Part 2 : Shaun Harvey
I wake up and immediately wish I hadn't. The pain in my head isn't just a hangover and the darkness lifting isn't the slow rise of the sun through flimsy motel room curtains but rather someone pulling a black bag off my head.
I'm handcuffed in my boxer shorts to an uncomfortable metal chair but before that I'd been beaten around the motel room they abducted me from by a bunch of meatheads and then thrown into somebody's trunk. They stopped me from kicking the tail light out by knocking me unconscious and then cuffing my wrists and ankles together behind my back so I'm all kinds of achy and disoriented now.
There's a bright light shining right in my face so I can't see much, but I can see the small oriental dude with the shaved head, mirror-lensed sunglasses and off-white suit who slices my chest with a switchblade just above my right nipple. F***, that hurt. I won't lie, I don't even know whether or not I just messed myself in agony.
"Imagine my surprise that you're back in town," an accented voice that I immediately recognise booms.
"Jesus… Madrazo?" That earns me a punch in the mouth from the dude in the suit.
Martin Madrazo. Depending on what newspaper you read, you will either know him as one of the state's most eminent self-made businessmen, or as one of the most ruthless cartel lords this side of the border. But then, that wouldn't be fair because, despite spending most of his time attending various court appointments, nothing has ever been proven against him and this is America, damn it. You're innocent until proven guilty. Well, except, it seems, in my case, but hey.
"What did you do with the five million," Madrazo asks. That makes me laugh. I'd laugh so hard it hurt if the dude in the suit didn't punch me again to shut me up.
"What did you do with the five million," Madrazo insists again.
This time, I just shake my head. "S'funny, I'd been thinking of asking you the same thing," I say. Why does my voice sound so weird? Oh yeah, his interrogator's broken my nose.
Now Madrazo steps up. Not close enough I can see him, I can just make out his vague presence behind the damn light.
"You're accusing me of ripping off my own money?"
"I thought about it," I admit. "But then I thought better of it."
You're damn straight I thought better; this guy's a nut job. Which still makes him my #1 suspect but there's a whole self-preservation thing stopping me from turning over that particular stone. However, it does add weight to one theory; he was the one running the primary hit on the truck.
"Why did you return," Madrazo asks, changing tack.
"Who told you? The Lieutenant?" The suit punches me again while Madrazo asserts that he's the one asking the questions.
Cogs are turning in my head. The Lieutenant works, or worked for Madrazo, and Candace Butler works for The Lieutenant, so there's a fair chance he sent her under into Madrazo's operation, but then why? Unless he's looking for a way to get himself out of Madrazo's pocket, but if that was the case it'd be far easier to kill him and, anyway, Ray's in a comfy position… isn't he?
I get another punch. "I'm waiting for an answer, a$$hole," Madrazo snaps.
"Someone framed me. I want to know who," I spit. Convincingly, because it's partially true. True enough for Madrazo to shove the suit out of the way and bend down in front of me so I can finally see him properly.
"You are the one who had the easiest opportunity to murder the crew," he accuses.
That gets me angry. "I got ten grand for making sure the path was clear for the truck to take its detour. Easiest ten grand I ever made, and the promise of more where that came from. Paid cash, used bills so I didn't even need to figure out how to launder the damn stuff. I did my job, they drove past, I left. Next day I get up to go to work and see on the news I'm a wanted man."
Madrazo stares hard at me for a long time. Uncomfortably long. I think he's going to kill me right there himself.
"I'll be in touch," he finally says and straightens up, steps back out of the light. "Hurry up and find my money."
Suit steps back in and punches me right in the face and finally the light goes out.
When I come round, Madrazo, his goons, the chair, the light, my clothes and my gun are gone. My phone and car keys lie in the middle of my curled form, and the "rental" is waiting just outside the abandoned ruin out in the middle of the god-forsaken nowhere they'd dragged me to for this little conversation, but otherwise it's just me on the floor in my boxer shorts.
It doesn't take me long to work out that Madrazo already knew I didn't have the money; I managed that shortly after the pain of resetting my own nose wore off.
How can I be so sure, you ask? Simple; if he had in any way suspected otherwise I'd likely have never left the ruin. At least not without a brand new permanent disability.
As it is, I'm not even missing any teeth, although as I feel around my mouth to check I decide it might be wise not to eat anything too taxing for a few days. Which reminds me I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday.
The phone rings just as I slide into the car. "You're a heavy sleeper for a fugitive," Lester sneers. A quick glance at the phone reveals I have a couple of missed calls from him trying to warn me.
"Thanks anyway," I say when I've put the handset back to my ear.
Truth be told, my first comfortable bed in years got the better of me. Either that or I'm nowhere near as good at this lifestyle as I thought I was. "Listen, Lester, I'm gonna need some help…"
"You're going to need a babysitter. Lucky for you, creepy Uncle Lester has already pulled some strings, but they aren't going to come for free. You probably want to argue that you're doing your own thing, but without my help you might as well lie down in front of your car and wait to die.."
"Fine, Lester, I'm listening."
"Good. Now, there's a rumour that you weren't a half bad detective back before the thing people allege you did…"
"Whatever man, just give me the details."
"Well, the good news is you aren't far from where the man we're after is believed to be hiding. Do you think you can find your way into Sandy Shores?"
I check the fuel gauge. "Yeah, just about."
"Then I'll email you the details when you get into town. Put some pants on."
I'm going to ask another stupid question but Lester's already gone.
Sandy Shores is just the opposite side of the lake I can see from my vantage point. I cruise around slowly until I see some battered men's jeans and a blue short-sleeve work shirt on a washing line in an area outside a trailer home that resembles a makeshift yard. I grab them quickly and then dive back into the car and punch it. Driving barefoot is a pain in the a$$ though.
I pull up in the parking lot behind a 24/7 convenience store and my phone buzzes to let me know I have an email. I load up the picture and then read Lester's notes.
The target's one Keith Jared, wanted for jumping bail for a small time assault charge. Nobody's bothered that the guy skipped, that's small fry. What's really important is that he knows about a lucrative bookmaking operation out of East Los Santos, and has a habit of trying to make himself sound like a big man to the wrong people by mouthing off about stuff he should keep schtum about.
Lester's "client" wants to make sure he doesn't go giving the operation away to anyone that might try and muscle in because they depend on discretion and a turf war would be too costly, even if they won.
I take a few steps around in the burning dust, look around the place. It's mostly made of trailers and lean-tos. A gas station and a bar are the only permanent looking structures in one direction, the convenience store and a branch of Ammu-Nation the other. I'm tempted to go get some boots from the gun store but I have no cash, and you don't mess with the clerk in a weapons store. Particularly when you're unarmed.
The bar looks like a good place to start. It's not far, but the dust's hot and, after last night's rain, not pleasant to walk on either, so I drive on up and reverse-park to the right of the door in case I have to make a quick getaway.
There's a rag tag of people sat at the bar, mostly ignoring each other. They throw shifty glances in my direction, quickly look away too when I walk in. At the back of the place, four bikers are playing pool. Funny, cos there are no hogs parked outside. Damn it, no, there was a black van which should have been a give-away. I wanna make it out before anyone tags me but I'm too late.
"Nice shoes ese," one of them taunts.
Ese? He's even milkier white than I am; I'm surprised he's not beetroot with sunburn.
His friends now divert their attention from the table. They see an easy target and they're wondering if I've got anything left to steal.
I point to his boots. "I was just thinking the same about yours. Holmes" That gets a chuckle from one of the bikers, but Milky's face gets serious. He moves to step towards me but the guy right at the back says "Connor," which stops him. He must be the leader, and now he's turned his attention to me. "That's your car outside?"
"Hell no," I admit.
"I'm curious. How can a man have a stolen car but no shoes, and why on Earth would he come into a bar? I'm assuming you have no money with which to purchase a refreshing, cold beverage, although you look like you might be getting desperate for one. Am I right?"
Two things. One, this f***er's well spoken for a biker. Two, he's astute as well; I'm an alcoholic and I've already been dry for entirely too long. That's negatively impacting my productivity right now.
"I hoped someone might be interested in the wheels," I try.
"But you're a thief."
"Yeah, well, there's a market for anything."
He swirls his finger around so as to indicate all his buddies. "We don't like car thieves."
"You should take a look at it. I think I've done the owner a favour," I say, but I'm flanked now by Milky Conner and a pot-bellied greasy fellow who, without touching me, makes sure I'm herded closer to the pool table.
Now their leader looks at my face and grimaces. "Looks like somebody already tried to teach you a lesson today?"
The fourth biker is perched at the other side of the table, holding a pool cue. He's the chuckler and he's chuckling now. I have one nerve left and he's getting on it. "Looks like he's a slow learner," he pitches.
"Yes indeed," the well-spoken leader agrees, and then he calls out to the rest of the bar "we've got ourselves a car thief here, gentlemen. And this is what The Lost does with car thieves. You're welcome."
I've already helped myself to a red ball from the pool table which I bring up to block the first punch. Pot belly yelps and stumbles back, rubbing his broken knuckles. It hurts my hand a little bit too, but that doesn't stop me from cracking Milky Conner in the nose with it.
But then Chuckles cracks me over the head with his cue which breaks on impact and drops me to the floor.
Milky Conner stamps angrily for my right hand. I manage to shift it out the way just in time and I wrap my arms around his leg and bite into his calf, making him cry out and tumble back onto his a$$. That blocks Chuckles' path to me, buying me a little time. The leader strides around but I'm already scooting backwards, finding my feet and stumbling towards the door. One of the drinkers at the bar tumbles off his stool and I grab it, hold it out as some sort of shield. The biker pulls it from me easily, whips it towards me. I duck out of the way and it breaks into pieces as it hits the bar, but now he's closed the gap he grabs me and punches me in the face.
When the world makes sense again, they're dragging me towards their van, scraping my bare feet across the dust, scratching them up to hell.
Their windshield shatters a split second before the soundwave of a high-velocity scope rifle reaches us, making them stop and I'm dropped to the floor like a sack of mouldy potatoes, and then a mechanical voice booms from the cellphones in their pockets telling them to make themselves scarce; that there'll be no further warning.
I get a kick in the ribs from the leader who bends down and tells me "this ain't over sh*thead," before all of them scramble into the van and screech out from the parking lot.
Jesus Christ, I don't think I'm gonna survive until sunset. I'm struggling to stand up when a brunette in a metallic white T-shirt, black zippered leather pants and knee-boots strides into the parking lot. She clutches a scope rifle in one hand and drags me to my feet by the scruff of the neck with the other. She's not exactly slender, but she's not exactly fat either.
Put simply; f*** yeah.
"Thanks," I say when I'm on my feet. She huffs and turns away, checking through her scope that the bikers are still retreating while my phone buzzes angrily.
"Forget what I said earlier, the rumours are obviously false," Lester's nasal voice grates.
"Thanks for the cavalry. Who's the lady?"
"You don't need to know and if you know what's good for you, you won't try asking her. I'd say she's got more balls than you but it doesn't look like you have any."
"I don't know, I took out two of them with a pool ball," I say in my defence.
"How very heroic. You owe her for the bullet." And then Lester hangs up.
Walking back into the bar was fun. Everybody fell off their stools and scurried back. I couldn't help but grin. The… woman… behind the bar pulled out a sawn-off, pointed it in my direction and was about to say something along the lines of "you git on outta here," but I held up my phone with the picture of Keith Jared filling the screen to shut her up, gave her a (lopsided, bloody) smile, and slowly moved the phone around to show the screen to the rest of the patrons.
"Don't worry, I'll be gone just as soon as one of you fine folks tells me where I might find Keith Jared."
Silence. Stone faces all around. On cue, the brunette makes her entrance.
The… woman… swings her shotgun round to focus on her. The brunette gives the merest glance in her direction, but then faces down the bar patrons. The… woman… starts to shake. I pounce.
"Talk," I snap. The brunette very quickly snatches the sawn-off from her grip, in the same motion spins round it so it's not exactly pointed at her, but it's not pointed away from her either.
"Talk," I say, more softly.
"He ain't been in here for months an' he ain't welcome here," the… woman… snarls.
It's subtle, but one of the drinker's curls his lip. I turn my attention to him. "Something to add there, fella?"
"Yeah, ah know that sack'o'shee-it," he spits. "Use'ta knock around with Tammy-Lyn, got her all f***ed up on the junk. Marge kicked him out for puttin' his hands on 'er. That was las' year, 'fore she got threw in the clink for knockin' over that liquor store. 'f you find him at her place, you be sure to give him a beatin' for me."
"Nice. You have an address?"
"'S'a trailer," he says. "Right along the road from the store she tried to rob, the one with the soda machine ousside."
True to my word, just like that, I leave. The brunette opens the shotgun, spills the shells on the floor and throws it back to the… woman… before striding out after me.
We spot the liquor store on a dirt road that runs along the lakefront. Two rednecks are drinking beer in the parking lot, one leaning against a BF Injection that's been souped up for off-roading with massive tractor tyres on the back, the other sitting side-saddle on a quad bike. No sign of our boy there, but it has the green Sprunk soda machine outside so we know it's the place.
The road takes us down past an abandoned restaurant with a faux ship's hull sticking out from the top until finally we come back to the bar and its surrounding shanty town of trailers and tin homes. We cruise a few times around the block in the "rental". The brunette doesn't say a word the whole drive, but she tore off the sagging headliner and threw it out the window right after she got in the car.
On our fourth trip round the town I spot something, clothes on a washing line in a makeshift backyard. I pull up the picture of Jared on my phone and check out the shirt; the one flapping on the line looks similar to the one he's wearing in the photo. I pull to the side of the road and the brunette slips out of the car, disappearing into the maze of rusting metal while I clamber over the fence and take a closer look at the clothes. Yep, they're a definite match. I creep up to the trailer now, peer in through the window but I can't see anything. I gently try the door; locked.
"What're you doin'," a woman demands from behind me, nearly making me soil myself in alarm. I whirl around to see a grey-haired old lady with a round belly and a dirty apron staring at me. "What you doin' at Tammy-Lyn's place? Lookin' to rob her while she ain't home? Or you jus' some vagrant lookin' for a place to squat?"
I spread my hands, smile to show her I mean no harm. "I'm looking for a fellow, a Keith Jared. You seen him around here?"
"That no good sunnuva weasel, you a friend o' his you can get right on outta here right now 'fore I call the cops."
"No, no." I smile again. "Jared's skipped bail. I wondered if he might've come here to hide. That's his shirt, no?"
She scowls at the clothes, then at me. "I ain't seen him. You ain't one a' the normal bounty hunters. You always work barefoot or you tryin' to make some crack at us bein' all poor folk out here?"
"I, uh, had a difficult morning," I concede. "If you see him, I'd be grateful if you'd give me a call. Have you got a pen so I can give you my number?"
"What, you don't got a card?"
Damn it, this woman's astute. "No… like I said, tough morning."
She stares at me a second longer, then shuffles off back inside her own trailer. I wonder if she's forgotten me and stand awkwardly wondering what to do before, finally, she comes back out clutching a pad and pencil. I give her my cell number, thank her, and make my way back to the "rental".
A second or two later the brunette slides in leisurely beside me. "Now what," she demands.
"Now you're gonna buy me some damn breakfast."
There's a hot dog stand right across from the convenience store I pulled into when I first arrived in Sandy Shores. While I'm eating, the brunette goes to the gun store and when she returns she heavily drops a pair of hiking boots on the table, nearly squashing my third hot dog. I don't know how, but she's got the right size. "I'm taking all this out of your cut," she spits, then returns to wait in the passenger seat of the "rental".
She's trying to be cold but, I gotta be honest, she's getting me hot. I pull on the boots, take my time finishing my food and my soda and then I stroll back over to the car.
"Old bitch ain't gonna call you," she says as I get in.
Ah. There it is. She's been trying to hide it but she either is or has been Involved. As in, with one of the street gangs that plague the inner city.
"Not until he's on the move," I reply.
"Huh? What makes you think she'd grass him when he's outside the trailer?"
"The clothes on the line," I say. "They're the same ones from the photo. So they're likely the clothes he had on when he went to the clink-"
"How's this relevant," she interrupts.
"Let me finish," I argue. "Unless Tammy-Lyn has a new guy living in her trailer, which I doubt from what we learned at the bar, she isn't likely to have any other men's clothes there. If there is another guy there..."
"Then he wouldn't stand for some ex coming around and taking his clothes," she concedes.
"Right. So either he's inside her trailer while his only set of clothes dries or else he's walking around naked. Ergo, 'old bitch' knows he's in there. It was clear she didn't like him, but I think she's still trying to look after Tammy-Lyn and her place."
"Then why aren't we busting the door down and dragging his bare ass back to civilisation? I hate this hick sh*t."
"Discretion," I remind her. "That's why they called Lester, right? They don't want anyone looking too hard at Keith Jared or at what happens to him."
"Right," she agrees, getting it. "Nor do they want him running his mouth."
My phone buzzes. I check it, don't recognise the number.
"Alright, we're on" I say and ease the car away from parked, head West, back towards the liquor store.
The brunette spots Jared walking across the dirt ahead of us, nearly there. The rednecks are still hanging around outside.
"Stop the car," the brunette instructs. I want to argue, but I already know it'll be pointless. She slips out and instructs me to go pick him up before he opens his trap. I pull up into the lot where Jared is already talking animatedly to the two guys. Bet you can't guess what he's talking about?
I've already drawn the attention of the two rednecks. The guy leaning against the BF Injection has a bottle of beer in his hand. The quad biker has a handgun tucked into the back of his pants and the two of them are stood flanking Jared so that he's caught between them, the BF and the wall of the store. They're all suddenly very quiet as they watch me. BF guy asks Jared if he knows me. Jared shakes his head slightly, but all three sets of eyes stay on me.
So I make a show of staggering across the lot, stumbling, using the wall for balance, head my way past 'em and tumble through the door at the front of the store, while the three of them start to laugh.
The rednecks whoop and holler encouragement as I stagger my way in and I squint back at them with my most humble sh*t-eating grin.
There's a tough-looking native-American at the counter. He warns me right from the off that he's got his eye on me, so I go right up and ask him what he knows about the rednecks outside. Turns out they have a penchant for trouble and a tendency to scare off most of his other customers that might actually buy stuff rather than shoplifting it. There's about ten of 'em that gang together but these two seem to be the main stirrers. So I ask him, help me help you.
"I don't want trouble," he complains.
"Me neither," I assure him.
He sighs, clearly not believing me. "What do you need," he asks, exhaustedly.
"Chase me out," I say, before lifting a bottle of vodka and a fire extinguisher, and pushing my way backwards through the door. I stumble and blink in the light, for the rednecks' benefit and the shopkeeper chases me to the door hurling abuse, stopping when he gets to the threshold and seeing the rednecks falling about laughing at me. "Whatcha got there," Quad Bike jeers as I stagger triumphantly towards my car.
I cradle the bottle to me and bark "mine!"
BF guy turns his head to the storekeeper and says "hey Bill, he's got yer fire exting'isher. Ain't that like a health code v'olation or summin?"
"Yeah," Quad Bike adds, following me. "We don't wanna get burned down while we buyin' beer in your 'stablishment." Now he turns his attention to me. "Come on drunk, you gotta give back what you stole."
I drop the vodka, hoping the bottle doesn't break and give Quad Bike a face full of foam from the extinguisher. Give him a sharp kick while he's down and force him over so I can get the gun.
BF guy has now pulled his piece and his shot hits the extinguisher, knocking it out of my hand as foam sprays out of the hole he's just put in it. I fire back but I miss and now he's grabbed Jared and using him as a human shield as he backs the both of them back towards the Injection. "You ain't takin' him," BF guy yells. "He's told us all about his little scam and it's just the thing me an' the boy's…"
The front and rear windows of his Injection shatter and BF guy falls down dead as the sound of the shot reaches us, pinning Jared to the ground under his corpse.
Quad Bike struggles to push himself up onto his feet, utters "sh*t," so I'm forced to pop one into his skull too.
Bill the shopkeeper really loses his sh*t and starts yelling then but I'm too busy pulling a catatonic Jared out from under BF guy whilst struggling with my own conscience.
The sound of approaching motorcycles alerts us all. Billy disappears back into his shop, turns the sign to closed and pulls the shutters down. Jared's about to say something so I knock him out and try not to panic as I drag him to the front of the Injection – the engine in this thing is in the back, so the trunk is under the hood. Lucky for me, BF guy's one of those morons that kept his keys in the sunvisor. I grab 'em, pop the hood and throw Jared in, then slam it shut.
I look back to where the bottle of Vodka fell. It's under the spent extinguisher, shattered into pieces. What a waste.
I hop into the Injection, fire it up, plant my right foot and get it roaring across the plains just as The Lost MC start to appear en masse on the horizon. They've got speed on me, but I've got big wheels and offroad capability so I keep my foot hard on the floor and the compass on the dashboard pointed vaguely South, ignoring Jared as he starts to bang and shout under the hood. In the rearview, I see The Lost stop at the liquor store.
Then the "rental" explodes.
Who the hell rigged it? Lester? The brunette?
Or could it have been Madrazo?
There's a ding against the rear bodywork that sends me dropping forward in the driver's seat. A second round hits, then a third, but then I'm out of their range. I keep my foot on the floor and aim to lose myself in the hills.
Sh*t. Bill the shopkeeper saw my face. It probably won't take 'em long to work out who I am. Cold dread grips me, but I can't let that slow me down. I need to square up with Lester, find Candace and get the hell back out of town.
The sun's going down, scorching the clouds pink as the city rolls into view over the grassy hills I'm driving over. Traffic in the city will be starting to let up, which is good because the BF isn't exactly subtle. Lester's lock up is on the outskirts of East L.S. so I don't have to roll through many streets before I'm pulling in to a truck yard and round to the back.
The brunette meets me there, leaning against a large black SUV. I stay silent, give her a nod and get a sour face in return as she pulls on black leather gloves and draws a very high-calibre handgun.
I've got the redneck's pistol in my hand and together we quietly flank the front of the BF. I lean in and pop the hood and Jared kicks out. We'd been expecting it so we're not in range and when he stumbles out he comes face to face with the brunette's cannon. If he didn't soil himself on the ride over here, he definitely has done now.
The brunette steps back to the SUV, picks up a black bag from the hood and throws it to me. I force it over Jared's head and then we force him to the floor and bind him with zip ties before she drags him back to his feet and into the lockup.
Lester himself gets out the back of the SUV, limps towards me using his walking stick to hold himself up. "You must be the only a$$hole I've ever hired that could f*** up making breakfast cereal."
I tilt my head, maybe. "I did what you wanted."
"Hmm, by "did what you wanted" you mean bought him here then yes, just about. But now there's a bunch of crazy moonshiners that will be looking into what happened to their brethren, not to mention The Lost MC wondering why somebody would bring a car bomb out to Sandy Shores. I told you this was supposed to be discreet."
He leans into the SUV and brings out a small, battered suitcase which he hands to me. I pop the clips and peek inside to find a new, albeit cheap "entry level" black suit, shirt, clean socks and underwear and a pair of combat boots. There's also another 9mm, this one a squat professional model, five full-metal clips and what looks like a couple of grand in cash.
I've picked up the bundle to gauge it when Lester says "there would have been more but you racked up a few 'expenses'."
I put it back in, refasten the case and nod a thanks. "What have you got on the Lieutenant?"
"Not too much. Your little meet 'n' greet yesterday seems to have encouraged him to pull his socks up and keep his mouth shut. He's spent most of the day doing his actual job."
"Do you know who he's currently working for," I ask.
"Besides the LSPD, he seems to have multiple sources of income so clearly he's in more than one pocket, but I'm not able to pinpoint the source or sources. My assistant Paige is taking a closer look but it's all shell-companies and offshore funds."
"Was that Paige," I ask, nodding towards the lock-up.
"It was not and I told you to let that go," Lester snaps. "It's in your best interests as well as mine and because she's a dangerous psychopath, not because I have any opportunity to… y'know…"
"Yeah, alright," I stop him. Sometimes you need to keep Lester on point. It's in your best interests. As a hacker, he's gold, but he's a bit… well…
Yeah, anyway, the Lieutenant is involved in more than a little bit of extra-curricular activity. That helps my theory that he might be trying to get out of Madrazo's clutches, but who'd have the sway to help him pull that off and, more to the point, who'd go to the trouble?
It'd have to be somebody pretty local because otherwise they'd want Feds, not cops, however highly decorated they might be. Only one guy comes to mind that makes the sort of noise that absolutely, positively confirms he's not making that sort of noise.
"What do you know about Devin Weston," I ask Lester.
"Enough to leave well alone," Lester says. "You know he's a significant investor in Merryweather Private Security?"
No, I did not know that. "Of course," I say. "Does he have any beef with Martin Madrazo?"
"Nothing public. I'll see what I can turn up. You should find somewhere safe to lie low until I have something more for you and my associates and I make arrangements for poor Billy."
"Billy… Bill the shopkeeper? He's dead?"
"You left The Lost a major breadcrumb so we had to make sure they couldn't coax him out of his store."
How… no, I don't want to know. This isn't what I expected of Lester. Sure, he's dangerous with a keyboard, but I didn't think…
Oh, sh*t. I don't know what else to say so I turn around and walk away.
"Hey," Lester calls. "You can't leave this heap of crap blocking my entry!"
I ignore him and keep walking.