Their plan of action was clear. The North Holland Hustlers had a shipment coming in, courtesy of the Pavano Mafia family. Niko and Rami's job was simple: ambush it.
Niko was wearing a yellow hooded top with blue jeans. Rami wore a yellow pullover under a white basketball vest, with beige khakis. Their boss had provided them with the appropriate vehicle. Rather than stealing a Lord's vehicle, they'd gotten a Cavalcade, sprayed it red and fitting gold rims and trim. The windows were tinted – enough to make identifying the driver/passengers difficult and both men wore yellow rags over their mouths. It would be hard to tell that neither man was Puerto Rican.
Niko was driving, having been designated the more skilful driver. Both men were armed, Rami with a MP10 and Niko with a micro-Uzi.
"Any minute now," Rami said, checking his watch.
Both men sat and waited, the Cavalcade hiding in an alley entrance.
"Here we go," Rami said, nodding toward an approaching Serrano, followed by a modified Landstalker that belonged to the Hustlers. Niko started the engine and, as the Serrano passed, pulled out of the alleyway.
Rami wound the window down.
Rami's aim was, as Niko had expected/hoped, impeccable, and the first shot perforated the Serrano's driver-side window. The driver was hit and slumped over the steering wheel. The Serrano veered right, mounting the sidewalk and bouncing back off of a wall, leaving behind chips of paint and brick.
Ahead a small crowd of people, alarmed by the shooting, screamed and ran. Most fled in through shop doorways, or round the corner, but one froze like a cat in a headlamp. There was a distinct thud – instantly recognizable to anyone who'd hit a pedestrian before, and disturbing to anyone who hadn't. The woman's body flipped upwards, her legs smashing into the Serrano's windshield as she tumbled over the top of the vehicle, landing in a heap behind, most likely dead.
Rami fired again, hitting the passenger in the back of the Serrano. Niko had slowed to match the now coasting Serrano as Rami turned his attention on the Landstalker. He fired a good drill into the front grill, immediately seeing steam rise from under the hood, then attacked the wheels. By the time he had to reload he'd punctured all three visible tires and was confident he'd hit the radiator. He allowed a few shots to ride up the hood and windshield for good measure, aware that they wanted some survivors.
The Israeli tossed his gun on to the back seat after it had clicked empty. He reached down and pulled out his 'secret weapon'.
"Get ready," Rami said, holding the high-explosive grenade. He tossed it out and saw it fly in through Serrano's shattered window.
"GO!" Rami called. Niko stamped on the pedal, causing the Cavalcade's wheels to spin and the back to fishtail. He held it though and within seconds they were speeding away.
The passengers in the Landstalker – crippled a good fifty feet behind the Serrano, which had stopped after crashing into a row of pay phones – alighted.
"Get the product!" one shouted as he looked at the burst tires. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell – to call backup.
Two men were approaching the Serrano when the grenade's fuse expired. The grenade exploded, sending flames through the windows and the trunk – the trunk door flying off and actually hitting one of the Hustlers. The explosion was so ferocious that the Serrano leaped into the air, as if lifted by fire. It crashed back down, engulfed in flames as a thick black smoke bellowed from the rear.
Only two of the Hustlers had survived the whole thing – one would be scarred for life down one side of his body and the other was still on his phone,
"Motherfucking Lords!" he shouted before running over to the only other survivor, who was screaming in agony from his horrific burns.
Neither Niko nor Rami heard the North Holland Hustler's cry, but the explosion had said it all. The escort was crippled, thus preventing any tails, so all they had to do was disappear.
But first they had to get to Bohan – the agreed-upon ending point. If anyone saw the SUV, they'd see it heading back into Lords turf.
They also wouldn't dump the vehicle. That was, they had decided, a bad thing to do. A dumped vehicle usually means that whoever had used it did not want anything connecting them with it. In this instance that would be suspicious; the vehicle was obviously belonging to the Spanish Lords – dumping it would imply a set up. No, they'd arranged to have the vehicle resprayed in a garage in Bohan. Once done, the rims would be taken and disposed off – whether sold, dumped or trashed, neither Rami nor Niko knew, or cared. The trim would be removed too, likely replaced by matte-black plastic. With this process done, the Cavalcade would be taken away to be crushed. Niko and Rami – once dropping the car off at the garage – would simply have to disappear, something both men knew how to do.
Neither man was surprised by the almost anticlimactic nature of the operation. Combat rarely lasted long in truth. Many operations – or military battles – were often over in mere minutes.
Rami had chosen the train – he rode the B/C train to Frankfort Avenue station, where he'd catch a cab to Star Junction. From there he'd walk south, enter Easton station and head to the airport – with another dry-cleaning transfer at Huntingdon Street. Once his dry-cleaning was done and he was satisfied, he'd collect his car at the airport multi-storey car park and drive home. There'd also be a change of outfits in Easton's toilets, using the crowds to blend before and after.
Niko simply caught a cab to Hove Beach, where he got the train to Chinatown. He walked through the bustling market atmosphere until he reached City Hall, using the time to reflect on their past mission. It wasn't bothering him anymore whether the reasons behind their work were noble or not. Liberty City played host to few noble people. Even the non-combatants, as Rami would say, would step over your injured body to go about their daily tasks. This was a city where very few cared about others. Rami was right. A conscience had no place in this line of work, and he'd certainly done his share of dishonorable things hadn't he?
Gracie Ancelotti sprung to mind. There was no honor in that mess, but Niko didn't care. She was just a spoiled rich girl, a product of capitalism, in a country where money is everything.
But what about Packie's brother? Niko had no reason to do what he did there and that didn't bother him did it? Just business, Rami would say.
Niko found himself within reach of City Hall's subway station. He descended and traveled to West Park, where he continued his musings with a stroll around the lake. He saw a couple walking hand in hand. The female reminded him of Mallorie, which made him think of his cousin. The transformation had astounded him. That was down to the child, Niko realized, but Roman had changed. It was a change that Niko welcomed – his cousin had grown up – but it reflected the opposite in Niko. Where Roman had come to America and indulged in all the vices available here, living like a child in a candy store, Niko's inner child had been brutally slaughtered. That was something he'd envied in Roman – how he'd just have fun. Despite the loan sharks, the Albanians he had problems with, the Russian puppet masters that ultimately had revealed themselves as deadly nemesises, Roman had still lived his life to play. Sex, gambling, nightlife. That was Roman's life. Was. But at the same time, Niko's was smuggling and killing. They could not be more contrasting.
And now?
Now Roman was a father – something that still sounded strange to both men – and had a family. His cab business had expanded, his business mind evolved. Roman had, actually, featured in a magazine six months ago – or was it a newspaper? – in an article about local businesses. The article praised 'hard working foreigners' who had 'aided local industry growth'. Basically, by coming to this country, avoiding crime (or at least avoiding being caught), and working hard, Roman had created jobs for Liberty City residents, and a service that evidently seemed to be in demand. He would never compete with the yellow cabs – all run by the same company probably – but, where they offered convenience and quickness, Roman catered to a more refined crowd. Bookings, mainly. His company, in the last year, had driven thousands of teenage girls and boys to prom parties, ferried men and women to and from weddings and even provided transport for funerals. You couldn't turn up to a wedding in a yellow cab, though people did, or use one as a funeral limousine.
Still, Niko was happy for his cousin. Plus he'd always have a job with him. Niko didn't want to spend the rest of his life driving cabs, but he knew that if he was ever short of money…
This was an amazing city, Niko thought. Both fantastic and harrowing. He'd heard about Los Santos – where you could stand in the 'ghetto' and literally cross the road to a more prosperous district. He had no idea how true it was but he could believe it. These cities were so cramped; people literally lived on top of each other. Even here he'd walked through a prosperous district – was that the right word? Rich district? – and glanced down an alley to see the homeless. Poor people sandwiched between the rich.
None of this surprised him, though. People here lived their lives without a thought for these homeless. Niko usually gave something to the jazz players he saw in the subway – he actually liked them – even though they were not poor. He could afford to give the odd dollar to the bums too and it was usually easier to toss them a bone then deal with them asking for money. In one case he'd given a guy some money and then got in a fight. To his amazement, the bum had run over and helped him out!
He wondered where his life would have left had the war not landed in his back yard. Ironically, probably nowhere. Roman would probably not had fled to America, he would not have met Mallorie and would not have had little Katie. Niko himself would not have lost part of himself that day, would not have vowed revenge and would not have spent ten years working his way across Europe. He would not have been involved in the smuggling, he would not have arrived in Liberty City looking for Florian. He would not have had the life he had now – and if there's anything he can call his life, boring would not be it.
He'd walked a long line – longer than most. He had eyes that had, as the saying went, seen too much. He'd seen too many people die, some by his hand, some not. Memories of his childhood were just that – memories. Distant memories at that, too.
He looked down at the back of his hands, seeing how he had aged. He chuckled to himself. In films or soap operas this would be where a slow piano riff would be played, in a minor scale, perhaps with a cello or violin in the background.
"Your life is so tragic," he said, self-mockingly. Get over it.
The truth was that his life was actually pretty good. He had money, and a job that he actually liked – once he got past the moral queries. This was work he was good at, plus there was an element of adrenaline addiction. Definitely the danger. Only the best would survive. The ultimate game, he'd heard it called. Win, you live, victorious, and glorious. Lose, you die. The greatest gamble.
The strangest thing was that Niko didn't resent his past. He'd suffered and at great cost of his soul, as Ilyena Faustin once put it and he'd gotten his revenge. But he didn't regret it. He had worried that life out here would corrupt him, that he'd end up a money hungry drone like everyone else. But… who cared?
Niko allowed himself an amused shake of the head before finally heading back, via a couple of alleys in a final sweep for tails, to his apartment.
At roughly the same time Luis was sitting in his office, supposedly working, but thinking of the mystery man. He was probably dead now. Should he have gone back and helped him?
It was one thing simply helping a man out but when you're being shot at things change.
Luis tossed his pen down and shook his head, perplexed. What does it matter? He stood up and walked out to the club floor, checking his watch. Almost opening time. By the time the girls started flooding in, he'd forget all about it.
Niko woke the next morning and began his usual routine. Shower and coffee. He sometimes put the news on, sometimes electing to buy a paper. Today it was a paper – he fancied a decent breakfast today and bought a paper to go with that.
It was a short walk to the café he liked. Nothing fancy, just quick – and surprisingly good – food. He had what the owner – a Brit, though the man's accent was weak – called an English breakfast. Egg with bacon and sausage and mushrooms, hash browns and fried toast. It usually came with baked beans but Niko never fancied beans for breakfast.
The café owner himself – with an unnatural passion for serving food, Niko thought – placed the meal on the table.
"Americans always mock our food, but they don't realize we have some of the best food in the world."
"Yeah, you've said before," Niko said. The two weren't friends, but the man knew Niko's face. Rami would probably call that bad tradecraft, but Niko was no robot. He actually liked the food here and the staff was friendly enough. A family business – and most family businesses were friendly.
"Come down for dinner sometime then," the British man said. "My wife makes a fantastic Toad in the Hole, and her Beef Wellington is second to none."
"Fair enough," Niko said, reaching for his orange juice. Opposite him sat Jacob Hughes – a man he'd befriended almost instantly after meeting. Niko internally remarked on the fact that it was Jacob who handed him his first gun in this city. Was there irony there? He wasn't sure. Fittingly enough he'd also been there when it counted too, while avenging Kate's murder.
"So what's wrong, Niko?" Jacob had gone for a more simple breakfast – one of the café's popular bacon buns.
"Where do you get your guns from?"
"Trade secret, breda. Something wrong with them?"
"No," Niko said from behind his fork. "Just…" He leaned in and lowered his voice. "Had to warn you."
"Warn me? About what?"
"Your gun running. Those who smuggle them into the city… they're on limited time."
"Limited time, Niko?"
"The people I work for…. Things are going to change. They're going to legalize the controlled sale of guns. Most people would buy them in a shop, get bonus card points for them and a receipt. But I think my boss… Whoever is still selling guns like you do… I think he's going to have them all killed. Some kind of city-wide purge."
"Bumbaclot," Jacob breathed. "That will make things dangerous."
"You're still going to do it?"
"It's all done through the dreads, Niko. No one knows about it…"
"Look, they're clamping down on it. Keep yourself covered."
"I'll bear that in mind, Niko. What is going on?"
"Political corruption." Niko sighed. "One party's playing dirty, the other's playing equally as dirty."
"And who's in the right?"
Niko smiled darkly. "Is anyone ever in the right?"
"I hope you've chosen your side carefully, Niko."
Niko nodded, not knowing how to answer it.
Luis didn't like mornings. Sure, he could get up when he had to, and sometimes had a run, but he was a night owl. Running a nightclub pretty much dictated that, but it suited Luis fine.
Today was a day he'd planned to sleep in but his phone had other ideas.
"Yeah?" he growled groggily.
"Luis Lopez?" The synthesized voice woke him up immediately.
"Who the hell's this?"
"No one you know."
"Then why–?" Luis sighed and sat up. "What you want?"
"Met anyone interesting lately?"
Luis frowned. "What the-?"
"You probably don't realize it yet but you're in the middle of something… big."
"How big?" Luis asked automatically. He shook his head then stood, walking to get a drink of water.
"That remains to be seen. Why did you help him?"
"Help who?"
"Michael Klebitz."
What the fuck?! How did this guy know about that?!. "Uh… I…"
"Don't worry, I'm not the bad guy."
"So what's this Michael got to do it?"
"It was a hit. He escaped, and evidently crashed into your club."
Luis frowned. "How do you know that?"
"CCTV, Lopez."
"But I cleared the tapes."
"Yes, but not the apartment building opposite."
"So is this blackmail?"
"No. Think of it more as… recruitment."
Luis took a moment. "Am I going to get paid?"
"No, unless you want to mug someone." Luis missed the joke.
"So what then?"
"I want you to find out some things for me."
"And how can I trust you?"
"I suppose you can't."
"But you have me, don't you? What, if I say no you're gonna call the cops? Set me up for attacking that guy?"
"You went out of your way to help him. I stumbled across you helping him by luck. I have, though, found out that you drove out past Alderney to take the man to his brother. I figured you went through that much effort, you must care. Don't worry I won't tell anyone. Your strong-silent-type persona is safe."
"What do you want me to do?" Luis said after a minute.
"Find out who tried to kill your new friend."
"Yeah, just one problem with that."
"What?"
"He's dead," A shrug. "I think."
"Dead?" Luis couldn't tell if the voice was troubled, but it seemed it. "How?"
"Some guys tore up the trailer park."
"And you just walked away?"
"Yeah, bite me."
There was a moment's silence. "Well the good news is his body wasn't recovered. Police reports state that two men escaped on a bike."
"So he's alive?"
"Yeah. I'm guessing you don't know where he is."
"No."
"That's not ideal," the voice said.
"Well, what you want me to do?"
"Meet me."
"When?"
"You'll see."
The call ended and Luis stood there, staring at his phone in confusion.
"What the hell was that about?"
A drug dealer was their next target. He'd been dealing on Lords' turf in Bohan. Niko's first job had been to steal a Patriot, and deliver it to the workshop, where it'd be 'blinged' up slightly.
Rami met Niko there, with a bag of clothes. Niko put on an oversized puffer-jacket with a fluffy hood, and a pair of baggy jeans with brilliant white sneakers. Rami had bought for himself a massive white T-shirt and a black zip up hoody, with beige cargo pants. His shoes were, to his own amusement, bright red. He also had a baseball cap.
Once dressed, and with their make-up on (they'd used face-paint to make the exposed skin on their faces and hands look chocolate), they examined the vehicle. Rami wondered what would happen to the vehicle afterward, whether it'd all be scrapped or torn apart and each part sold for profit. He shrugged. Who cares?
Niko would drive to the location they'd already scoped out. They'd park the car then walk the half-block to the target's patch. Both Rami and Niko had a small-caliber pistol each – the less noise the better, but they couldn't use silencers as the Hustlers didn't really bother with such things, and police forensics may reveal the use of them. They really didn't need much more. Both were expert shots with a pistol, in fact Rami insisted that he was more dangerous with a pistol then most American Gangstas were with machine guns. Rami's style was, much like Niko's, clean. They were both deadly with the three-tap drill; a shot to the chest and let the shots rid up to the head. But both men had the habit of going for the head. So far it had yet to fail.
"Do gang-bangers go for the head?" Niko thought out loud as he pulled the Patriot out of the garage and into the Algonquin night. The garage was located on Algonquin's western riverfront, underneath the access road to the Hickey Bridge. The drive to Bohan would take the men through N.H.H. territory. The perfect approach, they'd agreed. Over the Northwood Heights Bridge.
"That's a good question. In my experience Americans shoot first and aim later."
"If they aim at all."
Rami actually laughed at that. It was well known that the Russians – specifically Chechens, Spetsnaz and KGB agents – pioneered the technique of shooting for the head. One well aimed bullet to the forehead was more dangerous than fifty un-aimed, 'sprayed' rounds.
"Spray 'n' Pray they call it," Rami said. "Shoot and hope one hits your target."
Niko needed no lessons in shooting. The 'Russian' method of shooting had spread and even westerners used it. Law enforcement officers though were usually trained to shoot for center-of-mass. That made the criminal's day. Years ago the amount of robberies that were successful was staggering, especially when the eastern Europeans gangsters settling in Liberty City. American cops shooting at body-armor-wearing Russian bank robbers' chests, while they returned fire to the head. Times had changed of course, and that Russian/American border on shooting style had pretty much fallen with the Berlin wall. Niko wondered how accurate that thought as. Not very, he mused. He wasn't aware of the generalizations either.
"We don't want to make a mess," Rami said after a moment's thought. "The longer we're there for, the more likely we'll have a full-blown shootout. That we want to avoid."
Niko agreed. "What about a distraction?"
Rami stared at the Serb for a moment then smiled. "You walk up as if to buy drugs, while I come from behind, kick his knees out, and put a bullet in the back of his head?"
"Gangland-style they call that, don't they?"
"I think so." Rami nodded. "Gangland execution?"
"Good idea. What if he turns round and sees you?"
"Then you shoot him. Or club him over the head as he turns."
"What if instead of shooting, you used a knife?"
Rami shook his head. "Not that common. A knife kill like that – slit his jugular you mean? – implies something personal. It's the kind of thing you'd do a gang's lieutenants, not to a bottom-feeder drug dealer. Street walkers."
Niko nodded. "Good point there."
"Plus, Niko, the Americans have an acronym saying: KISS."
"Keep It Simple, Stupid," Niko confirmed.
"Americans love their acronyms. But that saying is a good one. Why muddy the waters with unnecessary compilations?"
"More to go wrong."
"Exactly!"
"Won't the dealer have backup?"
"Yes, probably. We'll identify his men before moving in."
"So I'm on crowd control?"
"To some extent. When I eliminate the target, you turn and put down your man. I'll then take down the other, and if there's a third, he's yours."
"Two each," Niko nodded. He knew how this was played. They'd I.D. the targets on arrival and mutually assign themselves to them. Rami would have the easier job. Once the target's neutralized, Rami could use the dealer's body as a shield. Contrary to movies, he wouldn't be able to face a barrage of bullets from machineguns, but he'd withstand a little small-arms fire long enough to fire back. He might even cause the gunmen to hesitate.
They passed the target's turf at a decent speed. This was the trickiest bit. Both men were trained shooters, and could shoot apples off of heads all day long. But even driving training didn't warn them of this risk. If they drove too fast, they'd fly past the target, allowing only a glance to survey the area. Too slow and they'd immediately be identified as a drive-by. Just under the speed limit, Niko told himself. It helped that the target was near an intersection; they had a reason to slow down.
"One primary, two seconadaries," Rami reported. Niko did not look. Although the vehicle had darkened windows, Niko trusted Rami to observe. A passenger looking out his window is normal. The driver taking his eyes off the road, to look at a pedestrian…. Most people didn't do that.
They parked the vehicle around the corner from the target. Rami rushed off down the road, heading round the block to creep down the alley. Once the Israeli disappeared, Niko strolled round the corner.
The dealer's men noticed Niko immediately. Niko offered the man a sharp nod and reached into his pocket, pulling out a wallet. He timed it perfectly, passing under a street lamp as he pulled out the paper money. He saw the men relax – but not completely.
Niko reached the target, who had turned to squarely face this 'customer'. This was the bit Niko didn't look forward to.
"Yo, wassup homie?" Niko rapped, in his best African-American accent – he'd practiced. This was also the signal for Rami to move. "What yo' sellin'?" Niko dropped his wallet, the money spilling onto the floor.
Good work, Niko, Rami thought. He'd sneaked down the alley as Niko approached – the Serb distracting all of the men. No one watched the alley. Rami loved amateurs, unless he was working with them.
Rami moved forward, his gun in hand.
Niko was almost as surprised as the Lords. He was expecting to see Rami, but he didn't. All he saw was the drug dealer fall to his knees, with a shocked and painful gasp.
In his kneeling position, Niko drew his pistol. One of the men had automatically – and foolishly – bent down to help the 'customer'.
It was a fatal mistake. As soon as the drug dealer collapsed, Rami's foot stamping on the back of his knee, Niko moved forward, grabbing the crouching man and firing into his stomach, a split-second after Rami's shot echoed through the alley. Niko stayed on his knee as Rami fired his second shot. Both men looked round to check for more threats.
None.
"Perfect," Rami said with a smile.
Niko nodded then followed Rami as he ran to the Patriot.
One down…
The next target would prove to be trickier. This dealer – with three backup men – was evidently more experienced. Rami approached, and one of the men called out for him to halt.
"Put your hands up, man." Rami obeyed. "What you want?"
"Nothin' but a good time," Rami said, in an almost flawless accent. "What you got?"
"Got a blade, man," the dealer said, almost dropping the 'n'. "Wanna dance?"
"You got me all wrong, playa. I'm just shoppin."
"Yeah?" another man said, in a deeper, more gravelly voice. "Well we ain' sellin' so fuck off."
Fantastic customer service, Rami thought.
"Alright," Rami said, seeing Niko behind the dealer.
"Wait a sec," the final backup man said. "What the fuck wrong wi' yo' face?"
Oh shit, Rami said to himself. One of the backup men moved forward, pulling out a knife. He held it to Rami's throat.
Immediately Rami reacted. His left hand darted up and round, grabbing and pushing the knife away to his right. Then his right fist landed three punches to the man's face, followed by a kick. With the man stunned, Rami thrusted the man's own knife into his stomach, four times, then floored him with a leg sweep.
A man from behind Rami kicked out, knocking Rami to the floor. The dealer, now with a gun drawn, approached.
"You're going to regret that."
"Let's waste this fool," the man said from behind Rami.
"Night night, bitch" the dealer said, putting the gun to Rami's head.
Niko watched as Rami went to his knees. He had to move now, but anything would likely make the dealer shoot. Rami didn't look scared though. He looked bored. That's when Niko realized that it was the dealer in danger, not the Israeli veteran. Niko changed tactics, and set his sights on the man nearest his position. He drew his gun.
Rami noticed movement behind the dealer. No one else did, though; all eyes were on him. Rami looked up at the dealer as the gun came within range.
With speed that surprised the backup men and Niko, Rami's arm came up, grabbing the gun's barrel in a fist, moving it to the side of his head. The Israeli's head also cocked to the side slightly, successfully getting out of the line of fire. The Dealer flinched and pulled his hand back, but not before Rami's second hand clasped on the back of the gun. Rami used the dealer's backwards momentum to pull himself up, and, with the gun now directed beside his hip, Rami's leg came out to kick the man square in the groin, twice, the dealer's motion helping build the kicks' power. Rami then lurched backward as the men pulled out their guns, the dealer's gun now under his full control. Within a second Rami had turned and fired a single shot at the man that had stood behind him.
Niko fired at the remaining man, as Rami took down his. That left the dealer, who was on all fours, coughing from the pain in his gonads.
Rami stared at the dealer and, without a blink, or a word, put the gun to his head. He fired, and the dealer went limp.
Niko looked at Rami.
"Remind me not to get into a fight with you," Niko said.
Rami chuckled before turning to head back to the car.
Niko blinked. The ex Israeli Special Forces soldier wasn't even out of breath.
In the car, Rami reloaded their guns, as Niko drove. They had one more target – a drugs lab. This was the crux of their plan.
There would be many men inside – the lab was no more than an apartment – and they two men would likely have to fight their way to – and from – it. Rami reached under his seat and came up with an Uzi. They'd already decided that Rami would not have the weapon that came from his own country, but Niko would. Rami wanted to duel wield the pistols. Niko knew how deadly this man was with one pistol, but two?!
It was plain sailing until they reached the third floor of the apartment block. It was this floor that had the gang on it.
There would be no subterfuge this time though. Rami led, both pistols up, taking down two men simultaneously – one shot from each gun. Niko was impressed – he only heard one shot. Rami had fired both guns – once – in perfect synchronicity. Both shots hit their targets between the eyes.
Niko darted forward as the men fell. He hit the floor as he reached the door-less portal to the hallway. It reminded him of a job he did for Jacob – was that against the same men?
On one knee, Niko fired down the passageway, taking out two men with two short bursts. Rami stood behind Niko and fired two shots, both hitting their target – this time just one man. Then the men moved forward.
Two men darted out of an apartment, and Rami once again impressed Niko. Niko didn't see the first man until the latino gang-runner hit the floor, Rami's cat-like reflex flooring him with a shot through… the ear! Niko fired at the second man while remarking on that shot. This wasn't challenging, pitting yourself up against multiple armed men, but working with someone as good as Rami, it was easy. Both men knew each other's style, and worked with phenomenal teamwork.
They reached the apartment and Niko kicked in the door. Rami got low and darted in, turning left. Niko followed, going right, and high.
Both men fired and, within three seconds, all five men in the room were dead – the last one taking bullets from Niko's Uzi to the chest, and one of Rami's pistols to the head.
Rami went left farther – into a kitchen – and Niko went right, into a bedroom. Niko fired at a man who had evidently been receiving fellatio; the woman was cowering at the foot of the bed and the man was reaching for his gun, his wilting erection almost making Niko laugh. Niko fired anyway, hearing a single shot from Rami.
"What's going on here?" Rami asked, appearing behind Niko, doing well to keep his African American accent up.
Niko shrugged.
Rami pointed at the bed. "Was he about to shoot?!"
