A/N: Back again, I was pretty inactive in my "holidays", wasn't I? I've decided to sort of "screw up" the story: Claude simply doesn't talk because he can't be bothered to; he occasionally speaks, but that's only when he can't control himself. Here's the next.
Claude gulped down the last drops of Coke from the aluminium can, and tossed it into the rubbish bin from across the shop. Wiping his mouth with his napkin, he nodded approvingly at one of the guys standing at the counter, before moving back outside to his Yakuza Stinger.
Liberty City at night was in stark contrast to every other city in America. The night lights would illuminate ghastly reflections across the city, casinos and clubs slowly got rowdier, sleazy occurrences were common, but most of all, crime rate tripled. Car thefts, fights, shootings, were common place in Liberty City life. But at night, you'd expect this to happen on every corner. That was why you'd turn into every street, with your fists, feet, or car ready to get out of any trouble you could get into. Because if you didn't, you'd usually be lying on the pavement, not moving a muscle.
As Claude exited the fast food shop, he came face to face with a Columbian Cartel SPANK dealer. Although he wouldn't have been surprised if the man had recognised him, he gave an annoyed sigh as the man approached him, pistol out, and holding packets of SPANK.
"Hey…you that fucking idiot Catalina shot…she did you real good…and now I kill you…" the man snarled.
Claude didn't respond, but as the man raised his gun, Claude's reactions were lightning. With one smooth motion, his hand lashed out, and the back of it smashed against the man's face. Following it up with a kick to the guts, the fight was all over within seconds.
"She might have done me, but I did you well enough." Claude muttered, quietly, and then was surprised. He hadn't really meant to talk, but then again, he hadn't tried ever since he had been shot in the throat. He decided to continue not talking-it would go much better. With that thought, he continued striding back to his Yakuza Stinger, thinking that he really needed a long break from all the criminal stuff that he had to perform.
As if going by script, Claude's pager rang. Sighing, he turned it on, expecting to see another new job message. Sure enough, it was, but luckily for him, Ray had been lenient.
"Kid, I might have a job for you that I want you to do in three days-take the next couple of days off or something, then meet me at the usual place, at dusk-around six."
Glad that the job hadn't ruined his prepared time for some R&R, Claude quickly turned off his Sumo Wordman, entered his Stinger, and drove back to his hideout.
Dumping himself onto the couch, Claude slowly took a look at his flat. His weapons were hidden in a cupboard in the kitchen. His makeshift bed was next to the couch, and so was the TV. The large stacks of cash he had earned for his jobs were placed next to the television, and all his spare clothes were settled in a wardrobe in a room next door, where a washing machine with some other assortments were. Finally, there was a toilet, shower and bath. Not too bad for a place that hadn't been used for a few months, until recently.
It could do with a bit of furnishing, Claude thought, but knew it would be rather useless, and could really blow his cover. Something he hadn't revealed to anyone was that he owned a house in Shoreside Vale in Wichita Gardens, not too far from Cedar Grove, where the Columbian Cartel appeared in droves. Despite the dangers of living to his former gang members, he had already decided to shift all his stuff there as soon as the lift bridge was reopened from repairs (a big chunk of it had just fallen into the sea, a month before the bank robbery). Claude hoped that the Porter tunnel would be completed slightly quicker too, as that would also provide an easy access path to the three islands.
Finally finished with his musing, Claude turned on the TV, hit the sack, and fell asleep with the soft buzz in his ears.
Henson Morgue, Liberty City Ghost Town:
If someone entered the morgue during night, they'd immediately be chilled to the skin by the smell of death in the air, and the many tombstones lining the grass. But there was not that feeling tonight.
Tonight was the annual, but infamous Liberty City "Morguerie" Bash was being held. This "social gathering" contained some of Liberty City's underground crime officials, and was a sleaze-fest for pimps and their prostitutes. Things would get sometimes very dangerous, but all around, the merrymaking was shared by the less-innocent people of the town.
Of course, there were gang leaders such as El Burro and D-Ice leading the scenes, along with several higher-ranked Mafia henchmen. However, what many didn't know was that Donald Love, successful business tycoon and owner of multi-million-dollar-earning Love Media, was one of the participants of this "Bash". Here, he would show more of his younger side, of many years ago, of his 70s party style, and would step away from being the seemingly indestructible entrepreneur that the public viewed him as.
Unfortunately for Love, the FBI had been tracking him, more as a borderline scan than a full investigation, and had discovered blips on the radar. They had found out that he wasn't completely out of touch with crime, and although not ruthless, still hard-nosed in keeping it that way. That was why they had sent Alan Lambert and Wesley Morrison on their way to do undercover work, posing as Mafia men.
"Shit, do we have to wear these black sunglasses?" Lambert muttered as he turned the wheel of the flashy Cheetah onto the street of the morgue.
"Duh, all those mob guys wear them. Some sort of tradition, or something. Forellis…Leones, they all wear them, even though they're always at each other's throats." Morrison replied.
"Though I heard the Forelli family have never been the same, ever since Tommy Vercetti pummelled them back in 1986, or when some random guy killed the Don, his capo, ten or so underbosses, and about ten made-men in '92."
"Yeah, well, the Leones seem to be on the same front. You heard how Salvatore Leone got assassinated not too long ago? Shot in the face twice as he attempted to enter a car. Crazy shit, the sniper must be some sort of freak."
"Yeah, well, you better shoot like that tonight if we need to; otherwise we're going to be sleeping with the fishes by the morning." Lambert retorted.
They were equipped with Heckler Koch 9mm MP5s; top-notch for getting out of sticky situations, which Lambert knew that they were going to get into tonight. He was the older of the two, but not by much; he was 26, Morrison was 24, but he was surprised that the FBI had picked the two for them for the task-they weren't the most experienced, to say the least. The only real thing that got them close enough to be ideal for the task was that they were young, and perhaps could "fit in" at the morgue party. Or maybe the FBI was just being idiots.
Sighing, Lambert checked his stuff once more as they parked nearby, next to a Mafia Sentinel and a Diablo Stallion. There were a couple of motorbikes across the street, both the kind that automatically started. Lambert inspected his sub-machine gun, pocket knife, camera for any possible evidence, and tear gas, before deciding everything was satisfactory…enough. Tucking the stuff away, he turned his glasses into a better position, before waiting for Morrison to exit the car. Together, they made their way to the entrance of the morgue, where they could already hear the sounds of random techno sort of music. The guard at the front, noticing their Mafia-style dress, nodded slowly at them before allowing the two of them to enter.
Lambert and Morrison shoved their way through the crowd of people dancing, and headed over to a bin. Then, they took out small cups, sealed tightly and with beer inside, and tipped them into their mouths. Swishing them for a while, they spat the alcohol out, both frowning as they did so.
"Man, I hate that shit. I don't know why some people like it…" Lambert groaned, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.
"I don't mind beer usually, but this stuff is probably imported from Carcer City, it'd do bad rather than good, these guys are just going to think we're weirdos." Morrison grumbled, staring at the large number of people doing a dance to some random 80s song.
Nevertheless, the smell of booze in their mouths helped them blend in a bit more with the noisy shindig, and they quickly set off, looking to see if Donald Love was actually around, or if this was all a waste of time. They made a note of the other people they found on the way as well; people such as Luigi, owner of the Sex Club in Portland and the gang leaders D-Ice an El Burro. King Courtney would have usually been participating as well, but ever since he had been blown up, the Yardies had generally come to a standstill.
After half an hour of seemingly pointless searching, Lambert was about to concede defeat, when he noticed a familiar-looking man sharing a drink with a couple of guys in black leather jackets. He motioned for Morrison, and they slowly crept in closer for a better look. It was Donald Love, all right, only that he was in a rather subtle disguise.
"Okay, get a few shots of him; that's enough evidence for the FBI to prove that it's him." Lambert hissed, and Morrison raised the camera, clicking the button three times in succession.
The light flashed, and the two jacket men spun around, but the two FBI agents were already off, moving into the crowd.
"Okay, now that we've got this stuff, we should stay for a while-not to get anybody suspicious. We should keep track of Love as well-follow him if he leaves anywhere." Morrison said, tucking the camera away.
"Yeah, all right, but we should make it quick-I can't stand this place for any longer." Lambert muttered.
"God, you're starting to sound like my kiddo." Morrison mumbled, before they headed off again, keeping a close eye on Donald Love.
In the end, the two agents did get cracking on Donald Love-they took a few photos of him shaking hands with what looked like a pimp, playing cards, and drinking wine. Eventually, they followed Donald Love to a couple of guys in blue shirts, before he suddenly disappeared.
"Damn." Lambert muttered.
They quickly sprinted past a few people, but managed to overhear a conversation:
"Donald Love, he's left the party…he thinks some people are following him…what a paranoid asshole…"
With this new-found information, they quickly ran towards the exit, and had nearly made it, only to be confronted by a Diablo gangster, who was holding an empty bottle in one hand, and looking quite woozy.
"Ahh…wow…hehe, you two look like…those random dudes, y'know, Starpee and….Hootch…" the man drawled, and he staggered.
The man fell onto Lambert's shoulders, and he brushed him back roughly. Unfortunately, the man had grabbed onto his coat just at that point, and ripped it back, exposing a black shirt with "FBI" stitched in along the back.
Everyone in close proximity stopped all they were doing, and just stared. Then, two Mafia men with AK-47s moved forward, their guns pointing at Lambert and Morrison.
"You die, you fucking Feds," one snarled.
"Not if I could help it. Take this, biatch!" shouted Morrison, and in an instant, two teargas cans were out. The Feds quickly flipped open the tabs, and threw them before anyone could react, before they were off, and running back towards their Cheetah. They could hear coughing and choking behind them as the gas did their job.
Then, Lambert had to duck to narrowly dodge a bullet flying at them. It was a couple of Mafia guards, who had probably heard about the commotion, and they were shooting. Morrison covered Lambert as he orientated himself, and blasted one of them, before Lambert's MP5 was out and ready, shooting at the other one. Three bullets struck, all striking the man in the temple. He collapsed in a heap, and the two FBI agents rushed towards their sports cars. They were locked.
"Damn! I left the keys back at the place where we used that beer!" Morrison groaned.
"Well, shit, we better get on one of those PCJ-600s, then." Lambert said, shaking his head as he motioned for Morrison to follow.
By now, there were Diablo and Mafia members streaming out of the morgue, firing aimlessly at the two as they sped off on the silver-coloured motorcycle. Lambert was driving, and Morrison was holding his MP5, covering them from anyone in hot pursuit behind.
"Are you willing to reveal that this thing is a bit too much like those random action movies we watch at the HQ?" Morrison asked, groaning as three Mafia Sentinels and three Diablo Stallions began to tear after them.
"Yes, now just shut the hell up and shoot the bloody things!" Lambert called, as he focused on the road.
The two had to get across the ghost town over to the bridge, which was known by most Liberty City residents as "Bridge Mystery". It was blocked off from the rest of Liberty City, and had a dirt ramp on the ghost town side, which could allow the two to escape. Lambert hit the gas, and he pushed the PCJ-600 to its fullest, hoping to outrace the Mafia Sentinels and Diablo Stallions. The strategy worked well enough, with the six chasing gang-cars keeping out of striking range, while it allowed Morrison a few shots, occasionally.
However, Morrison did do the job. Firing off a few rounds, he quickly shouted a cry of triumph, as he hit the windscreen, and struck one of the Mafia drivers. The car skidded out of control, piling against another Mafia Sentinel and a Diablo Stallion. Three down.
Although Morrison continued to shoot at the cars, the motorbike reached the ramp at Bridge Mystery not too long after the destruction of the first three cars. Lambert steadied the motorbike, but then realised he was driving at the ramp too slowly. He hit the gas, and as he ascended up the ramp, he leant back. The PCJ-600 gained height and the back wheel bumped against the back of the barrier that kept the rest of Liberty City from Ghost Town via that entrance, nearly throwing Morrison off, but sending the motorbike sky-high into the air…towards the water.
"Oh shit!" Morrison shouted, one, that his butt was nailed from the impact of the back wheel, and the other, that when he saw that they were flying in the air towards the water.
Lambert desperately tried to control the bike, in order to push it back inwards. He landed in a stoppie, and he slid to the left, turning the bike half a revolution, before coming to a stop. Then, the two were off again.
"You learnt that thing from that black-jacketed dude on TV, didn't you?" laughed Morrison as they sped along the empty streets to make their escape.
"Sort of…I took a series of stunting lessons a couple of years ago. Could you believe the instructor was Tommy Vercetti himself?" Lambert smirked.
"Pff, yeah, but he probably didn't tell you how to air to bump like that, didn't he? Probably just stuff like BSMs, corks, spins, grinds, grabs and krail flips. And those random double or triple flips…"
"So? That's still a lot of stunts learnt. We're just lucky we got out of here alive. Now let's get back to HQ, and give the evidence to take across the town for inspection."
With that, the silver PCJ-600 was off, carrying two very relieved and two very lucky men, belonging to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.