Prologue
It had been meant to be a quiet evening for the citizens of Stilwater: The opening dedication of the Hughes Memorial Bridge, together with the laying to rest of a criminal legend, had promised to grant the city a brief respite, a night without gunfire or murder for once. Surely, so the people had hoped, the cops, politicians and local street gangs would silently agree to a ceasefire in order to commemorate the lives of two giants who had helped shaping the city into what it was now. In a way, they were right, but at the same time they turned out to be horribly, horribly wrong.
The anchor van came to a halt next to the waterfront with the murderous screech of straining breaks. Its doors flew wide open even before that, and a dark-haired woman jumped unto the nightly sidewalk. Behind her, the rundown apartment complexes of the projects rose into the air like the rotten teeth of a dead giant, seemingly deserted, with only the occasional light flickering behind one of the windows. She ignored them, her eyes set on a different prize. She shouted some orders back over her shoulders even as she checked the integrity of her hair, puffing it up and back into shape with hurried and yet experienced touches. The microphone never left her hand. An explosion tore through the night, distant across the water where the illuminated skyline of northern Stilwater stood out against the black of the night. There was gunfire too, not just beyond the water, but much closer, rattling in a discordant beat that mingled with the high-pitched song of the police sirens all around. The whole city had gone mad, it seemed, but if the woman in her classy blue business attire was in any way concerned by this, she gave no sign of it. If anything, she looked excited.
"Come on, come on, come on!" she spluttered, her voice sporting a distinct nasal quality. "We are missing the best part. STEVE! I swear to God, if you screw this up I am going to - "
"I goddit, I goddit."
The cameraman joined her clumsily on the sidewalk, wrestling with the last few pieces of rebellious equipment and hoisting his heavy camera to his shoulders. Immediately, his partner rushed off to the edge of the waterside, screaming at him to hurry. Despite her wearing high-heels, he had hard time keeping up. Right at the edge, his partner stopped and whirled around, her seasoned eyes instinctively checking for any signs of unfavourable light. She found none, and her hand clenched tightly around the microphone.
"Tell them we are in position!" she shouted back to the rest of her crew still inside the van. The studio didn't waste any time. They were on within the minute.
"And 3… 2… 1… "
As the reporter raised the microphone to her lips, she underwent a remarkable change. Like a true professional, all traces of her excitement fell of her, and her face settled into mask of concentration and focus. Just for the dramatic effect, she sprinkled a little fear and terror into her eyes, something her viewers could relate to, and that would lent her words an even greater weight. The broadcast went life, and on tv screens all over town, what the people saw was a genuinely concerned woman, risking her life for the public good.
"I am standing here at the northern edge of Sunnyvale Gardens, the very heart, some might say, of the tragic events that started earlier this evening, when a yet unidentified group of terrorists blew up the Hughes Memorial Bridge right in the middle of its official inauguration. As you can probably hear, the gunfights that broke out afterwards all over the city still continue, and we can confirm by now that the unknown assailants are not only engaged by the police, but also by the city's own 3rd Street Saints."
She paused, one of her hands rising to the earpiece she was wearing. She nodded.
"That's right, Tom. Ever since the failed heist on Stilwater National Bank and the Saints' recent migration to Steelport, things have been rather quiet around the city. We do not yet know the specific circumstances surrounding these events, but we do know that today the Saints' leaders had planned on coming home, and that in fact a large funeral procession had waited on Hughes Memorial Bridge at the time of the attack. Unconfirmed reports claim that the funeral procession was for no one less than the infamous Saints lieutenant Johnny Gat, who has been mysteriously absent ever since the Saints' incarceration following the Stilwater National Bank heist. What we can say for certain is that the explosion was most likely not an act of terrorism as many people had first feared, but a gruesome and coordinated attack on the Saints who just happened to be on the bridge when it happened. Eye-witnesses from the dedication, as well as what little footage has been recovered by now, both speak of gunfire specifically directed at the Saints breaking out on the bridge prior to the explosion. As for the explosion itself, it appears that it was in fact not a bomb that caused it, but a hailstorm of missiles fired at the bridge from within city limits."
At the studio, the anchorman took over for a moment, silencing the reporter. A fresh staccato of shots rose nearby, but she didn't even blink. She waited patiently and focused, waiting eagerly for the spotlight to be returned to her.
"The police has yet to make a statement as to how such a large quantity of heavy weapons could make it into the city without knowledge of the authorities," she said, answering the studio's next question. "Wardhill Airport with its long-standing history of lax security measures has already been put forth as a possible source, but the sad truth is that we know very little for certain at this point."
Just then, a noise appeared. It was faint at first, nothing more than a soft buzzing, but rapidly increasing in strength. Down the long patch of road running parallel to the waterfront, several pairs of headlights appeared, coming in fast. The buzzing settled into the unmistakable sound of roaring engines accelerating the cars at the top of their performance. The woman paid it no heed, and even the cameraman checked it out with only a cursory glance.
That quickly changed once the vehicles started to open fire.
With a jolt of genuine fear, the reporter broke eye-contact with the camera, her mask of professionalism crumbling before the viewer's eye as she ducked instinctively and turned towards the rapidly approaching cars. Their shapes were much clearer by now, and illuminated by muzzle flashes and the occasional street light, blotches of green, purple and orange paint flashed up. A military style SUV came first, sporting a great green star painted on top of its roof. It was easily the biggest of the the three cars, and the most bulkiest, and thus had a hard time staying ahead of its pursuers. To compensate, the Suv swayed frantically between the lanes, daring the smaller vehicles to try and make a pass, while its occupants fired out of the windows and through its busted rearshield like there was no tomorrow, filling the streets behind them with a deadly hail of bullets. A purple Infuego was hard on its heels, matching any manoeuvre with one of its own despite a windshield that had splintered into a murky mess of cobwebbed fractures, and returning fire with assault rifles and smgs. By contrast, the orange bootlegger that followed them seemed barely invested in the car chase. The iconic brick that was the American muscle car easily kept up with the quarrelling spitfires, always staying partially hidden behind the smooth form of the Infuego and thus avoiding a good deal of the punishment, but the lonely driver vaguely visible behind the wheel made no attempts to reduce the distance still separating him from the others, nor was he firing at either of the possible targets.
It mattered little to the camera crew.
"Dear God. They are coming right at us!" the woman cried. "Quick, inside the van!"
She did not need to tell Steve twice. Together, the two of them raced back towards their own vehicle, urged on by the sounds of stray bullets smashing into nearby walls and windows, way too close for comfort. Again, the reporter left Steve behind her, and literally launched herself into the safety of the vehicle, while he merely climbed in as fast as he was able with the big camera which to drop had apparently not crossed his mind. With a nervous yelp the doors were pulled shut behind him, and the violent din raging outside turned dull and less threatening. The illusion lasted only for a few seconds. Then, the first bullets began to punch into the van's body, and the whole team screamed in unison, diving for the ground. The bursts drummed against the back door, leaving a multitude of small dents, before the material gave way under the onslaught. The sound was deafening. Monitors were ripped apart and exploded into millions of pieces that showered down upon the hapless crew, and electric circuits were disrupted and fried themselves with violent short snaps. All the while, the people inside whimpered and screamed, but there was no mercy to be had.
As suddenly as the nightmare began, it also ended. The roaring of the cars reached their pinnacle in a high-pitched humming as they sped by, underlining the continuous fire for a split-second. Then, the noise was gone, and together with it, the sounds of mayhem and destruction slowly faded into the distance, as the chase carried hunter and prey further along the waterfront, straight towards Saints Row.
The reporter was the first person back on her feet, brushing off her clothes as she looked around the ruined interior of the anchor van, her face aghast. "Look at this mess," she stated, her voice still a little shaky. "It's all ruined."
Her voice trailed off, as if she was about to give in to despair and hopelessness, but she bounced back, and anger found its way into her features. ''These imbeciles! Who do they think they are, shooting at me? Don't they know who I am!? Oh, I'll show them. If I find out who is responsible for this, I'll have their fucking heads!"
She rambled on like this for a while longer, blowing off steam and reasserting her control of the situation, or at least pretending to. The others stood by with empty faces. They knew her well enough to know that this was what she needed right now, and none of them saw a reason to interfere with that. It also gave them something to keep their minds occupied, and so they welcomed the little show, not wanting to deal with the aftermath of what had just happened themselves.
The rambling broke off mid-sentence and without warning. She turned around, staring at the rest of the crew all bug-eyed and excited, her anger all but forgotten in the face of her sudden epiphany. "Are we still on? Is the camera still working?"
"Hmm, what?" replied the cameraman, absent-mindedly.
"Steve!" she cried, moving up to him and slapping him in the face. "Are we still on!?"
The cameraman yelped in pain and surprise, pressing a hand to his burning cheek. "Ouch! That hurts, what the - "
"Are. We. Still. On?" she repeated her question, raising her hand threateningly. "Or do you want another?"
"What, no. I - " Steve stuttered, but then decided it was better to shut up and do as she said. He checked the camera and sorted his way through the damaged controls inside the fan. "We are still shooting," he announced after a while. "But they cut the transmission as we jumped into the van."
His Partner did not like that answer very much. Cursing under her breath, she dusted herself off as best she could. "Alright, out with you. We'll make another quick shot, then we are going after them."
"We are doing what!?" Steve asked, but one look into her eyes told him that resistance would be futile. Sighing in defeat, he hurried to comply. A minute later, they stood outside, ready to shoot. This time, the reporter had left her hair in disarray on purpose.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, as you just witnessed, the violence of this night is far from being over, and - as you just witnessed - even innocent bystanders such as me and my colleagues are not safe from harm. Rest assured, although we are all a little shaken up, we will not give up in our quest to keep you, the honest people of Stilwater, informed about the precarious events that seize our fair city this evening. You are watching Channel 6 News, and this is Jane Valderrama, in pursuit!"