For the second time in as many days I'm woken up by somebody buzzing the front door. Harvey's got it before I can even recall where I am, wrapped in the towel he put around me and under the blanket of my bed after he took me from the shower where I'd cried myself unconscious. The unmistakable booming tone of Henry Wood snaps my mind alert.
"Good morning Mr Harvey."
"You aren't taking her," he argues, with admirable conviction.
I can only imagine the look on Wood's face as I scramble out of bed and hurriedly struggle to pull on my clothes.
"Mr Harvey, can I give you some advice," his voice booms. The disdain is well disguised, but it's there.
"No," Harvey snaps. "You said she'd come home last night, safe-"
"Sergeant Coleman is neither your relative or your lover," Wood interrupts, going ahead anyway. "You probably feel your attempts to… protect her are in some way noble-"
"I'm here," I interrupt, hopping down the hall pulling my shoes on. Harvey turns towards me, firearm by his side in his right hand.
"Good morning Sergeant Coleman," Wood beams.
"You don't have to go with him," Harvey says.
"Oh, I'm not providing you a lift today, Sergeant," Wood says and pushes a bag through the narrow gap of door Harvey has allowed open. "I'm just here to deliver your property." The bag contains the unworn new clothes I'd bought yesterday and my service pistol which I'm glad to have back, despite having bought the Vom Feuer and the revolver home with me.
"I'm not working today?"
"Oh, I'm sure you will be," he replies. "You have the numbers for your associates, I'm sure one of them will be happy to drive you in until you have something a little bit more subtle than your… whatever the tank you drive around in used to be."
"So, you're not working today," I ask him. Something's amiss, can't hurt to ask about it. He's not wearing a branded uniform today, but a brown suit with a narrow pinstripe. Cope's suit yesterday was comfort, while Shirazi's was immaculately tailored. Everything about Henry Wood, his height, build, voice, car, radiates understated power, and the suit he's wearing is no different. It's no surprise Harvey's refusing to even speak to him without having a weapon in his hand.
He gives me a raised eyebrow with an amused half-grin. "I'm working closer to SecuroServ than to their VIP's today. Yesterday's little… incident… has resulted in questions being asked. Above all, our organisation needs to ensure its discretion." He turns to go, stops, turns back to me. "I wouldn't recommend Mr Harvey's Glendale. Nicely restored it may be, but it has a certain drug dealer reputation." With that, he walks down the path back to his parked silver Benefactor and drives away. I close the door and turn around to find Harvey still watching from where the living room will be when it gets delivered.
"I'm guessing you weren't a drug dealer," I say.
He shakes his head. "No." Spoil me with details, Harvey. "Listen, I'm not meaning to interfere-"
"Then don't," I say, then realize I might have been abrupt. "I'm sorry. I appreciate you having my back, but I'm a big girl. What happened yesterday was my choice," I add in a softer, but still assertive tone.
He looks away, nods and goes quiet. He seems to be a sensitive sort, but he has had my back so far. I just need to make sure the boundaries are set. When he pushes himself up from the wall he's leaning against he says "I'm going out for breakfast. You can come with me if you want. Otherwise, I can take you to a place I know, sort you out with some wheels, if you don't mind them being a little bit… second hand."
"Second hand, I can work with," I accept and put a hand on his arm for a second. "I'm just gonna freshen up and then we can go get some food, okay?"
Breakfast is from a chain coffee shop in Mission Row across the street from Legion Square which during daylight hours is far more friendly and inviting. I'm watching out the window as Harvey queues for coffee and assorted processed snacks labelled as food. There are no signs of the debauchery that goes on after dark as I watch business people and merchants trying to ignore the few homeless people that wander this far south from the bus station. I'm staring at their faces, wondering if I might recognise any of them when Harvey puts a tray laden with our breakfast onto the little table and drops into a seat opposite me.
"You were a cop," I guess.
He smiles, a little awkwardly. "I was."
"A good one?"
He takes a sip of coffee, burns his lip and hisses an "ouch," and checks he's not spilled over himself before answering "not really." I stare at him until he relents. "I got forced out on the day I was accused of doing something I didn't do."
"Which was," I ask, insistently, before my phone chimes.
"Killing a heist crew and stealing an armored truck carrying five million dollars," he says plainly, like, no big deal.
"Jesus," I say, almost involuntarily. Partially at what Harvey's telling me and partially at the message I've just received from SecuroServ; for my services yesterday, they've just wired me $9500!
"Yeah," he agrees, oblivious, his own mind wandering back down the proverbial memory lane.
"Obviously you cleared your name," I guess, quickly stuffing the phone back into the left pocket of my new jeans that I'm wearing, along with the leather jacket and ash-colored T-shirt I got yesterday. They feel quite stiff and restrictive. I'm guessing, and hoping, they must give a little as you wear them in. "Otherwise you'd be on the run, right?"
He tilts his head to one side, working out how to answer. "They tried to prosecute me, but they had no case. They got me on a trespass charge instead but the evidence went missing, and since the only cop who seemed to have seen it turned out to be dirty…"
"Wait," I say, holding up a hand. "Where were you trespassing?"
He grins at me. "The station I used to work."
"What," I exclaim, incredulously. A couple of people turn their head briefly in our direction in annoyance. I lean across the table and speak in low tones "you're wanted for a high profile robbery and you get caught trespassing in the one place the cops are most likely to be on alert for you?"
He tries again with his coffee, more successfully this time. "There was a bit more to it," he tries to explain. "But yeah. Like I said, the case fell apart, but I'm not going to get to be a cop ever again." I start tucking into some of the food in front of me, a concoction of pastry, icing, dried… fruit? I guess?... and cinnamon. It tastes better than I want to admit but the coffee isn't worth a damn and certainly not the price that the boards above the counter suggest Harvey has just paid for it. I'm chewing when Harvey adds "I do still get some of the perks."
After we've eaten the majority of the foodstuffs and I've drank as much of the overpriced dishwater coffee as I can bear, Harvey takes me in the Glendale to a garage in Burton with a logo spraypainted in purple over its shutter door. It opens partially and a balding, heavyset guy wearing a red and white check shirt and denim cargo shorts groans at the sight of Harvey. "What's wrong with you now," he complains.
Harvey raises his arm across his stomach to point at me. "My friend needs some wheels. I wondered if you had a… what do you call it, a 'trade-in' you wanted rid of?"
The guy scowls, purses his lips like he's about to curse Harvey seven ways until sundown but instead he shakes his head and stomps back into the garage. Harvey invites me to head in first so I do, and he follows. The guy pulls a tarp off a car at the back of his shop, an old Japanese coupe that's definitely seen better days. It has a set of six-spoke wheels in a candy red that contrast sharply with the dirty white bodywork and the stained interior, and probably would cost more on their own than the whole car was worth.
It was possibly the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "What is it," I ask, trying not to sound revering. The guy arches an eyebrow, looks across at Harvey who shrugs.
"I know it's in rough shape," he complains, "but this is where the smart money will be in the next couple years. Older model Annis Elegy."
"It's not gonna collapse on her and leave her sat on the freeway is it," Harvey asks.
"F*** you man," the guy complains at him, then turns to me. "Let me show you," he says and guides me around the car. "It came in last week. I've already done the plates and the VIN," he explains, then pops the hood with two external catches and raises it. "As you can tell, the motor isn't exactly stock. Getting it out of a current model Elegy wasn't a walk in the park… come down here," he goes on, crouching down and then lying on his back, producing a torch from his breast pocket. I set myself down on the ground with him and let him show me the underside. "The body's a little tired but it's solid, man," he says. I know enough of working on the Imponte with my Dad to see he's telling me the truth; there's no rot under here or in the arches, and when I check the dipstick in the engine, the oil is clean. There's no white residue under the oil cap either. "How much," I ask, trying to keep my voice level. In spite of myself, in spite of everything I've ever been taught, damn it I want this car.
"Well, I paid seventy-two hundred for it, but I've got at least thirty-three and a half in the engine," the guy starts.
"Get out of here, that's extortion," Harvey interrupts.
"You should talk," the guy scoffs. "And last I heard, you ain't a cop no more."
Harvey gives him a wry smile. "Oh, does that make street racing in a stolen car legal?"
The guy curses. So that's how Harvey's got him. "When does this statute of limitation bullsh*t expire?"
"We've got plenty of time," Harvey assures him.
The guy looks to the car, then to me, back to the car. "Alright," he concedes. "Cost price on the engine was ten-five. I need to make a little profit. I can go down to fifteen."
Harvey is going to argue, to try and squeeze the guy further, but I'm realising he could be an asset That's my excuse, at least. "I'll take it," I say.
Shaun raises an eyebrow at me while the guy suddenly gets real grateful, writes me down his number in case I have any problems, but I still know something Harvey doesn't; another day like yesterday and the car's already bought and paid for, with gas money. My phone starts buzzing as the guy chatters something about making me a pink slip.
"Good morning Sergeant Coleman, it's Eliza. I'm hoping you'll be coming back into the office today?"
"Sure," I say. "Just picking myself up some wheels."
"That's good to hear," she says. "Mr Jefferies has another business arrangement that we would appreciate your help overseeing."
The guy is handing me a, literally, pink slip when I terminate the call and push the phone back into my pocket. "Are we done here," he asks Harvey.
Harvey nods, then turns to me and asks "work?"
"Yep. I gotta go. Thank you for this," I say, as much to the guy as to Harvey.
The car is as exciting to drive as it had looked, and just blasting it between traffic lights is enough to put a smile on my face. Fortunately my phone doubles as a navigation system so I'm able to find a gas station to brim the tank, which I'm pretty sure it's gonna drink through quickly, and then I head to the office, joining the other three at Jefferies' board table at oh-nine fifty-four, and I've already abandoned the leather jacket on the passenger seat of the Elegy, it's way too hot.
Eliza connects her laptop to a large flatscreen TV and brings up a map of Los Santos. "Okay, today we have a cargo being flown in. Get to the drop off and light a flare so they'll know you're there. The plane will then circle around and drop the crates by parachute. Get them into the van, two of you inside, two escorting. There should be three crates. Get them to the backup warehouse location here," and she brings up an out-of-the-way location out in Davis. "With The Lost aware of our main warehouse, we've had to quickly invest in some smaller properties to hide our goods. Once they're inside, we'll need you to take shifts guarding it until the sale is negotiated."
"What are we collecting," Cope asks.
"You don't need to know," Jefferies snaps. He's wearing jeans and a shirt today but it's only partially buttoned and he's barefoot. "Just get my cargo and get it where it's going so I can finally make some god-damn money!"
Eliza makes herself as small as she can as she unhooks and collects up her laptop while the rest of us stand and make our way to the elevators. "I'll be watching the transaction, as usual," she calls after us before Jefferies yells something at her and she scurries off to satisfy whatever whim it was he wanted serving.
"How are you feeling today, Sergeant," Shirazi asks me as the elevator doors close to begin our descent. He's wearing a slim-fitting dark blue suit with an iridescent sheen to it, black shirt, with oxblood shoes, belt and pocket-handkerchief.
"Fine," I reply, attempting to ward off further conversation. It doesn't work.
"Hope they paid you," Rayhan Cope adds, clearly mistaking my business demeanour for a bad mood. He's in charcoal trousers and waistcoat, with a white shirt and a charcoal tie and he's carrying a matching jacket.
"They paid me," I admit. "I was very surprised actually."
"We all are," Aneesha Stamp cuts in. She's wearing black pants, patent black heels and a smoky gray blouse with a single frill running down it's centre. "Good job it's down to the company and not to Jefferies, or it'd be another story."
"Yeah," Shirazi agrees. "If he ever actually wrote us a cheque, it'd bounce."
The elevator doors open and we step out into the underground parking lot. "You're riding with me," Cope tells me and leads me towards an olive green Bravado Rumpo van, a long-wheelbase window van modified with raised suspension and large all-terrain tyres. He gets in the shotgun seat, so I guess I'm driving. Shirazi is driving the black Sultan we'd got from the storage facility yesterday and Stamp is in her white Feltzer, and I follow the two of them out of the lot onto the street before they lead me through city traffic that, whilst it has eased slightly after the rush hour, wouldn't be noticeably better to anyone not local to Los Santos.
Cope asks me for my phone and sets the GPS before securing it into a dashboard mount so I can see a highlighted route. "That's the directions to the warehouse," he explains. "When we've got the cargo in the van, follow that route and don't stop for anything."
"Are we expecting trouble on this run," I ask as I push the van hard to keep up with Stamp and Shirazi. They've got a knack for deftly weaving through the traffic which is fine in their high-powered coupes, but the van is noticeably heavier and more lethargic.
"Given Jefferies' luck this past couple weeks or so, I'd expect trouble if he went out to buy groceries," Cope grimaces, checking in the wing mirror his side, and then leaning forwards to glance up into the sky.
"Is it The Lost, every time," I ask him, then curse and pull sharply right on the wheel as the van almost side-swipes an expensive German saloon in the left lane.
"Not every time, but mostly," he confirms.
"Who's the leak," I ask, earning myself a dirty look.
"I'd say you, but you've only just showed up," he complains, then looks away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be harsh. Just… I trust those guys, alright? If someone's leaking intel, it's not one of them."
I tilt my head to one side, chew my lip like my Dad and then my Drill Sergeant both used to give me sh*t for. "That only leaves Eliza or Wood."
"I know," he sighs. "And I don't like either of them any better for it."
"Jefferies won't be ripping himself off," I argue.
He runs a hand up the back of his head under his hair. "Whatever's going on, there's more to it than meets the eye," he agrees. "Game face on, we're nearly there."
We're coming up to the East Vinewood racetrack. Stamp and Shirazi have pulled a bit of a lead on us but then Eliza comes over the speaker on my phone.
"Something's gone wrong, the plane is coming down! Authorities are already alerted, get there fast!"
"Sh*t," Cope curses loudly and grabs a carbine rifle from the back seats, checks it's loaded and clicks off the safety as I floor the pedal and abandon any attempts at being careful with the thing. The two cars head South, back towards the city and as we turn to follow them we can see the plane falling from the sky, smoking heavily from its starboard engine before it disappears behind the hills.
"It's coming down behind the dam, hope you're ready for some offroading," says Cope, checking all around us for any signs of incoming threats.
First Shirazi smashes his way through a traffic barrier, and then Stamp follows. I'm through it a couple of seconds later but they're already building a head start around the dirt road that'll take us around the hill and into a bowl at the Land Act Reservoir. Rumor has it there's a nuclear bunker here, leftover from the Cold War, but I don't know anybody who claimed to ever have actually been in it. Finally we see the plane, and the shrill wailing of sirens isn't far behind us. Shirazi is out of his car clutching an assault rifle, sweeping it around in all directions while Stamp approaches the plane peering over a handgun that appears similar to the Vom Feuer I took home with me this morning. Cope sprints across to her while I find a carbine rifle in the back and join Shirazi in looking for threats. Cope and Stamp have only just got the plane's hatch open when those threats make themselves known.
"Contact West," I warn and open fire as shots bounce off the plane's hull, narrowly missing my colleagues who are both scurrying for cover, Stamp sprinting back towards her car, Cope ducking inside the plane and joining me and Shirazi in returning fire to cover her.
"Time is against you, you need to get that cargo ASAP," Eliza pleads over our headsets.
"Then get us a f*****g visual and tell us where to shoot," Cope demands from inside the plane. He fires another couple of volleys and then turns his attention to dragging one of the crates towards the hatch.
"Stamp," I call, in between firing bursts. "Come over here and move the van closer!"
"What? Why me," she complains.
"Because your gun doesn't have the range," I yell. I see her curse, but she knows I'm right. "Okay, Shirazi, Cope, we're going to cover her, okay?"
"Concentrate your fire at about 24 degrees West," Eliza advises.
I sweep my rifle in the direction and I see them. "Now," I yell and we open fire while Stamp darts over to join me at the van, surprisingly quick and agile for the heels she's wearing. Even without my leather jacket I'm feeling very hot already, and it's making my body feel even heavier. Maybe it's the injuries I got yesterday.
"Oh, sh*t," Shirazi curses as Stamp drops down next to me behind the cover of the van. "Stamp, Cope, check it out."
Cope peers around the hatch of the plane briefly, ducks his head back in and agrees quietly "oh, sh*t!"
"What," I demand as the return volley pelts our cars, the plane, the van.
"That's another SecuroServ detail," Shirazi explains. "Angelica Cunningham. Jayden Quinn."
"Abraham Wheeler," Cope adds.
"And Eddie Ross. Ant Macfarland's detail," Stamp finishes, matter-of-factly.
"F*ck," Shirazi complains.
"It makes no difference," Stamp snaps back at him. "You answer to your VIP first and foremost. All other considerations are secondary, remember?"
I get the sense the men are going to argue with her but we're interrupted over our headsets by Jefferies angrily calling Eliza a bitch before she cries out. I'd been no happier than they were about going up against colleagues from another detail, but now I feel a surge of rage and I have to pour it into firing a return volley in order to maintain control both of my emotions and of the situation. The rapid fire of my carbine scarcely drowns out Jefferies' barrage of verbal and physical abuse and Eliza's pleading, before she makes it back to the mic and quickly tells us "cops are responding to shots fired, you need to get out of there no-"
"You need to get my cargo," Jefferies yells at us, as we hear her crying out in pain again.
I look around the faces of my colleagues and quickly see we're all on the same page. "Jefferies," I demand, as calmly as I possibly can under the circumstances. "Can you track police movements?"
"What? That's not my f*****g job," he starts to snap.
"Then put Eliza back on the comm and don't interfere with her work again or you and me are really gonna have a problem," I tell him.
All of us can feel the tension of his rage over the airwaves. But finally he relents. "Get me my f*****g cargo," he screams. A few seconds later, Eliza's back, trying to reassert herself.
"G-guys, whatever your planning, do it now," she says. We don't need her to tell us the other crew are abandoning their assault; we can see them retreating for ourselves. The wail of sirens is piercing the air, we don't have time for plan A, or B, probably not even C.
"Eliza, keep watching those cops," I order before glancing in turn at each member of my own team and ordering "abort."
Jefferies starts another foul mouthed tirade so I rip my headset off. Cope dives into the van with me as I climb back into the driver's seat and gun it back towards the highway. Two cop cars are coming straight for us and I aim the van between them, keep my foot planted on the gas pedal.
"F***," Cope curses and drops as low in his seat as he can. I do the same as one of the cops gets out the passenger side of the car and splinters our windshield with his shotgun, but then we're through, almost ploughing headfirst into the trailing fire engine. I swerve us around that and then have to fight then van from going off the edge of the road and plunging down off the drop. Stamp and Shirazi are stuck to our six as we wind our way back down towards the street, but as soon as we hit the tarmac we split up in three different directions as cops swarm in on our location, a couple of ambulances screeching to a stop, unsure what to make of the chaos.
"I hope you know what you're doing," Cope scowls, reloading his weapon.
"We need to lose the heat. Eliza, keep your eye on the crash site. Soon as they move the cargo I want to know what it's in and where it's going."
"Are you insane," Cope explodes. "You want to let the cops take the stuff? What then, we attack them?"
"Yep," I agree. "Trust me. I have just the thing."
It took us longer to lose the cops in the van than it did Stamp and Shirazi in their high-powered performance cars. It's the middle of the afternoon when Cope and I pull up at the house on Sustancia and I raise the garage door so he can see the Imponte.
"Holy sh*t," he appraises. "I reckon that'll do it."
"I'll draw the cops' attention," I explain. "You guys secure the cargo and get it to the drop off."
"There might be a better way to do it," Cope says and turns back towards the van. "Follow me."
He leads me to the Los Santos City Hall on Occupation Avenue in Alta. We park up at meters across the street, pay our parking and cross over. It doesn't take long for Cope's, uh, contact, to head out and spot us. He's immediately nervous, and defensive. Young, attractive in a wiry sort of way with spiked blonde hair, but he has a definite air of femininity about him. "Rayhan, you said I could trust you," he starts.
Cope holds up his hands placatingly. "Easy Dev, easy," he says soothingly.
The guy nods in my direction. "Who's this? Bought her to rough me up if you can't blackmail me, huh?"
I spread my hands and shrug while Cope puts a hand on the young guy's shoulder. "Dev, you've got this all wrong. Hear me out, okay?" When he seems to have calmed down, Cope introduces us. "This is a colleague of mine, Winter Coleman. Winter, this is my friend, Devon Reed. Devon here is one of the programmers for the Los Santos Traffic Control System."
Devon pulls away from Cope and raises his arms, again on the defensive. "Know what, I'm gonna admit to what we did," he blurts. "Wanna ruin my reputation? Whatever. I am who I am. I'll own it."
I'm a little taken aback by how the conversation has turned, and Cope turns briefly to me, holds up his palm to indicate me to hold back and let him deal with it, which I'm obviously gonna do anyway. "Dev, you've got me all wrong. I don't wanna expose you. Well, I do, but just for fun later on, you and me, you know? I'm not going to blackmail you at all, alright?"
"Alright," Devon repeats, uncertainly.
"Alright," says Cope. "Like I told you, I need a favor. A favor for a favor. You give me one red light, I'll give you all the photos and I'll let you delete them off my phone. Only copy I got, I swear down. And we can do it again," he adds, so quiet I can scarcely hear. "I wanna do it with you again…"
Poor Devon's breathing is visibly ragged. "One red light," he stammers.
"That's all," Cope encourages.
"And I get all the pictures."
"All the pictures," Cope assures him.
"You… you really liked it," Devon asks.
"What, you couldn't tell," Cope asks. He's grinning as he turns back to me and whirls a finger around indicating that we're moving out, but he calls back "I'll call you later."
We head down the steps back towards our vehicles. I'm wondering how to phrase my question and he can tell. "That's my private life, Sergeant," he says. "I'd like to keep it that way."
One red light. It's eighteen forty-six when Eliza confirms that the cops have finally loaded the cargo into a truck and it's on the move, heading to the Vinewood precinct. The dirt road to the dam brings them out into East Vinewood right onto Vinewood Boulevard so we only have four intersections to work with. Five, if you count the ramp to the Los Santos Freeway that curves North-East up past the racing track and casino. We don't wanna be too close to the convoy and we don't wanna be too close to the station, we just want to isolate our truck, so I'm waiting in the Imponte at the third intersection, a sidestreet called York Road. The plan is I'm gonna hit the gas when the truck's approaching and force them to swerve into the parking lot for the casino which is straight ahead of me, right opposite where York Road feeds out onto Vinewood Boulevard.
Shirazi's our first spotter at the first intersection. When Cope's friend Devon turns the light red, Shirazi will do all he can to block the street, and the cops' view of it.
Stamp's at the second. She'll basically be giving me the go signal and coming from the rear when I make my move to block off the entrance to the lot.
Cope in the van is waiting at the fourth. He'll be blocking traffic from the West and helping Stamp box in the truck while we convince the cops to give it up.
They're not expecting our attack so it's a simple box truck. Stamp has a carbine for intimidation, but if there needs to be any shooting, I'll be doing it with my taser. I was very firm on that part of the plan; we're not hurting the cops.
The location for this little operation puts me uncomfortably close to The Lost MC clubhouse that SecuroServ shot up the night Inquisitor took me on his tour of the city. They've already torn down the Police Crime Scene tape. Cops are too overrun to ever wrap the case up and The Lost are too wild to keep out of their own turf, too violent to stop seeking their own justice. I have a knot in my stomach anyway. The proximity to them is making me wanna throw up. Call yourself a soldier, Coleman?
Shirazi's voice comes over the headset. "Heads up, down they come." I turn the key in the ignition and the Imponte's supercharged V8 roars to life. "Red light, the tail's trapped," Shirazi confirms a second later.
I slide the car into gear and let off the parking brake, getting ready to plant my foot on the hammer.
"Second intersection," Stamp confirms. "Pulling out."
"I'm at the light," Cope confirms. "Get ready Coleman… Alright, now!"
I plant it. The tyres spin and the back end fishtails for a second, but the car quickly builds speed, too quickly to change its fate as Shirazi yells "blue lights, they've made us!"
The truck's put the hammer down! I hit the brakes but it's too late and I slam helplessly into the centre of the box truck, no doubt wrecking the chassis and rendering the thing undrivable. Shit! Now we're gonna have to unload the cargo into Cope's van!
The cops from the truck are already climbing out as I kick my driver's door open. I'm ready with the taser, but I hear gunshots, realize it's Stamp as sickening clouds of crimson erupt from the driver before she turns the weapon on the squad cars that were escorting the truck. Cope takes out the passenger from the driver's seat of the van before swerving around the Imponte's back end and bringing it to a stop at the rear of the truck. I throw the taser into the passenger seat in frustration, shift the Imponte into reverse and move it to block off the front of the box van in case reinforcements should come from the Vinewood precinct. Then I get out and head towards the rear of the truck to help with the cargo, drawing my service pistol in case there's still police resistance behind us. There isn't. "I told you we weren't hurting the cops," I yell at Stamp who makes a face at me.
"Hold on, I'm trying to jam the cell coverage in your area," Eliza's voice comes through the headset.
Stamp snaps something at me but I'm too furious and my head is spinning too violently to listen to her. I'm helping Cope heave our crates out of the box truck and slide them into his van. We've got the second one in when she grabs me and whirls me around, yells something about me living in cloud cuckoo land.
I'm about to ball my fist and punch her when Shirazi steps between us. "We don't have time for this," he urges. Stamp and I glare at each other for another few seconds before she storms away to the driver's seat of the van and I return my attention to helping Cope with the final crate.
"I know you didn't wanna do that," Cope says, and from the strained tone it sounds like it doesn't sit well with him either.
"Just get to the f*****g warehouse," I say. Shirazi's hanging back awkwardly. "Watch their asses, make sure nobody gets in their way," I tell him. He chews his lip pensively, gives me a curt nod, and heads away to his Sultan.
I'm just climbing into the Imponte when Eliza cries "sh*t, sorry, somebody called on a landline, cops'll be on you-"
She doesn't need to finish. I hear the sirens. A second later I see the cars. I pop a couple of shots off, harmless rounds that will bounce off the bodywork. I just want to make sure I've got their attention. Then I drop into the Imponte, slam the door shut, fire it back up and punch it.
The car has survived the impact but not without some damage. It's pulling to the right and slightly down on power, but I can get onto the Freeway going North with a good lead on the convoy of cops on my six. With no lights, I have a bit of cover of darkness as I exit at the next ramp, back up past the racetrack and pull a left, over the freeway and back South towards the city. It's a good lead, sure, but they're gonna catch up. I need to pull something else outta my a$$.
I'm crossing Vinewood Boulevard again and cops are screaming towards me from my right, zeroing in from the Vinewood precinct to try and cut me off. I keep going South, past the intersection with Spanish Avenue, aiming for Elgin Avenue which can either take me West or South. But that's no good; up ahead, cops are racing Northwards towards me so I'm forced to swing it left around onto Popular Street and then I pull a hard right to take the ramp onto the Elysian Fields Freeway.
The car is struggling. I'm bleeding power and the cops are catching up. I'm considering abandoning it here and seeing if I can get jack another ride. And then I spot my exit.
The road is curving left around to the East, but just as it straightens, there's a broken section where it looks like a car has smashed through the side. It's got a work barrier across it, and a board that will work as a ramp. I have no idea how this is gonna play out, but I mash my foot to the floor and aim for it, giving the car everything it's got.
My stomach joins my heart in my throat as asphalt gives way to thin air. Below me are the lights of the industrial heartland of La Mesa, ahead of me the looming bridge of San Andreas Avenue and now the car starts to fall.
Down it goes. Down such a very long way.
I'm going to die, I think. And then the wheels slam down onto the ground of the Los Santos storm drains. Hard.
The car's still rolling when I come round and all my back, neck and shoulders hurt. With some effort, I'm able to push open the door as smoke billows from under the crumpled hood. I fumble desperately with the harness holding me into the driver's seat until it finally gives way. Flames are now licking out from the engine bay and I can smell the gas tank leaking. I have to use all my limbs to force myself out of the car, falling painfully down onto the hard ground, but I can't let the pain of that slow me down. I force myself up onto my feet and hobble away as fast as I can will myself as the fire completely engulfs the car.
There's a tunnel to my left with heavy graffiti all around it I limp through it as fast as I can manage up the incline until I come out on the street in La Mesa. Only then do I realize Eliza is trying to talk to me through the headset.
"…get Shirazi to break off and pick you up," she's saying.
"No," I urge. "Keep him on the cargo. I'll be in ouch shortly so you can tell me where to rendezvous."
A little way to the North is an old diner. Casey's, the sign above it proclaims. I limp my way to it and head inside, spot the door to the ladies' bathroom and go to clean myself up.
The image in the mirror is not a pretty sight. I'm covered in scabs and bruises from yesterday and I've got fresh blood from my nose running down to a swollen lip under a black eye. My body screams as I stretch my muscles while I wait for the water from the faucet to run warm and then I start to wash myself. I'm still visibly beaten up after I've gotten myself clean. Worse, my T-shirt now sports blood stains too and the leather jacket is still on the passenger seat of my Elegy so I can't cover it up. The La Mesa Police Station isn't far away and it's not going to be long before cops come into the diner searching for me.
My plan to escape is immediately foiled as I make my way back out of the bathroom. "It's for payin' customers only," a dour-faced middle-aged waitress complains at me. "You wanna menu?"
"Sure," I reply, trying not to show my annoyance, or let her cotton on to the fact that I'm scoping out the other patrons. There's a plump middle aged man with a nasally voice arguing with a dark haired woman in a T-shirt decorated with lightning streaks at a booth by the window, both with laptops open in front of them. Another overweight guy wearing tan pants and a check shirt sits alone at a table eating enough food for a family of three and there's a guy in a suit seated at the counter. The waitress is back before I can size him up, yammering something about specials on the board and two of the four pie options being out of stock, and what do I want to drink. I ask for coffee, black, no sugar and lean against the counter to check out the staff. Two guys cooking in back, two waitresses, one significantly younger and friendlier with the overweight guy on his own than the middle aged woman is with me.
But it's not them I'm worried about. I take another sideways glance at the man in the suit. He's staring intently at a menu, but something's not right about him. The clothes are too upmarket for a place like this. I glance behind me and see there's a Grotti Carbonizzare drawing a crowd out front, no less subtle for its white hue. Definitely out of place and when I look back at him, he's staring at me intently with a small black gun in his right hand under the menu.
Finally, I place him. One of the other SecuroServ guys pointed out to me at the reservoir earlier, the one called Eddie Ross. He's standing up now, bringing his gun up in my direction.
"Gun," I yell loudly. If this f*****r's gonna murder me, I want witnesses, but I rush him and pin his gun hand down with my left hand, punch at him with my right. He blocks and headbutts me, forcing me to stagger backwards and my vision temporarily fails as I border on the edge of unconsciousness. I think he's broken my nose. When I come around, the guy in the check shirt is coming to my aid. He's big and looks like he can handle himself, but unfortunately Ross is a professional and can handle himself better. He manages to break himself free from the big guy's bear hug and hits him in the face with the butt of his gun. The younger waitress cries out in horror, distracting Ross enough for me to grab his coffee cup so that when he turns back to me I'm able to throw the hot liquid into his face. He grimaces in pain and staggers backwards and again I make for his gun but he's got enough presence of mind to swing his arm away from me. I aim another couple of punches at him, leading with my left because I'm right handed. The left connects, but he manages to duck the right and fires a shot towards me. I'm fast enough to have seen it coming and duck out of the way. Not so much the dour-faced waitress who collapses to the ground clutching at her midriff as her uniform turns an ugly dark red flood. I look back in horror at Ross whose own expression mirrors mine, but then he raises the gun at me again.
"Freeze," a sharp voice barks, and both of us are distracted. There's a cop in the doorway, his own weapon aimed on Ross. Ross tries to swing the gun in the cop's direction but these guys were already on alert, looking for me; the cop's instincts kick in and he puts two bullets into Ross fractions of a second before Ross gets his own shot off. The cop collapses, screaming, as blood erupts from his shoulder. Ross is dead, both rounds having drilled straight into his skull. It's only a few seconds before the cop's partner is with him in the doorway, yelling at us over the sights of his own gun not to move before helping his buddy up and out of the line of fire. Quickly I search Ross' corpse, finding his car keys and then I turn my attention to stemming the flow of blood from the waitress' wound, yell at the younger one to get me napkins or a first aid kit. She returns with both and I package the exit wound from the first aid kit before applying pressure to the entry point. "Put your hands here," I instruct the young waitress in a firm tone of voice so in her shellshocked state she simply does as she's told. The cop comes back in just as I'm straightening up. "Alright, an ambulance is one the way, what the hell happened here," he demands.
"I saw this guy pull a gun," I reply, pointing at Eddie Ross' corpse. "I don't know if he was gonna rob the place but he pointed it right at me."
"That's right," a voice from the corner booth chips in. The cop and I both look in the direction it came from and we see the woman in the lightning T-shirt standing up. I'm not sure why she's adding credence to my story, but nonetheless I appreciate it. "We saw the whole thing."
"Right," the cop says uncertainly, turning back to me. "So, you, what, decide the best thing to do is attack him head-on?"
"Hey, she tried to help us," the big guy in the check shirt adds.
My Dad didn't raise no victim I want to say, but I don't. "I panicked… I just… I just got away from a guy like that," I say, quietly. Immediately the lie has the desired effect. I feel bad for pulling this sh*t but I can't get boxed in here, so desperate measures.
"Oh, Jesus," sighs the cop, while the trucker's face falls. Before either of them can offer me a hug, I hold up my phone.
"Officer, I gotta check on my kid, I need to call the babysitter, I need to make sure they're okay and let them know…"
"Sure, you can step outside. Just don't leave until I've got your statement and your details, alright," he interrupts, before turning his attention to the waitress still trying to hold the life inside her boss, where I abandoned her. "Can you tell me what you saw?"
I ignore her stammered, scared reply, push outside, use the key I'd stolen from Ross to unlock the door of the Grotti and perch side-saddle on the driver's seat as I attach the headset over my ear.
"Sergeant Coleman," Eliza starts.
"Everybody watch you're a$$," I interrupt. "One of Ant Macfarland's crew just tried to kill-"
I don't get to finish. I hear a gunshot and Cope curses "Jesus Christ," followed by the noise of the van's engine being revved hard.
"Sh*t, ambush at the drop-off," Shirazi cries. "Looks like they got Stamp!"
I climb properly into the Grotti, spark up the engine and reverse it as fast as it will go out into the street before I've even slammed the door closed. "Eliza, get me to where they are," I scream.
"Okay, you wanna head South," she says and her voice is strained, like she's about to cry. I turn the wheel full lock to the right and punch the gas as the cop bursts out the door from the diner yelling at me. "Take a right," Eliza starts, then quickly adds "no, cancel that, go left, there's cops!"
The Grotti takes to the direction change effortlessly, although the grated gearbox takes me some getting used to. Eliza's directions take me East out of La Mesa and then I'm heading South again on El Rancho Boulevard, past my house on Sustancia Road before Eliza yells at me to pull a sharp right onto Amarillo Vista before almost immediately turning left, so tightly I have to use the handbrake to get the back end around in time. It's a right at the intersection, then another left to take me down to a residential area encompassing a patch of recreational ground overlooking the picturesque oilfields and then I'm out onto El Rancho again heading West into South Los Santos. I can't see the telltale lights of cop cars anymore, but Eliza tells me to slow it down and shortly after crossing the Carson Avenue intersection with Jamestown Street, she has me pull right into a narrow backalley between Jamestown and Roy Lowenstein Boulevard. Slowly, quietly, I cruise the Grotti over the Macdonald Street intersection until the backalley feeds out onto Innocence Boulevard and then Eliza has me dump the car at the back of a rundown place called the Billingsgate Motel.
Eight minutes and thirty four seconds later, Shirazi's Sultan pulls into the lot. I approach it with my gun aimed at the windows until I'm certain it's just Shirazi inside and then I climb in next to him and he takes off.
"Where are the others," I ask.
"Turn off your phone," he instructs. I do. When he's convinced he says "Stamp's hurt bad. We didn't have time to call in one of our own medics, we had to take her to the hospital."
"Where's Cope," I ask.
"He's with her."
"Jesus, what about the cargo," I exclaim. He grimaces.
"Yeah, we're fine, thank you," he admonishes me quietly.
"I'm sorry, I… it just seems, after all this-"
"I know. I'm sorry," he interrupts, and sighs. "It's at the hospital. We figured it'd be relatively safe there for a few minutes, until Morris can get here."
"Who's Morris," I ask.
"One of Cope's friends. You remember the helicopter yesterday?" I nod. "Yeah, well, Shane Morris was the pilot. We all know him."
"What about Eliza?"
His eyes flick briefly in my direction before he returns his attention to the road. We're taking a pretty convoluted route to the hospital, but I guess we're all a little paranoid after today. "She seems pretty cool. But someone's selling our intel."
I say nothing more on the subject. Clearly I'm going to be a suspect, given how relatively new I am to the team. I expect I'm going to be interrogated at some point but there's not much I can do about that now. There is one thing I want to ask though. "You guys seem pretty tight. Did you have another member of your team, before me?"
"Yeah," he admits. "Cass Melendez, you'd have liked her. Tough Hispanic girl. She served in the Army too, she was a Ranger."
"What happened to her," I press.
"What always happens," he replies. "Before her we had Ed Mercer. Cope replaced Annie Hahn before that. Right now we're just hopin' Stamp won't end up the same way, or Jefferies will only have me left from his original crew."
Finally, we're pulling into the darkened parking lot at the back of the Central Los Santos Medical Center. Shirazi parks up next to the van and we get out. Immediately someone puts a gun to my head. "This must be Morris," I say.
"Yeah," Shirazi admits quietly, almost apologetically.
"You need to tell me everybody you know in Los Santos. Everybody you've talked to in the past few days," Morris says sternly.
I hold his eye. "Inquisitor. I don't know his real name, but he got me this gig. Some bikers that ended up dead at their clubhouse. Henry Wood. These guys…"
"Tell us about the guy you live with," Shirazi asks gently.
"His name's Shaun Harvey," I start.
"Oh, sh*t," says Morris, and slightly lowers the gun. "Former Detective Shaun Harvey?"
"Shaved head. Permanently dishevelled. Folks say he stole five million from an armored truck heist. He's got dirt on a guy handling hot cars at a custom shop. I bought an Elegy from him," I finish.
Morris puts the gun down. "She's cool."
"You know this guy Harvey," Shirazi asks him.
"Yeah I know him," Morris grins. "I'm his AA sponsor. Sorry about this Sergeant," he says to me.
"It's okay. I'd be doing something similar," I admit.
Morris and Shirazi say their goodbyes and then he heads inside the hospital. Shirazi lights and smokes a cigarette while we stand in awkward silence for a few minutes until Cope joins us. "We need to get off the streets," he says. "We've got to assume all our safe locations are compromised."
"I've got a place," I say. Quietly. Firmly. The last place I wanna take them, but the only one I have.
It takes us a couple hours to get there. The men shared a glance but didn't say a word when they saw my Dad and I left them to it inside. I didn't wanna go back in there. I asked Shirazi if I could have one of his cigarettes and he gave me what was left of the pack because he said he was supposed to be quitting. I'm outside in the moonlight, still regretting not having my jacket when eventually Cope joins me.
"When I told my folks I was joining the Navy, that I'd be training to be a SEAL, they didn't bat an eyelid. I spent six years battling drug cartels from a dinghy. It's fine for their son to be risking his life for the Stars and Stripes, but tell them you're in love with another man and they lose their f*****g minds!"
I turn my head in his direction, cigarette end glowing where the stick hangs from between my lips.
"Parents," he goes on. "I hated them. Still hate them for not accepting me the way I am."
"You read the letter," I demand angrily, catching on.
He holds his hands up defensively. "Not deliberately. I only got a glance, but I picked up enough to get the gist."
Neither of us knows what to say beyond that, so we stand there in silence until we hear a car approaching, then until we can see the beam of its lights. Only as Inquisitor pulls his Dominator up in front of the house does Cope say quietly to me "we should bury him," and then he walks towards the driver's side of the Dominator, making a wide arc around it. I stay stood in front and Shirazi comes out of the house, staying on the opposite side of the car. All three of us have our guns in our hands. Inquisitor doesn't seem fazed by the fact as he climbs out, shuts his door, walks slowly around to the front of his car and perches himself on the hood. "Where's the cargo," he asks.
None of us says anything but I point in the direction of the barn.
"We've hooked you up a buyer, short notice. Jefferies wants it selling tonight."
"We're a man down," argues Shirazi.
Inquisitor looks in his direction briefly, seemingly with distaste, then returns his gaze to me. "I could assign you a replacement but it's not looking like you're in the mood to accept the help from me."
I'm not fully sure why, or how, probably a memory triggered by Inquisitors tone. I'm wondering if I'd be able to find somebody I once worked with from the Army. I'm about to suggest them, at risk of losing all credibility, when Shirazi sighs and grudgingly admits "I know someone that might be able to help."
"That's it then," says Inquisitor, clapping his hands together and standing up. "Details will be coming through shortly. Turn your damn phones back on"