Framed

1981, Vice City

There was no shade, only the unforgiving sun that bore down on the group of people that gathered in front of a sole white warehouse that practically stood in the middle of nowhere. The vultures above circled aimlessly around, feasting on the soon to be dead cadavers with their eyes. Among these soon to be dead cadavers was Detective Chris Washington, an exceptional detective, Vice City's rising sun. He wore his dull grey suit with a black shirt underneath, his sleeves rolled up to his forearm. His fair black hair was slicked back, a noticeable amount of grease kept it back. He squinted behind his navy blue shades, taking a good look at the targets behind the warehouse. A tip from an unknown caller spoke of a coke deal between Los Cabrones and Vice City's Triads, in which Detective Washington specifically, was sent to lead the group. He was far from Vice City, his home, which was not much different from where he was now. The outskirts: no one came here, and yet there was still drug and arm dealings going on.

His partner and best friend, Detective Tony Manata, stood opposite of him, wearing a bright suit, with pink shades, long brown hair combed neatly and tied in a knot so that it wouldn't get in the way of his sight. They both looked at each other, dripping sweat both because of the heat and the anxiety, withdrawing their pistols from their holsters. They then looked behind them, signalling the darkly clad SWAT team and fellow Detective Vince Stevenson, that they were ready to burst in, guns a blazing. They turned and looked at each other again, reassuring themselves. In a few seconds, they kicked the doors down, pointing their guns at the gangs.

"VCPD, DROP THE GUNS AND BLOW ASSHOLES!" Washington cried, his voice echoing throughout the cavernous warehouse. And like many gangs, they answered with bullets. Another day at the job.

Chris dived to a nearby crate, dodging bullets only by inches. He fired blindly, hoping the he would nick some sorry ass motherfucker in the neck. He heard a distant scream: sometimes the day is kind to him. He darted out of hiding, watching as various gang members scurried off to different positions. And then he saw him: Umberto Robina, running away with the bag of coke in his hands. The detective fired expertly, a single shot nicking the mob boss in the leg. He grinned, bolting excitedly towards the prick, grovelling in pain.

"It's all over dickhead," he said, pointing the gun at him. He felt a something hard hit his head. After years of experience, years of flesh wounds, whacks to the head, you would remember WHAT you were being hit with. He felt the butt of a gun.

Washington fell back, vision blurring. He tried to catch a glimpse of the shithead who ruined his perfectly greased hair.

"Tony?" he whimpered.

Another blow to the face. Darkness fell.

Voices, barely audible.

"Tony you BACKSTABBING BASTARD!"

"Just the guy I wanted to see."

"Drop the gun Tony."

"What, you gonna kill me? You don't got the balls."

"Goddammit Tony, I said drop the fucking gun."

"You hear me Vincey? You don't got the fucking BALLS you pussy."

"DROP THE FUCKING GUN."

Two shots rang. Something heavy hit the ground.

"Bastard nicked my arm. I'll show you."

More shots rang. Chris felt someone turning him around, whipping out cuffs and cuffing his hands together.

"Sorry friend. Sorry you had to get caught up in all o' this. Truly am."

Darkness fell. He heard no more.