca Cartel's interests for selfish revenge. You're too self‑absorbed!"

Hector responded evenly, "Selfish? Perhaps. Then tell me this: if you lost your only son, what would you do? Speak; I'd like to hear your lofty advice."

The leader sneered—unlike Hector, he had three sons and two daughters; losing one wouldn't break him. With righteous arrogance, he replied, "'Revenge is too extravagant,' as a Western outlaw boss Datch Vanderlinde once said. If it were me, I wouldn't endanger everyone's interests for just one son. Personal gain must yield to the gang's welfare. That is what a leader does."

Knowing Hector wouldn't spare him, he threw away all pretense. His words were a finger wag, a direct insult to Hector.

Addressing Hector with feigned respect, he began again: "Mr. Salamanca…"

Out of nowhere, the turbaned lieutenant raised his hand and bowed deeply.

Gone was the earlier bravado about cutting Hector off from the cartel, about delivering his head to San Diego to appease Californians. Now, he was nothing but a broken, begging dog.

Hector lifted an eyebrow, curious. "Hmm? You have something to say? Then speak."

The bandaged lieutenant continued obsequiously: "Mr. Salamanca, I believe our utmost priority must be to contain the fallout from the San Diego attack."

"Contain it?" Hector's interest piqued. "You think the Californians would still negotiate with us after this?"

The lieutenant nodded. "Certainly. We can shift blame to the United States. Leaders in the Western States despise the U.S. even more than they despise us."

Hector frowned. "True, they have long been at odds with the U.S. But they're not fools—do you really think they'd take the bait so easily?"

The lieutenant quickly replied, "Besides shifting the blame, we could show sincerity: concede some interests to the Western States, offer tangible benefits, and make political donations to sympathetic legislators. If we can limit hostile seats in their assembly to less than half, we succeed."

Hector steepled his fingers, satisfaction briefly flickering across his chiselled features. "That's a good idea—it has potential."

The turbaned man's face lit up; he was about to plead for clemency when, unexpectedly, Hector produced a large-caliber revolver and aimed it steadily at him.

The turbaned man's pupils contracted in fear—he didn't even open his mouth to beg before a deafening shot rang out.

A splash of crimson bloomed on his chest as his body slumped off the chair, collapsing to the floor.

The other lieutenants froze in horror. Before they could react, Hector's henchmen drew daggers and plunged them into the remaining leader's chests. The room echoed with muffled thuds and screams.

Hector's voice cut through the chaos: "Your plan is good, I am going to adopt it—but I cannot allow someone as clever as you to stay alive."

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