“50 Caps,” Maverick demanded. “You’re asking for the head of the Khans. So, 50 caps.” The Rust Devil Broker retorted, “I don’t have enough to spare.” “Come on, don’t lie to me, slag,” replied Maverick, “You want me to walk away? Let the Khans run through your camp again tonight?” “No…” “Then 50 caps.” The broker lamented, handing over the tender, “You have until sundown!” “I’ll be back by noon,” boasted Maverick as he jogged away.

Maverick hopped in his archangel. An old shipping half-truck outfitted with enough armor to sink it clean through the sand but tires large enough to lift it into the sky. The engine roared and he set off for the badlands, just a few miles south of New Vegas. He parked at the mouth of a ravine and perched a frag grenade in the door. From a side panel he procured a cruel rifle, with an under-barrel launcher, and a tin can suppressor.

He climbed to the top of the ravine, gaining excellent vantage over the Great Khan camp below. He slid a long spiked device into the under-barrel of his rifle, and launched it into the rocky cliffside just behind one of the tents. The device let out a low and continuous beep and the target sauntered out to investigate. Maverick let ring a fatal shot, striking the Chieftain in the temple. The device, with a low thud, shot out a crude net, entrapping its victim.

He planted himself between two boulders above his kill, and used a rope and hook to retrieve the bounty. He dumped it in a cargo container on the underside of his vehicle and returned to the Rust Devil camp.

“You’re early, wanderer,” stated the broker. Maverick tossed the body into the dirt, “50 more caps.” “Is it clean?” asked the broker. Maverick nodded. “100 caps,” the broker answered and placed a pouch on the counter.