Somewhere in Los Santos.
AN opaque brown stain stretched across the marble, reaching from the corners of the room all the way to the bases of the tables, where it coagulated around the edges like rust on iron, as the smell of turpentine permeated the air.
A noisy shuffling was observed as Charlie continued to rummage through the safe located underneath what used to be the boss's corner of the room, pulling out stacks of bills whenever he could and placing them in a briefcase next to him, to its right which lay a Model 31 shotgun skinned in charcoal black and pearl white. An impractical weapon given his injuries, but a weapon nonetheless.
The blond, half delirious from a combination of blood loss, pain and panic, had a blood-drenched makeshift cast made out of paper towels wrapped around his left forearm as he periodically applied alcohol on what was left of his left ear to stop the bleeding, causing him to release cries of pain with each drop of liquid.
Gritting his teeth, and putting up an almost faux sense of pseudo-positivity, Charlie continued to shove more bills down the case until he was certain that he had about two million worth of laundered, clean cut Benjamin Franklins inside it, before closing it up and placing it on the table.
Hearing the crackle of the twin doors splinter, the other surviving executive of the board walked in, pointing a P226 at the man.
The man had a cold stare of tranquil fury, like a bull all pent up to charge at the defenceless matador without a red cape who stood in front of him.
The man spoke.
"You look messed up."
"It's too late mate." Said Charlie, keeping his hands raised. "The safe's finished."
"Planning to skip town already huh?"
The man, smirking, replied with a quiet nod.
"Obviously not."
"I know you've been selling us out since the boss dropped."
"I didn't."
"All these sudden leaves, hesitations and ass pulls from the meetings...You've been selling company files to some contact in the Hills." Said Beta, pulling the hammer. "You didn't happen to sell him or her a file on the Fleeca branch in Vinewood, did you?"
"...So I've heard. I've read the papers, seen the list of fatalities. Always knew you had a thing for her, really."
The man fired a stray round across Charlie, breaking his smile and causing him to recoil as the bullet pierced through the wall behind him. His sense of confidence and entitlement was immediately shattered.
"Then you know why I'm fucking here!" Declared Beta.
"L-listen lad." Stammered Charlie, lowering his posture slowly.
"Both of us are royally fucked in the arse regardless of the outcome. The company is gonna come down hard, not to mention the danger of a certain rogue unit with a history of animosity also after us, and we'd be lucky if we managed to leave LS with our bollocks intact."
Turning the briefcase and opening it up, Charlie revealed the green.
"You take a mil, I'll take a mil. After which we go our seperate ways and fuck right off from this town for good, aye?"
Sliding the case over Charlie used this moment of distraction to pick his shotgun up, and soon the two executives were moving crabwise around the room, their weapons pointing at each other like in a western.
"Listen carefully." Said Charlie. "I did not sell her anything with regards to that branch that just got nabbed. And even if I did, I don't believe my contact would be stupid enough to let a band of psychotics do the job. It was purely independent of our doing, and may I say, amateur in nature, on their part."
"That's definitely reassuring."
"Hey now, don't paint me up as the villain here! I'm aware that the both of you likewise intended to embezzle funds from the organisation! With the boss dead, anyone would do it in your shoes, as a matter of fact!"
Charlie and Beta soon faced opposite ends of the room, as a slit of sunlight in between drapes shined against Charlie's suit from the front window.
"However, to your misfortune, I came first, so... The money's all mine, I suppose."
Taking a breath, the man pumped his shotgun.
"Any last words?"
"Go fuck yourself." Snarked Beta.
The African-American fired his gun first, hitting Charlie twice in the chest and once in the shoulder as another round hit him in the right ear, blowing it clean off, as he leaned backwards in pain.
Coughing up blood and looking at his adversary with Kubrick-esque eyes, the Brit readied his shotgun and fired at the executive. The pellets rushed through his chest and with the sheer force of the impact the man was thrown backwards, breaking the windows behind him as a splatter of blood coated the curtains, pulling it down allowing more sunlight to enter the room. A panoramic view of the Marlowe Drive road outside was visible in all its glory as Beta exerted pressure on his wounds.
The man dropped the Sig on the marble and fell on the brown stain, spilling new blood across the former zone of suicide.
It was game over for Beta.
Picking himself up slowly and painfully, Charlie pumped and shot another round at the dead body out of spite, throwing the shotgun on the side afterwards as he closed and pulled the heavy briefcase forward, holding it tightly with his progressively failing right hand.
With nothing but a constant ringing in his now-missing ears and a gradual drifting of his consciousness Charlie squeezed the handle as he stumbled across the room towards the exit, as a steadily increasing trail of blood followed him through.
There were no victors in the duel for the dollar bill, only muzzle smoke, broken glass and distant footsteps which stopped abruptly following the shooting.