The Brit
The hum of a hundred engines shook the early evening air as the Brit sped down the highway on his bright green motorcycle. The noise was somewhat muffled by his helmet, though it still rattled his eardrums. He zoomed underneath an overpass and felt the phone in his pocket buzz. He fished it out with his right hand and held it up to where he could see the screen. On the tiny little illuminated rectangle, the words "Michael calling" were flashing dully. The sound of a truck horn blaring in front of him got his attention, and he quickly swerved off the road and slammed to a halt in the dirt, screaming the entire time.
"JESUS!" he yelled after he had yanked off his helmet. He took a deep , steadying breath, and then answered the call on his phone.
"Hey, Michael," he said, slightly out of breath.
"Where are you right now?" a voice came through the speaker.
"I'm just off the highway, why?"
"We need to meet up," Michael said, "I think something big is about to go down, and we need to be ready for it when it does."
"Alright, tell me where," the Brit said, straightening in his seat.
"You know the warehouse we took that laptop to a few weeks back?" Michael asked.
"Yeah."
"There's another one just south of that, we meet on the second floor. One hour, so try not to be late this time." Michael hung up his phone, leaving the Brit to listen to the monotone beep. He hung up his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, before picking up his helmet and fitting it back on his head. He had turned his bike to face the highway again when he felt his pocket buzz for the second time. He pulled out his phone again and looked at the screen, which showed four words this time: "Meet now -The King."
The phone buzzed yet again, as Michael called back.
"Did you get the message too?" Michael asked when the Brit had answered the phone.
"Yeah," he replied, "What do you think it could be?"
"I don't know,"Michael said, "but Haywood got the summons too, and the Brown Man said he'd be there. That's never a good sign. I think He's got another big job for us, especially now with the cartel trying to move in on our profits. We need to stay on our toes, Gavin."
"I agree," Gavin replied after thinking for a few moments, "Are we still meeting up after this?"
"Yes. An hour after the King's council we meet up in the warehouse, and we go from there."
"Have you heard anything from Her?" Gavin asked.
"Not for a while."
"Alright. See you at the Throne Room." Gavin hung up his phone and sped onto the highway, his front wheel lifting as he accelerated. He zoomed past the cars, a green blur of motion on the road. He turned off on to an exit and began to head into the city. He weaved and dodged through traffic with all the precision of an artist, his tires a brush and the pavement his canvas. He felt the SMG strapped to his hip rattle as he made a particularly sharp turn, and a thin trickle of wind whistled through his helmet visor, stinging his eyes. He leveled out and watched two squad cars race by, sirens blaring. They turned away and he heard the sirens fade in the direction of Vinewood Hills.
Downtown Los Santos raced by, the neon signs streaks of light on the Brit's visor. He began to slow down as he passed grove street, and came to a stop in front of a dilapidated office building with a horribly graffiti'd for rent sign in front of it. He steered his bike into an alley beside the building, next to two sports cars, one dirt brown and the other completely chrome. He dismounted the bike, laid the helmet on the handlebars, and walked back to the front of the building. He stepped up to the door and knocked in the pattern he had been taught. When he had lowered his arm, the door creaked open.
The Brit stepped inside an gently closed the door behind him.