They dropped me off at the house on Sustancia Road at 04:56 and told me they'd be picking me up at 11:30. Until then, all I had to do was sleep. Harvey was dozing on the new sofa that had been delivered while I'd been out, woke with a start when I came in and appraised my physical appearance with a startled "Jesus Christ!"
I'd waved him off and told him I'd fill him in when I woke up. I was dead on my feet and needed sleep, proper sleep. Mercifully, a new bed had been delivered and he'd even made it for me, sort of. It wouldn't pass a Drill Sergeant's inspection, but it was clean, inviting and comfortable and I sank into a dreamless black void before my head even hit the pillow.
"What are you doing here," I hear Shaun ask, shaking me from my sleep straight into fight-or-flight mode, expecting Henry Wood to yet again be antagonising him on the doorstep.
The voice that responds is female, and is coming from the living room area beyond the bedroom door. "I saw online you'd sold the place."
"Yeah," he says, and I can hear his voice catching. "Memories, you know?"
"I know," the female responds quietly. The two of them are silent for a while.
"You didn't answer my question," Shaun says, finally.
It takes her a while to think of her answer. "It just… like, I never thought that last strand would ever get severed. Memories, you know?"
"Bad memories," he says. No malice, no hostility. He says it gently. "You really should stop doing this."
"I know, Shaun. I know," she agrees, equally gently. I'm trying not to make too much noise as I pull on the jeans and T-shirt I'd discarded onto the floor before collapsing into the bed. "Who's bought the place," she asks.
"A soldier," he says. "Just got back, you'd like her…"
There's silence for a while. I hear her footsteps as she heads towards the door. Then she stops. "Did you do it, Shaun?"
He sighs heavily and even from my hiding spot behind the bedroom door, I can feel his anger flaring up. But he keeps it from his voice, instead sounding tired, resigned, when he asks her "what does it matter?"
"I always hoped," she starts and her voice catches. "I always hoped you did." Another uneasy silence follows, broken only by her gentle sobbing. "I hoped you took it and escaped to somewhere better," she explains after what feels like an eternity. "I hoped you escaped and you got over your drinking problem and you got away from your awful Lieutenant…"
"Oh," I hear him exclaim because he's lost for words. "I… I let you down. Right when you most needed me. I don't blame you for leaving. I'm glad you found happiness."
Her sobbing becomes more intense. "Shaun… I left because… Because it was my fault."
"No," he argues quickly, but she's clearly needing to let go of something she's been holding onto.
"You were hurting so much, I could see it, but you wouldn't talk to me. I blamed myself. And I wanted you to blame me too but you wouldn't… You just wouldn't talk to me…"
"I couldn't," he says, and his own voice is choked now. "I just… hid from it. And hid the things I did at work from myself…"
They're silent now for a long time. The air is thick and I'm desperately holding my breath, terrified that they'll hear me and I'll give myself away. They need this. I consider trying to move but I'm rooted to the spot.
"I still," she starts, stops because she has to gather herself. "I still wonder what our baby would have been like."
"Me too," he says, and he's definitely crying. Again, they're quiet for a long time, so long I think I'm going to suffocate. And then he adds "I never blamed you. It wasn't your fault."
"I know," she says. "I always knew you didn't take the money."
"Y…your family," Shaun starts.
"They're good. They're wonderful. I hope you can… you should, someday."
"Yeah," he says. I'm not able to gauge whether that's rueful or noncommittal from here.
"I'm glad you've managed to quit drinking. Take care of yourself Shaun," she says.
"You too," he adds. I don't hear him following her as she makes her way on high heels to the front door and lets herself out. Only then do I realise I've still got my gun hanging limply in my right hand.
As quietly as I can, I cross the room to my window, slightly part the slats of the Venetian blinds. Outside I see the woman walking away, tall and slender in an expensive-looking soft pastel blue blouse, light pencil skirt. Long hair. Some sort of high-end SUV awaiting her at the kerb. She gets in, puts on a pair of dark shades and drives hesitantly away.
For a while after that I'm not sure what to do. Getting back into bed doesn't seem right somehow, so I have a shower and when I'm clean, put on the last of the clean outfits I bought from the Posonby's store, the charcoal trouser-suit with the white blouse.
Harvey's sitting alone at the new dining room table when I come out and seems startled as he sits himself up from where he'd been slumped with his head in his hands. His eyes are red.
"Want a coffee," I ask him softly.
"Yes please," he sighs. In the new kitchen that's mostly not fitted yet, still in its protective transport wrappings, I find a percolator, spend a few minutes working out how to use it. Neither of us says anything for a while, even when I sit down opposite him with two new mugs filled with new coffee. In fact, we're halfway through when finally he asks me "do you mind if I invite a friend of mine around to look at your phone?"
I set down my cup and look at him, considering. "What you mean?"
He clears his throat, looks away slightly, then back at me. "You keep coming home with new bruises. I know, I know," and he sits back with his hands held up. "I'm not interfering, I know you've got work. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. I just wondered if I could sort you out some kind of backup system."
I raise an eyebrow at him. "Backup. You?"
He replies with a half-grin. "What, I'm not enough to inspire confidence?"
I can't help but laugh at that, and he manages a weak chuckle himself. "In fairness, you've had my back," I agree, but he waves the comment away.
"Not necessarily me, but I know a couple of people that… well… they're more into something similar to your line of work."
"Yeah," I agree, remembering. "I met one of your friends last night. Shane Morris."
"Oh, sh*t, Shane," he exclaims, sitting so far back in his chair I'm surprised it doesn't topple over. "How in Hell did your paths cross? Actually, y'know what, don't tell me. I probably don't wanna know."
"I'm more interested in how you know him," I admit, but Harvey just looks down at the table top, avoiding my gaze.
"He's my AA sponsor," he says, knowing full well that I know there's more to the story than that. Can't really blame him for holding off on details though, not when I'm hardly forthcoming myself. Finally he looks back up at me. "You look very smart."
"Thanks," I say, uncomfortably. "I'm probably gonna need to buy some more clothes…"
"That's definitely not my area of expertise," he says and the two of us find ourselves smiling like a couple of idiots. But then the smiles fade, and we're back to being awkward semi-strangers again.
"So you were saying," I start.
"Yeah. A friend of mine. They're kind of a tech genius," he replies.
"Sure," I agree. Given all that's happened since I came to this damned city, I need all the help I can get.
Shirazi and Cope both turn up at 11:30 on the dot. I choose to ride with Cope in his red Ocelot Lynx coupe, purely because it's significantly quieter than Shirazi's raucous Sultan; I've had way too little sleep to be able to stand the noise that thing makes. Cope's wearing blue jeans, an untucked navy blue shirt and a grey waistcoat today. Shirazi meanwhile is as sharply dressed as ever, electing for a gray suit the color of television static, with matching waistcoat and tie and a black shirt and shoes. Inquisitor texts me the location for the meet and I dial it into Cope's GPS.
The place is a sleazy rock club in West Vinewood called Tequi-la-la on the corner of Eclipse Boulevard and Milton Road. As it would turn out, there would be a few different gangs and outfits represented at the meet. Shirazi, Cope and I definitely stuck out as 'The Suits', not that either of them would be in plain sight. They'd be spotted, in the same way they spotted the odd motorbikes, lowriders, donks and souped-up Asian sedans that are the tell-tale signs of the other gangs in attendance, but they'd be dropping me off a few blocks away from the bar and circling around. I just hope one of them will be able to get to me quickly enough in case there's any trouble.
There's nobody outside the bar, and no music. Not unusual at this time of day, the place doesn't usually open much before midnight, and shuts around 7am. The door is unlocked and I nervously push my way inside. As soon as I'm over the threshold, my radio earpiece crackles and goes silent. Whatever happens in here, clearly I'm on my own.
After the unnaturally cheerful brightness of the midday sun outside, the gloom of the bar seems almost like pitch blackness before my eyes slowly begin to adjust. I'd love a night-vision right about now.
I'm in a dingy corridor looking into a coat check window, surrounded by years of aging band posters plastered in countless layers over each other. Across the counter is a heavyset African-American guy, wearing a heavy chain over a black T-shirt, with thick-rimmed glasses and a fedora.
"Hey," he greets and raises an arm to offer me a fist-bump. I return it, no point antagonising anybody if I don't need to. I already have a bad feeling about this. "I'm gonna need you to check any weapons you got on you," he says. He's quiet, softly-spoken, likeable, but there's something underlying in his demeanour which suggests he's not a man to be messed with. I'd kind of expected this, so I take off my jacket and lay it over the window, turn around so he can see I'm unarmed. I turn out the pockets for him, then offer him the jacket in case he wants to search it himself. He takes it from me and gives me a curt nod. "Alright, cool, go on downstairs. Everyone's assembled waiting for you."
"Everyone," I ask, cautiously.
He gives me a smile. "Don't worry. You'll see."
I follow the narrow corridor to my right and then through a door into the main bar and stage. There's nobody in here, so I head on downstairs to the basement to where the participants in this meeting are assembled around a pool table. Well, all apart from one middle-aged Chinese guy sat on a grimy sofa in the corner, next to the jukebox.
At the far side of the table I recognise Paxton Cole. "Hey, Sergeant," he greets me as I step nervously to the table.
"I thought they'd have sent Robles," I reply, and get myself an amused grin from him.
"Trust me, neither of us wants that a$$hole anywhere near this meeting."
I give him a curt nod, flash a quick, nervous smile. "So, you gonna introduce me to your friends?"
He's been leaning on the table on his fists but now he straightens up and, going clockwise around the table, points out the others in attendance; no personal names, just their gangs.
There's an African-American man dressed in the purple gang colors I'd seen the other night when Inquisitor took me to Grove Street represents the Ballas. I'm told they're main rivals are the Families, a fact I've been vaguely aware of for a while.
Two Latin-American guys are on opposite sides of the table, "for obvious reasons," one in a white vest, jeans and a thick chain with a diamond-encrusted crucifix. He's got a yellow bandana hanging from his jeans pocket representing the Vagos. The other wears cargo shorts with white sports socks and sneakers, an oversized baseball shirt and a turquoise bandana, the colors of the Varrios Los Aztecas. Next to him is a Korean in a tracksuit and a bucket hat representing the Kkangpae and next to him is another Hispanic for the El Salvadoran Marabunta Grande.
Nobody needs to introduce the Chinese man on the seat to know he's here for one of the Triad gangs. He gives me the curtest of nods in greeting which I make damn sure I return.
Finally the African-American man I'd met upstairs quietly joins us in the room. "You've already met our representative for the Families," Cole finishes. "For those who don't know, this is a former US Army Sergeant-"
"You're one of the suits," the Vagos gangbanger spits venomously, interrupting.
"The Sergeant was attached to my unit in Iraq," Cole snaps at him. "She's a good soldier. Just doesn't know what she's gotten herself into, is all."
"Damn right I don't, what is this," I demand firmly. The Vagos and Ballas representatives glare at me, but the others share grins, apart from the Triad who keeps his expression carefully neutral.
"Survival," the Balla says, staring me hard in the eye. "'bout a year back, some rich white a$$hole gets hisself disappeared. Some bent Feds get killed. Cops still don't step on our turf, but now they puttin' the squeeze on our business. Then, after the Diamond Rain gets shut down, and that job at the Union Depository, suddenly there's a hunnerd you a$$holes in your suits start musclin' in, too."
Cole picks up on my confused expression. "The Diamond Rain was a yacht, the crew on it were renowned throughout the state for doing all of the high-end jobs. They stuck to their business, didn't bother us on ours and we stayed out of each other's way. About a year ago, the cops sank it," he explains. "Some other crew then pulled off a robbery on the Union Depository and suddenly it's open season for rich a$$holes that wanna fill the void the Rain crew left behind, and they're not shy about putting their nose in our business while they're at it. Then, and you might have learned this the other day, Paleto Bay has a new Sheriff, a pain in the a$$ called Pawel Verzynski. He's been running us out of the place, even going so far as to make an alliance with some other MC to do it. We got weed, coke and a weapons manufacturing place out there, serious money that he's losing us. The MC responds by sending a f*****g truck bomb, because that's how desperate we're getting. I take it we have you to thank for stopping that sh*tstorm?"
"What would be the point serving my country in Iraq and then not protecting its people now I'm back on home turf," I reply.
Cole nods slowly, as do a few others. "Well, some in the MC won't agree, but thank God you were there. We're all here," Cole continues, sweeping an arm around to indicate everybody present. "To protect our shared interests. Life in Los Santos isn't easy for people like us, but it's bearable as long as we can continue conducting our business. If we keep getting squeezed the way we are, all our leaders are gonna keep doing stupid sh*t that's gonna f*** things up permanently for everyone. Everybody in this room has chosen to put aside their differences and their gang politics solely for that purpose."
"Yeah, these meets ain't exactly sanctioned by our OG's," the Azteca explains.
"Used to be real simple," Cole continues. "Aside from the regular battles for turf, there are several, overlapping, business interests. Y'know, guns, coke, brown, meth. Gambling. Protection. Women... You get the idea. Point is-"
"Point is, all those are ours," the Vagos gangbanger interrupts again. "Don't matter which color's got it and which color's try'na take it, it's ours."
The El Salvadoran chimes in. "Bad enough we's already gotta stop Madrazo and the Armenians musclin' in-"
"An' those Bonelli's," the Azteca adds.
"Right, an' the Guineas," the Marabunta Grande gangster agrees, using the offensive slang for Italians. "Now we's gotta put up with you suits as well, and you steppin' on all our toes."
"But, like I said," Cole reiterates firmly, bringing things back under some semblance of control. "The Sergeant didn't know what she was getting into. She just thought she was gettin' a job. Right?"
"That's what I thought," I agree. "It's funny though. The guy I work for, Jefferies, he's convinced it's all you that're ripping him off."
The room explodes with disbelief and anger. Only the Triad, the Azteca, Cole and the Families guy standing next to me remain silent.
"He thinks there's a mole in his organisation feeding somebody his intel," I continue, shouting as loud as I can to be heard over the racket. Cole pounds hard on the table twice and gradually the noise dies down. "There's something else," I add. "It's not just you guys coming for his stuff. Yesterday we had to fight off an attempt by another detail from our own organisation, another bunch of suits."
Cole now is nodding slowly. "Time was," he says. "We were able to arrange secure transit of our stuff via a dark web site we called The Open Road. Until a month or so back, when other MC's started ambushing our runs. And then so did everyone else. Suits. All the guys present today. If what the Sergeant's telling us is right, then somebody is indeed screwing over all of us."
"That's a big 'if'," the El Salvadoran accuses.
"Agreed. I say we kill her," the Balla says, staring at me hard.
"Right. That's what we're doin' now, killin' each other. Might as well all just go back home and carry on where we were," the overweight guy I'd met downstairs finally chimes in.
"She ain't one of us, fool," the Balla argues angrily, emphasizing his point by waving his right arm around, fingers double-barrelled.
Cole turns around, puts a hand to his chest. "She is now," he says. "Right, Sergeant?"
"Get'cho hands off me cracker, yo bitch ain't bought us nuthin," the Balla snaps, swiping the hand away. The atmosphere in the room turns immediately hostile.
"Not nothing," I say. "I've got a friend. Kind of a tech genius. I'll get them to look into my boss' network and your… Open Road?" Cole nods. "I'll let you all know if they turn anything up."
"There. Everybody good," Cole asks the men around the table before specifically turning to the Balla. "We good?"
"Nah, b*tch, we ain't good," he complains at me. "All I'm hearing is false promises. She ain't given us nuthin' solid. She ain't even named her damn gang."
All eyes turn to me. "All I know is it's a secure cargo network," I say, playing for time. Dropping SecuroServ's name into this conversation is not likely to be a good idea. "Or at least it's supposed to be."
"Bullsh*t." Yep, that's the Balla again.
"At least tell us the name of who you' working for," invites the Azteca. "Who recruited you, ese?"
I can feel my heart pounding. I don't know how else I'm gonna get out of this one. "You know him," I say quietly to Cole, and immediately he gets it.
"Oh, that motherf****r," he exclaims.
"Who," the Balla demands, earning a wry grin from Cole.
"You've probably bumped into him, without knowing it. Scruffy ginger guy. Leather jacket."
"Beard like a rat's a$$," the Vagos asks, catching on. "Got a red muscle car?"
"That's the a$$hole," Cole agrees. "He turned up when the Sergeant and I were in Iraq. Gave us a bullsh*t callsign and a bullsh*t squadron number. You ever check into that, Sergeant? 253rd he said. It was an Infantry Regiment, of the 63rd Infantry Division, been inactivated since 1959. He was never one of us; he was running some IAA bullsh*t."
It doesn't surprise me Inquisitor might have been with the International Affairs Agency. It wouldn't surprise me if he still was, and using SecuroServ to either fund or recruit for some black op.
The Balla brings his fist up to his mouth, spits through it onto the pool table. "F*** this sh*t," he complains and storms out, making sure to bump hard into my arm as he passes. At least he's decided against killing me, for the time being.
One side of the table follows him, the side with the Vagos gangbanger and the El Salvadoran, and then the Korean and the Azteca from the other side. The African-American Families representative gives me another fist bump before he leaves. Finally the Triad rises, but he gives Cole and I a bow which each of us return before he makes his way upstairs.
"Somethin' else, Sergeant," Cole asks when I hang back.
I chew my lip, wondering how to put this. "You surprised me," I eventually admit.
He smiles at me. "What, you think I'm just gonna follow Robles and his idiots around forever? They followed me into The Lost. I didn't want 'em keep hanging around me but I was just a Prospect so it wasn't my call."
"This little initiative here. It was your idea?"
"It was," he admits. "I'm not entirely selfless in it though, I've got my angle. Don't go mistaking me for your old boy scout."
Ouch. Should've known that would come up. When I did what I did with the comrade in Iraq that I did it with, Cole was the only one found out about it. He could've reported me. Could've spread the rumor I was a sl*t. But he didn't. I always wondered why, but maybe that's another angle that he's playing a long, long game on. "Listen, about the other day," I start.
He shakes his head. "You should go before the others get to wonderin' where I am and come here lookin' for me. You know Robles and Decker still have their hard-ons for you and Riley… well, that sick mother****r wants to cut you like you did him, and has his hard-on for you. Not to mention your little Asian friend for what she did to Myers."
"I'm sorry about that," I say. "Really. I know we had our differences, but-"
"Stop," he interrupts, and I realise his cool is starting to slip. Can't say I blame him. "Just go."
It's about ten seconds after stepping out into the blinding sunshine before Cope's car slides up to me. I get in quick and order him to floor it. He obliges and keeps the hammer firmly planted down all the way to the office. I don't see or hear Shirazi around us, so I guess he's gone a different way and, indeed, he joins us a few minutes later in the underground car park.
Cope's not said a word all the way here, and we're still silent as we bundle into the elevator. When we arrive at Jefferies' office, Eliza gets up from our desk and hurries towards us, eagerly embracing the two men and then, slightly more cautiously, puts her arms around me. When she releases me and steps back I notice her black eye, bruised cheek and swollen lip with a bright red, angry cut starting to scab over.
"Don't," she whispers, and I realise I'm staring at her hard, look away and try to soften my expression. It only takes a brief glance to see that Cope and Shirazi are both in the same mindset I am though. "And anyway, yours are worse," she adds. Deflecting. Making light. Fooling herself that it won't happen again.
"Where is he," Shirazi asks. Quietly, calmly, but there's no mistaking that underneath his carefully crafted exterior cool, he's as angry as I am.
"Asleep in his quarters," Eliza says. "Best you don't disturb him right now," she adds nervously, almost pleadingly.
"Alright, where's Wood," Cope asks her instead.
"Waiting to join us on conference call," she says, indicating towards the boardroom table where we'd assembled a couple of days previously. We let her lead us through and she stands leaning over the table in front of the chair at the head, where Jefferies would sit were he conscious and sober enough, lifts the receiver off the deskphone and activates the loudspeaker before dialling a number.
"Is everybody assembled," Wood asks when he picks up.
"There's me, Sergeant Coleman, Shirazi and Cope," Eliza confirms, before sitting herself down in Jefferies' chair.
"Thank you all for your efforts in ensuring the delivery was made last night," Wood's voice booms. "In recognition of your dedication, you'll be pleased to learn that all of you have been advanced a paygrade, in addition to the bonus promised for delivery. That should be sufficient to enable you to suitably recompense your outside contractors."
"Thanks Wood, does the extend to Stamp too," Cope asks.
"It does. Be in no doubt that we fully intend to assist in her recovery. I don't suppose-"
"No," Shirazi interrupts. "No news just yet." Clearly, he's still carrying his anger.
"Have you spoken to Ant Macfarland," I ask. "We had interference from his crew right up to delivery."
"Macfarland is currently being investigated and we'll deal accordingly. I believe, Sergeant Coleman, that you've been making your own enquiries?"
All eyes turn to me, and I hate to admit it but it makes me uncomfortable. "So I met up with a member of the Lost MC. Our mutual friend arranged it," I add. "The biker is another guy that we served with in Iraq. He's managed to put together a group of guys from a bunch of different gangs."
"Well that sounds dangerous," Wood appraises.
"They say it's for their survival," I continue. "Apparently some stuff went down last year-"
"Yeah, I'll say," Cope mutters.
"Some stuff went down and now everybody's after a piece of their action," I carry on. "There were at least a couple of guys there that know our friend," I add.
"Given the nature of his role within the organisation, that isn't surprising," Wood counters, thoughtfully.
"What is that role exactly," I ask. I'm expecting some questioning glances from my colleagues, but actually they seem just as interested in how Wood's going to answer.
"Mainly he's a liaison to the streets," Wood's measured tone comes back. "It's his business to keep up with our rivals' business, and to keep an eye out for potential talent, whether to place them directly into our organisation or as one of our plants elsewhere."
"Is it likely any of our rivals have their own plant within SecuroServ," Shirazi asks. No question. Both these guys are on board with me. For the first time, I'm starting to feel properly settled into my place in this team.
"It's always possible. Of course, we actively try to minimise such a risk," Wood comes back.
"You guys starting without me," a slurred, lazy voice calls out from behind us. Eliza nearly jumps out of her skin and hurriedly vacates the seat for the one to her left as Jefferies staggers his way to the table, naked except for a pair of running shorts and one sock, a bong in one hand and a lighter in the other. After dropping himself into his chair, his first order of business is to take a hit from it and double over coughing.
"Mr Jefferies," Wood greets. "Are you sure you don't want to carry on your celeb-"
"Time y'all get back to work," Jefferies drawls, pressing the button on the phone to terminate the call. "'s a guy with a Cheval Taipan. Second one in the country, only one in the state. Sticker price on it's a cool two mil."
"We're getting into vehicle trafficking now, boss," Cope asks quizzically.
Jefferies slams a fist down on the table. "You do," he yells, but then has to stop for a hacking cough. "You do what I god damn tell you," he grimaces, clutching his chest when he can get his breath again. "I've sent Eliza the details. Get it and make it mine."
I'm reluctant to leave Eliza alone with Jefferies, especially in the state he's in. Cope and Shirazi sense it. Cope comes to my side. "Come on Sergeant," he quietly implores. "She'll be fine, and otherwise we'll deal with it."
I look at Jefferies. He's got his head in his hands looking down at his table top. Eliza is already on her way back to her desk at reception, so I get up and follow the guys out.
"Alright, you're robbing an arms dealer," Eliza tells us over our headsets as we're riding down in the elevator. "He's got his own crew of private security onsite, and some serious backup if they hit the panic button, so you're gonna need to do this quietly. One of his guards has the key. The vehicle won't start without it."
"What's the address," asks Cope.
We hear her working her computer. "That's odd," she says.
"What," Shirazi demands.
"Nothing. Just… well, it's Devin Weston's old address."
"Who's that," I ask.
"He was a local billionaire but he went missing last year. I didn't realise they'd already sold his place."
"Doesn't matter," Shirazi says. "Job's the same, regardless of where it is."
If only we could've known how wrong he was.
The place is a sprawling mansion in the Tongva Hills, a place that redefines "luxury." It grates on my survivalist upbringing as obscene, and triggers my suspicions in how remote it is, standing all on its own on stilts on the side of a mountain. Imagine a Vinewood spy movie villain? His lair would seem like a slum apartment compared to this place.
The three of us are riding together in the disposable Sultan we'd got from the storage unit on my first day. We have to drive past the place until we can find an area off the side of the road to safely park at, and then we approach the house as quietly as we can on foot.
"Why is there not a guard out front," I whisper.
"I don't know, but we're gonna take advantage of it," replies Cope. "Alright, Coleman, you take the front. I'll flank from the left, Shirazi the right."
"You sure man? That's some steep drop your side," Shirazi counters.
"I don't mind climbing. You two just watch your a$$," he orders. No point wasting any more time. When the road is quiet, the three of us split up, dashing as low and as quiet as we can to our respective entry points.
I make my way over the gate and draw my silenced pistol, sweep around looking out for any guards or surveillance systems, but I can't see anything. To my left is a red wall on top of which a front lawn is elevated, some trees and shrubs around its border. I can't see anybody on top of it and I use it as cover while I edge my way in a crouch towards the main structure of the house across the long and immaculate driveway. On my right, a tall hedgerow provides privacy from the road and protection from the sheer drop it gives way to as the house extends over the mountainside.
I reach the end of the wall and peer around to the left. Still no signs of movement, nor any obvious cameras or motion sensors. Of course, that means nothing in this day and age, they could be so small and so well disguised I'd only find them if I was specifically sweeping the area with detecting equipment. Cope will be approaching from that direction. I'm considering heading that way, across the front of the house to meet him, but directly ahead of me is the mansion's garage under a car port. If I climb up onto the hedge I can get onto the roof and then scope the entirety of the grounds from an elevated position, so that's what I do. From the car port, I'm able to climb onto the roof of the house, where I'm immediately faced with another red-walled elevated area. If there's a sniper up here, that's where I'd expect him to be so I'm very careful hauling myself up over it. Nothing there but a small satellite receiver. I sweep the rest of the rooftop and see nothing else, so I make my way to the opposite side of the elevated square. From up here, the red wall is only at waist height so I simply vault over it. The sniper is dressed in red, sat with his back to it so I miss the fact that he's there until his weapon fires a tiny dart into the back of my neck. I whirl around, realising too late my rookie mistake, but the gun already feels too heavy for me to hold, my brain only really able to register the fact that he's there before I lose consciousness.
When I come round, the first thing I realise is that it's cold and that I'm drowning in water that's about as cold as ice. I struggle to swim and realise that my arms are both tightly bound together behind my back. I can't even get a grip on anything with my hands. I realise that I'm bent over and that somebody is holding my head in the water. For an uncomfortably long time I struggle helplessly and I'm sure I'm going to die here. And then finally I'm pulled out to take desperate, painful gasps of air, slowly realise that I'm bound to a heavy wooden chair. As my head clears, I become aware of more things. One, they've got Shirazi and Cope too and they're both screaming but I can't make out their words. All of us have been stripped to our underwear. Two, it's a large bucket of water that they'd been holding my head in and I'm now completely soaked. Three, there is definitely no supercar in this garage. And four, we're at the mercy of, I count, four men, all clad in unmarked black combat gear and balaclavas. This is more than some private security, these guys are heavy duty professionals.
"Nobody going to say anything? No," their leader taunts my colleagues. "Oh, of course! She's been trained for this! Oh well, let's try something else." He turns around to one of his men, stationed waiting next to a large red metal tool cabinet. He hands the leader a pair of pliers. "Oh, nice," the leader appraises and then approaches Shirazi. "Time for your checkup, handsome."
Two more men flank Shirazi, tilt the chair he's tied to back and squeeze his cheeks hard, pinch his nose, forcing his mouth open as he tries to protest. "God damn it, stop," Cope cries, but his protests fall on deaf ears. We watch horrified as the leader forces the pliers into Shirazi's mouth before he starts to struggle and scream. "What are you doing," I plead, but nobody pays attention. Shirazi's screaming intensifies and then finally the leader wrenches the pliers out, one of Shirazi's teeth gripped and bleeding clamped inside them. His chair is set upright and I see him spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor, but it's flowing heavily.
The leader kneels down in front of me, shows me Shirazi's tooth in the pliers. "What do you say, Princess," he sneers. "One of you is leaking secrets. Are you gonna confess?"
"Somebody's leaking, but not us," I tell him.
He sighs, as if with disappointment, stands upright and waits there for a second.
"It's not us," I insist. "We're trying to work out what's happening too!"
"Bring me the faggot," the leader orders and steps past me as the other three flank Cope's chair and lift it, carrying him past me as he fights and squirms helplessly. I'm struggling too – why can't I get a hold of anything?
"Stop! Please stop," Shirazi struggles to cry through all the blood flooding his mouth, but they're ignoring us. I hear noises from behind me but I can't see what they're doing.
"Don't do this," Cope urges. "Please, it's not any of us-"
"I've always wanted to crucify someone," I hear the leader say.
"No," Shirazi screams, but it's too late. There's a sickening noise that I recognise as a nail gun and then Cope cries out in pain.
"Stop it, please stop it," I yell, thrashing about helplessly, bound firm to the chair. The men tormenting us ignore us completely and there's a second thud, then a third.
Cope's screaming and pleading has given way to a steady stream of threats but now the men are surrounding me. My gaze briefly locks onto Shirazi's and he's pale with terror. I'm expecting them to turn me around so I can see Cope where they've nailed him to the garage wall but they don't. My feet are untied from the legs of the chair. I try to pull them from the men's grasp so I can kick out but they hold my legs firm and bind them together, then force my feet firmly into the bucket of ice cold water that they'd been drowning me in.
"Stop," growls Shirazi. "Whatever you're going to do to her, do it to me!"
"Oh, do we have a confession coming on," the leader asks. "Tell me who you've been giving secrets to?"
Shirazi starts thrashing, equally helpless in his bindings. "Nobody! We've not leaked nothing to nobody! Just do whatever you're gonna do to me!"
"What about you, tough guy," the leader demands of Cope. "Are you our leak?"
"You'll be leaking blood from your-" Cope starts angrily.
"Oh well," the leader cuts him off. One of his men is handing him two jump leads. This is not legal, and I know exactly where it's going. So do Shirazi and Cope who are now desperately trying to appeal the men to not do this to me.
F*** 'em. I know exactly why they're going to this length with me. If they think they're going to get a fragile and scared little girl, they've come to the wrong place. I hold the leader's gaze, stare him hard in the eye, even as he flicks the switch, but then I'm lost to the voltage.
I don't know how long he buzzes me for, but the pain stops immediately when he turns it off and I'm able to stop thrashing in my chair. The b*st*rd doesn't give me a second before he hits me again, stronger this time, and for a longer period. Both my colleagues are screaming frantically when he stops, and I want to plead no more, but again he turns it straight back on and eventually I black out.
It's a while before I recall where I am and realise that the leader is on the phone. When he finishes his conversation, he says "well, looks like these three know nothing after all. We've found their little Indian friend. Let's go pick her up." He doesn't say anything else, but indicates with an arm signal to one of his men who hangs back in the corner of the garage while the leader and the other two file out.
When they're gone, he unholsters his sidearm and walks slowly over to Shirazi. "I've got a little secret to confess," he says mockingly, running his gun from Shirazi's head down to his chest before turning and making his way over to me. Puts the gun between my legs and leans in close, puts his nose on my neck. "Yeah, I'm gonna do you last," he whispers, then stands up. "You hearing me okay from up there, Gay Jesus," he asks Cope. Laughs at his own joke. That's when I strike.
My legs are still in the bucket. Still tied together. But not bound down. When I raise my legs, I'm able to bring the bucket up with 'em. Spill some of the cold water over myself, but it's worth it because I'm able to whip it around into his spine, hard enough to make him cry out and drop to the ground. While he's trying to figure out what just happened, I'm pushing myself up with my feet so I can swing the chair around and slam two of the legs down on top of him. Finally I have him screaming. See how he likes it. Ahead of me I see Shirazi rocking his chair trying to get it to tilt over. The guy is squirming underneath me, angrily trying to throw me off. I'm pressing down on him as hard as I can but I can't hold him forever and finally I'm sent falling hard onto my left hand side. The chair breaks on impact, but that's not going to save me now. My hands are still stuck behind my back and I'm dragged up by my hair and slapped hard across both sides of my face before he throws me away so he can stoop over to retrieve his weapon. I struggle with my ankles bound together to stay upright but I manage to stumble my way over to Shirazi, carrying him over with my momentum. Both of us cry out in pain as we hit the floor, but then I'm pulled up again by my hair and thrown to the floor out of the way so the guy can aim his gun at Shirazi. "Hear this," he snarls angrily. "You all should know this before you die. It was your boss Jefferson that hired us to find out which one of you is the rat." He cocks the hammer on his gun, an unnecessary but intimidating gesture. "But, you see, it's us your mole was ratting to! You were all, always gonna die."
I've not come this far to let him stop us now so I use my feet to spin myself around and sink my teeth as hard as I can into the guy's leg, try and hold the bite until he smacks me on top of my head with the butt of his gun, but by now Shirazi has managed to work himself free from the chair and launches himself into a waist-level tackle that puts all three of us on the floor. The gun clatters against the ground at my feet and I kick it as far away as I can manage, wiggle away as Shirazi and the guy tussle on the ground.
Shirazi's arms are still bound behind his back, held together in a black leather sleeve with four belts fastened tightly around them at roughly even intervals between his wrists and his elbows. They must have done the same to me; that's why I can't use my hands!
The guy is therefore easily able to overpower Shirazi. I struggle to get myself back to my feet and rush him as I hear Cope screaming from where he's fixed to the wall.
Just like Shirazi, I tackle the guy, head down, running at him, taking him down with momentum. I roll away when we're down so that Shirazi can once again slam himself down on the man. We have no plan here, we're simply buying as much time as we can. Cope's screaming intensifies, but I'm too preoccupied watching Shirazi once more get beaten off, trying to get back onto my feet to pin the guy down once more before he can get back to his gun and get this sh*t finished.
This time he's ready for my rush, steps out of the way and grabs me around my waist, spins me around to use my own momentum against me and throws me into a wall. Shirazi's up and headbutts him, forces him back to the ground with his bodyweight. That's when I glance at Cope and realise why he's screaming.
His left hand has a large bloody red hole in the middle of it; he's pulled it from the nail which is still stuck into the wall where it had been pinning him, tearing the hole in his own flesh wider and he's using the fingers of his ruined left hand to pry the nail out of his right hand. I just need to buy him time.
The guy has once more beaten Shirazi off and is hurrying for his gun, bending down to pick it up. I throw myself onto him one last time, pin him down for as long as I'm able to.
His elbow connects with my temple and my vision dims as he shoves my limp body off him, but it's enough. I hear his scream before I've registered the sound of the nailgun that Cope's now got clutched in his bloody hands, but once I recognise the thud, I hear it again and again as Cope blasts nail after nail into the guy's body until it's empty. The guy had stopped breathing long before Cope gets done.
Only when it's empty does he drop it and then, with a howl of agony, clasps his ruined hands, one over the other, to his chest. The adrenaline burst has gone, I realise, and the reality of his injuries is setting in. The right hand should be okay, given time. I'm not so sure about the left. But, and I feel awful for this, I can't allow him time to dwell on that now.
"Cope, we have to help Stamp. Untie this thing," I demand, turning myself around so my back's to him and he can see the sleeve binding my arms together. It's a struggle for him, and it's breaking my heart, but he manages after about a minute to get me out of it. Freedom brings a fresh wave of pain; the bindings have been holding my arms in an unnatural position with a great degree of pressure. Numbness quickly gives way to intense, burning agony which I have to force myself through as I try and force feeling back into them so I can help Shirazi. He grunts in pain as he exercises his own arms back to life and then he grabs the guy's gun and leads us through the doorway in the side of the garage that the others had left through. We hurry across the driveway but our car has disappeared, and there are no others at the property. There's a pickup coming down the mountain road though so I run out in front of it waving my arms and yelling for help. The guy driving it, an old rural guy in a check shirt and a Stetson with a thick moustache looks at me with some alarm as he brings the truck to a halt. I open his passenger door and say "thank you. My friends and I need to get to the Central Los Santos Medical Centre right away. It's am emergency."
Before he can react, Shirazi pulls open the driver's door. "Mind if I drive," he asks and hauls himself up without waiting for an invitation. The guy sees the gun and scrambles out of his passenger door past me. I put a hand on his shoulder and say "why don't you ride in the back with me?"
His look of alarm gives way to confusion as he wacthes me help Cope get into the shotgun seat. He's still stood there, in shock I guess, when I slam the passenger door shut. "Come on," I say, in my most soothing, feminine tone. With some uncertainty, he follows me to the back of the truck and lets me help him climb up before I pull myself into the bed and pound my knuckles on the cab's ceiling a couple of times so Shirazi knows he's good to go.
I notice the old-timer looking at me as I sink down into the bed. "I'm sorry about this," I say. "It really is very kind of you to help us out."
"You... er, you in some kind of trouble, Miss," he asks me, nodding his head briefly in the direction of the cab.
"No. They're my friends. But some bad people are on their way to hurt another good friend of ours," I explain, eying the belt around his waist. "What you carryin' there," I ask, my interest piqued.
"Oh, this," he asks me and draws a double-action revolver from the waist holster I'd suspected he had. "Been carryin' this since I was sixteen. Clean it every Sunday after Church."
"It's very nice," I compliment, admiring it.
He lets me look it over it for about a minute, weighing me up, before adding "There's a shotgun in the toolbox if it'll help you."
Storming into the hospital was never going to be subtle; the three of us in our underwear, Shirazi clutching the semi-automatic and me a twelve-bore shotgun while Cope bought up the rear, still clutching his bloody hands to his chest. But from the level of pandemonium and the number of people yelling either at each other or into phones or radios, it's clear we're already late to the party.
Shirazi leads the way, and the trail of chaos makes it obvious where we're going, taking us to a recovery ward a short way beyond the ER. When we get into it, Shane Morris is being loaded onto a gurney by a couple of surgeons with two exit wounds, one in his shoulder, the other closer to his hip.
"Jesus," one of the doctors complains when he sees our weapons and the two of them back away.
"Who did this," Shirazi asks him.
"F*****g Stamp," Morris grimaces.
"What," a dazed Cope exclaims.
"I know, right," Morris goes on. "F*****g Merryweather comes in here looking for her, I lay down some fire cos I'm here to protect her, then she shoots me in the f*****g back!"
"Wait, you said Merryweather," I demand.
"Yep. I know those mother*****rs anywhere," he confirms.
"Where'd Stamp go," Shirazi asks, and indicates for the two doctors to carry on helping him. Nervously they approach.
"Took off with 'em," Morris replies. "Didn't put up a fight."
"Hang in there," Shirazi says as the doctors start wheeling Morris away for surgery. We don't wait around for them to call security or cops on us and make our way back to the lobby, but we stop and crowd around the payphone while Shirazi makes a reverse-charge call to Henry Wood.
"Jefferies just had us interrogated," he complains. "F*****g Merryweather-"
"I know, and it's worse than you think," I can hear Wood booming back, even with the receiver pressed to Shirazi's ear. "Have you secured Miss Stamp?"
"No, they got here before us. She went with them," Shirazi says. The look on his face mirrors the churning in my stomach, and I don't even have to look at Cope to know he's feeling it too.
"Meet me at the office," Wood instructs. "I'm on my way there now."
"We'll be as quick as we can but we need clothes and wheels, and Cope's gonna need a tetanus shot."
Wood sighs. "Where are you?"
"LS Central Medical," Shirazi confirms.
"There's a scrapyard about two blocks North-East. Be there in five minutes," Wood instructs and then the line goes dead.
We have to haul a$$ to the place, we're all panting hard when we get there. No sooner do we arrive than a couple of sedans pull up, SecuroServ uniformed guys getting out of both and training their weapons on us. "Names," one of them demands.
"Shirazi. Cope. Coleman," I confirm. They put their guns down and both get into the front, more sleek of the sedans and drive away. There's clothes and guns for each of us in the trunk of the other car, along with a first aid kit. We get dressed into simple black jeans, T-shirts and sneakers and then I get into the back with Cope while Shirazi again takes the wheel.
The car doesn't look like much, an old 70's four-door DeClasse Tulip, but it performs. Shirazi threads us through the traffic like its not even there while I use the first aid kit they've left us to try and patch up Cope's hands, inject him with a tetanus booster. He's not doing so good and I can't blame him, but he's trying his hardest to push through it. I think rage is helping.
People exhibit their anger in different ways. My Dad lashed out. Shirazi clearly simmers under the surface. Cope's eyes have gone black and it radiates from him, or rather it seems to suck all the warmth out of the environment around him in stark contrast to his normal warm demeanour, while he sits taut and unmoving. I think this scares me more than anybody shouting and screaming, or throwing their weight around.
We make it to the office in about eight minutes from the limited amount of clock-watching I've been able to do. Shirazi puts us into the underground parking lot so we didn't notice the SUV's that were parked outside the building's front entrance. We're not expecting the firefight on Jefferies' floor until we step out of the elevator into it and automatic rifle fire pins us back.
Immediately we notice that Henry Wood is dead. Near his corpse, cowering under her desk is a bloodied Eliza, hands clamped over her head sobbing quietly. We return fire with the handguns we've been given, but Shirazi and I are only able to pop a few rounds off each, blind-firing around the elevator doors before heavy automatic fire forces us to shrink back into cover.
When it stops, Cope strides out and storms towards Eliza's desk. His gun spits once, twice, three times and then there's another burst of rifle fire, but now it's not coming at us so Shirazi and I emerge from the elevator and advance on Cope's position where he's taken cover not far from Eliza's desk, halfway towards the board table. It seems there are two guys firing and now we're out in the open we can see they're wearing the same black combat gear and balaclavas as the Merryweather guys that had tortured us. Shirazi takes out one. I put down the other.
"F*** off! You were supposed to be helping me," we hear Jefferies scream over the wild firing of his own weapon before a single shot silences him. Together, all three of us advance to where Jefferies' desk was. Sure enough, he's slumped dead against the wall behind where his upturned desk had been. Two more shooters are there. Cope takes both of them out before Shirazi and I can even wrap our brains around reacting, and then we turn our attention towards sweeping the office for more of the b*st*rds, but it's clear.
Shirazi helps Eliza to her feet but she's wailing catatonically.
"Hey," I snap at her. "Get a grip."
"B-but my contract! SecuroServ are gonna terminate-"
Shirazi puts his hand on her shoulder. "No they're not," he insists.
"B-but Jefferies! A-and Stamp! They're gonna kill me," she cries, shaking so hard I think she's gonna collapse.
"You're with us," Shirazi says gently, putting his hand on the side of her face. "We're all getting out of here."
"Together," I agree and then glance across at Cope. He's tucking his gun in his jeans and picking up an automatic from one of the dead Merryweather guys, gives me a nod when he's checked the cartridge. We take the stairs, shielding Eliza between us, until we get down to the parking lot.
"Look after her, I'll bring my car around," Shirazi says. Cope and I hold her between us, half keeping her upright, half embracing her. Shirazi sprints over to his Sultan, unlocks it with the keyfob remotely and slides into the driver's seat.
A second later, the car explodes in a violent fireball with a force that throws Cope, Eliza and I back into the doors of the elevator.
More than thirty IED attacks he'd managed to avert in Iraq. A car-bomb wired to his ignition killed him while we watched in helpless horror, and the blast took out all the vehicles in the immediate vicinity, including the Tulip Wood had had delivered to us at the scrap yard, and Cope's Lynx.
Eliza doubled over and screamed herself hoarse as tears flooded from her eyes. Cope dropped onto his a$$ and wailed, buried his head in his hands. I had to fight the urge to throw up.
When I have enough strength back I take off, leading Cope and Eliza past the flaming carnage to the next level down. The Elegy's still where I left it, unharmed. I search it thoroughly for signs of tampering while Cope holds tightly onto the hysterical Eliza, find none. It starts when I turn the key in the ignition. That's the car that we rode out in, heading to my Dad's place, but Cope told me to stop off first at Tinsel Towers to check out Apartment 42; Aneesha Stamp's place.
Cope kicked the door open and we both swung inside, guns drawn, while Eliza waited for us outside. The place was empty, Stamp and her stuff already gone, only an unaddressed letter left behind on one of the kitchen units:
I'm sorry I had to leave you.
If you're reading this, the circumstances probably weren't pleasant.
Understand, I never wanted to hurt you.
This was all about Guinea-Bissau.
- A.S
Inquisitor is already at my Dad's house waiting for us when we arrive. His expression is as grave as Cope and I are feeling. "Thank God you two made it. Where are the others?"
"Shirazi's dead," I say. There's no malice or anger or resentment in my voice. In all honesty, I'm far too tired for any of that now.
Inquisitor's eyes flick to Cope as he asks "and Stamp?"
Cope says nothing. Hands him the letter. He reads it, looks up then quickly away to the left with a heavy sigh. "Son of a bitch."
"What happened in Guinea-Bissau," I ask, firmly.
"A coup-de-tat. 2003," Inquisitor replies. "Supposedly bloodless, but a few people around it wound up dead. Stamp's mentor was one of them," he adds and has to clear his throat. After a few seconds to collect himself, he goes on. "He was financing one of the groups that was applying the political pressure for the coup. It's funny that all that money went missing. Funny that, from that same coup, Don Percival founded Merryweather Private Security."
"Jesus," Cope curses and turns around to be sick. I'm barely holding it in myself.
Inquisitor spots Eliza, where she's hiding in the back of my car. "Don't be afraid my dear," he says to her. "We won't be terminating your contract. In fact, we'll be placing you in an alternative position very shortly."
"Eliza stays with us," I say. Cope straightens and comes to stand by my side to reiterate the point.
Inquisitor looks at us with an almost apologetic expression. "Eliza has two degrees in finance and a very specific skillset which is extremely valuable to our organisation. We need to put her with another VIP, ASAP."
"Why can't she work with us? We'll take over from Jefferies," I say.
"Sergeant Coleman," he protests, pulling a face. "As thrifty as your father and you are with your money, I sincerely doubt between you that you've managed to amass a minimum one million dollars. And Cope, with your apartment and your car, I know you haven't."
"Why a million," I ask.
Cope answers that one. "It's the minimum capital you need to be one of SecuroServ's 'VIP's'."
"Call it an insurance policy," Inquisitor adds.
"I'll get you your million," I say firmly. His condescending smile makes me want to punch him, like I've wanted to punch so many of my male counterparts that have underestimated and belittled me. Holding back from doing so is probably the most important ability my Dad gave me.
"Follow me," I say and lead him into the barn, where the old Imponte had sat dry-stored. Brush away the dirt from the ground until the old hatch is revealed. It's been shut a long time so it takes me some effort to pull it open, but when I do the lights come on immediately, illuminating the ladder. I go down first. Inquisitor follows, and then Cope.
It's only one 40 x 8 foot shipping container buried down here, but it's all my Dad and I needed to survive for fifty years. Canned food, a pipeline to an underground water reservoir with filtration equipment, lights, enough batteries to fire the Imponte into the middle of the sun...
But that's not the part I bought them down to show them. I pull the tarp off the wall in the bottom half of the container so they can see our arsenal; Hawk and Little semi-automatic pistols, a hundred of them, each with two extended cartridges of sixteen rounds apiece. Ten Hawk & Little fifty-calibre pistols and a hundred cartridges each containing nine rounds. Five Hawk & Little pump-action shotguns, hundreds of boxes of shells for them. Twenty Hawk and Little submachineguns with two thousand rounds between them, and two M249's with five hundred rounds apiece. Twenty Shrewsbury Assault rifles with four sixty-round cartridges apiece. And two Shrewsbury sniper rifles with five hundred rounds between them.
"Ho-ly sh*t," Cope mutters approvingly.
"Jesus Christ, what was your Dad planning on doing with all these guns," Inquisitor asks me.
"Surviving," I reply.
"Alright, Coleman," Inquisitor sighs. Tilts his head, thinking. "I can probably get you two weeks. You can make a million in that time frame, you can take over Jefferies' business. Otherwise I'm putting Eliza back to work. Probably putting you two on Ant Macfarland's crew. I understand he's needing a new detail."
"Hang on, Macfarland tried to screw Jefferies over," Cope argues.
"Nope. That would be our friend Stamp selling intel," Inquisitor counters.
It doesn't add up though. Not completely. There's more to this. But for now, Cope and I take it at face value.
Before he drives away, Inquisitor gives us all new phones. Insists that I'm having to pay for this one. I turn mine on and I'm going to call Harvey, but immediately it starts ringing.
"I've got a proposition for you," a woman tells me. It takes me a few seconds to realise it's the woman who'd agreed with my story at the diner when I'd killed Eddie Ross. "A high end score, taken elegantly, using the latest tech."
She introduces herself as Paige Harris, tells me that she's a friend of Harvey's.
Later on that night, Soo-Jin Munn arrives on her motorbike, something I'll later learn is a Pegassi FCR1000 custom café racer, and Dakota Rune arrives in a Dinka hatchback. The sight of him makes Soo-Jin and Cope raise an eyebrow. He considers himself gender-fluid, carefully androgenous with his swept-side bright red undercut and wearing a leather biker jacket over a grey dress with black patterned tights and high-heeled ankle boots.
We're a mish-mash of a crew, for sure.
I fill them in on the details of Paige's plan while we dig a grave for my Dad. Douse him in petrol when he's in the hole and set the fire, but it's Shirazi that we drink the first toast to. Henry Wood the second and after that we take turns to name and drink to other people we've each loved and lost. Eliza stays quiet, her eyes transfixed on the flames.
Once everybody's clear on Paige's plan, I make sure they're all onboard with mine. It's real simple, in theory, but in practice it's going to be a whole lot harder. It sounds so good when we're talking about it.
We're going to clean up the crime in Los Santos. The crime on the streets AND in the tower offices. From the gangbangers to the corrupt bankers and, eventually, the crooked CEO's that are our employer's VIP's.
We're gonna take them all down.