FOR ALL THOSE WHO GIVE ONE IOTA OF A FUCK
If you're reading this, hi, you made it further than any of these other guys.
The full story is regularly updated first on GTAForums - /topic/884083-red-triangle-a-gta-fanfic. I've been chugging along faster and further than this indicates. I'm gonna slowly update this as time goes on to the position it currently as, and for the two people who are reading further than the prologue you can catch up there. But updating for is a chore - you have to do some dated formatting, fix all the swears the bullshit forum site adds, etc. Enjoy this, however.

They were all in the car; Ramon, Latrell, DB, and Xavier, the latter in the driver's seat as the quartet cruised down the freeway.

"I got it online, nigga," he was saying. "Some shit was up with the gas or something, got it on the cheap. It's an old ass car, son, had to drive down to Alderney, got the thing off some middle-aged type wop dude who was swappin' it for a Rebel."

DB shook his head. "Fuck you need a 4x4 in Alderney?"

"Exactly what I'm sayin'. Dudes got a Presidente and he wanna switch it around for an all-terrain. None my business."

Passenger side rolled his eyes, Ramon. "Or you stole it."

Xavier craned his head around to the side, not exactly a wise decision while going 35 miles an hour on a busy road. "Fuck you sayin'?"

Ramon Lozano looked slick, opposite of his brother. Dressed relatively nice, groomed facial hair, brainy-looking, currently looking out the window and grinning. "Nothin', man. Where in Alderney?"

Xavier scoffed back; "Where in Alderney. Alderney, nigga. Took the Eden State Parkway off the Turnpike, near the, uh… what's the place with that big park? Rhymes wit' Cheesecake."

"How the fuck you get to a place you don't know the fuckin' name of, chacho? The fuck you even driving?"

"I ain't remember, but I know it, b. 'Sides, I'm in this tight, fuckin', uh… yeah, got me in the Uber. You know, 90's-type gangster shit. Remember? Drop top, pimp kinda ride. Shits was in that movie or sum'n. Back me up, Trell, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout."

"Pimp?" Latrell smirked. "B, you was takin' the train back then."

That's when the laughing started.

They'd been on the road for… god, how long? 10 or 15 minutes, or something like that. Felt longer, probably had been - they'd driven around an hour down to South Broker from the projects. Pain in the ass gathering everybody besides: Xavier running late-as-expected, everyone kind of bickering and tired on the trip there.

Seemed nobody knew what the fuck was going on anymore, something as simple as "we're working with a couple Puerto Rican 'mechanics' on the low and making some extra cash without anyone knowing" had turned into a barrage of codewords, lies, bullshit. Knot didn't even know who the Lozanos were, kept being called 'the Es' for the chop shop they both worked at. Messy stuff. When you're forced to tell the generals that this is happening at all after they find a stolen delivery truck under tarp, you already know it's a messy plan. It was going to get messier.

After a boring morning jaunt down half the borough, they met up with the Lozanos at their garage, corner of Elway Road and Ecker Court, grimy place with the same few people working there. Did the math; after a small discussion, they'd split up - Knot, whining, same as always, heading with Gerardo to hit up some guy for 'equipment' while the rest had all bunched into Xavier's clown car on the way to the docks. Good times.

"Shut up," Xavier growled. "Diapers over here think this hysterical."

"It is," DB said back. "Son, how you even keep hold 'a stolen whip?"

"Nigga, shut the fuck up."

"Y'all cool down, a'ight?" Latrell was ever the peacemaker. "This shit ain't the time. Look, it pro'lly ain't stolen."

"Bullshit it isn't," DB said. "How the fuck a dude get a motherfuckin' Albany when he barely payin' rent? How the fuck he even get there?"

"'Dunno, man. Don't matter how, his money's his business. Pro'lly took the bus."

"Yeah, nigga," Xavier snapped. "Pro'lly took the bus. I mean- shit. I did."

DB kept laughing, Latrell frowned; "C'mon, son, you gettin' the balla mixed up with his words 'n shit. Time to focus."

"Yeah, DB. Get wit' them shits. Speakin' of," attention turned to Ramon, Xavier kept going: "Where we headed?"

"Told y'all the address," he replied.

"Specifically, tho'."

The car rounded a corner. Ocean to the left, nowhere to the right. "We stoppin' by the army terminal, down 58th. Then we movin' a little further, up East Hook. That's where shit be poppin' off. Nice little place thereabouts where we can scope out some action, son."

"What you lookin' for at the army terminal?"

"Might as well, it's on the way. Just a quick once over, scope it out. Nothin' to it, call it homework."

"Homework?"

"Me and Gerardo gon' be doin' some stuff on our own time. It's out cut too, right? We ain't going in."

They didn't. Flash a couple minutes later, another 10 or 15, parked across the street from this huge, packed parking lot and large, faded beige-brick building. Industry town, or at least what was left of it - a couple blocks down warehouses were being turned into galleries and clubs and condos. The sad state of the Broker waterfront, but in this part of Sunrise Park things still looked sorta blue-collar. Ramon scrawled shit into a little notepad.

"What you writing?" Latrell asked.

"Stuff," he replied. "Businesses. Entry points. If we get inside the terminal at all, there's this little spot I wanna check out."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Torpedo Imports. Fishy little spot, big ticket, has a few contracts with some warehouses from what I've Duplexed. Say they move alcohol and produce, whiskey 'n vodka 'n shit, but I'm just seeing a lot of names being repeated."

"How you mean?" Latrell asked.

Pause. Ramon's eyes kept darting, kept jotting. "...Don't matter. It's all technical shit. We gotta keep going."

Fuck you too, Latrell thought.

You could feel the heat, both proverbial and literal, as they continued to drive: criss-crossing warehouses, delivery depots, refurbishings and construction sites. Dump trucks and GoPostal vans. Same shit, over and over - new billboards being posted up, advertising condo developments, moving companies, all the same, all blending. As Sunrise turned to Gristmill, as Gristmill turned to East Hook: all Latrell could think of was how… necrotic it all was. How dead it felt. Not the neighborhoods themselves, god no, they were thriving, dumpy little hipster coffee shops, parks, the huge Krapea warehouse by the docks you can't keep your eyes off. But the rusting cranes. The rusting warehouses. The chipping paint. An urban dust bowl, it was.

"Ease up the car a lil'."

"Why?" Xavier asked.

"Just do it."

"Motherfuckin' mystery man." He obliged, the car slowed. "Better be for a reason."

"You think reconnaissance ain't a good reason, then shit-"

"Recon-a-what?"

"Recon, cabrón. Recon."

"Then say fuckin recon then."

Latrell, then; "Ease up, chief. Ramon, what you seein'?"

They'd slowed by shuttered storefronts, shabby places: maybe closed for now, maybe closed indefinitely, right up on the corner of Champlain and Wayne Street. To their west, where Ramon was gazing: fence, empty lots, a LomBike station, and most importantly - rows upon rows of shipping containers, cranes peering off into the sky, the tips of the Algonquin skyline gallantly gleaming off into the smoggy horizon.

East Hook Container Terminal. The last port in the borough.

"Ramon?"

He turned back. "Xavier."

"Yeah?"

"Me and L finna do some," he stressed the next word hard, "recon, scope out this lot, a'ight?"

"A'ight."

"Keep driving. Check your GPS, you wanna head up corner of… shit, head down the underpass of the Broker-Dukes Expressway, short ass drive. End of the road. 'Pending on how long we take, we'll only be, like, ten minutes. Who cares."

Xavier sighed, nodded. DB: "Can I come?"

"Nah. Need two dudes checkin' out if we good, might see us through the chain link if you want. Place still got security and I still ain't sure if this a pedestrian area."

DB sighed, nodded. Xavier: "You two do wha'chya gotta do."

Seconds later, car was off, L and R were off. Short climb over a chain-link fence, little gap with the barbed wire razed off, and they were deep into dock country. more of the same, concrete and containers, trucks lined up, row after row. Some were even moving.

"What the fuck was your problem back there?"

Ramon sighed, didn't nod. "I don't trust 'em."

"Who?"

"DB, Xavier. I trust Gerardo. I trust you. You're level headed; got your head on straight. You think X back there know shit? You think DB do? How the fuck old is he, anyway, thirteen?"

"Nineteen. Twenty. Somethin' like that."

"Why the fuck you hangin' 'round kids, L?"

"I'unno. shit, he's cool. Got a head on his shoulders. Can crack a lock."

"Very marketable."

"Whatever. He ain't gon' be 'round for long, so why not? Takin' his shit down to Alabama or some' by next year. Probably herdin' cows or some' so why the fuck it matter?"

"There're Ballas in Birmingham, papi. He'll live. 'Sides that, wanna keep the lick short. Maybe you can start fuckin' with us, maybe Xavier. Not the kid, though. And sure as shit not that flashy motherfucker tryna play hisself off like a Balla G or nothin'."

"Knot?"

"Yeah, whatever the fuck his name is. They got they heads in the game too hard, think it ain't a lost cause."

"Can't blame 'em."

"Maybe. That's why you tight though, L. You ain't fallin' for this dumbass gang loyalty bullshit, you ain't fuckin' with the B's and the F's and the L's, which is the best way to go. I knew kids who was fuckin' with Spanish Lords 'till they was thirty. Thirty-five. fuck, some even was workin' at the chop shop, back when pops was runnin' it. And they got fuckin' bodied for they colors. Could list off the names for you right now, holmes: Yandel, Fernando, Valeria, Lyle, Dariel. fuck. No prospects. Got done up, got they shit took, got they heads blast."

"Yeah, yeah. I feel you. I'm too old for it, b. Twenty-eight next year. Same with Xavier. He wants out that shit. Only real niggas in the set is havin' kids, gettin' shot. You know. Petty shit, three letter crews tryna make a name. Xavier knows."

"Does he? Don't look like it. Keeps talking 'bout his boy but don't look like it. Ain't got no independence. Ain't bright, no offense. Without you he'd just get bundled up in that Bobby P, purple world bullshit like the others, get got on a smack beef or some'in."

"Yeah. Known him since we was kids, but... shit. I'm seeing holes, b. Mad holes. Ships are sinkin' right now. Finna make sure I ain't on board when it's under, and if I'm the only one wit' my head above that, then so be it. Y'know? Only one nigga I care about. You feel?"

"I feel."

Breathe in, breathe out. They kept walking. "So… what's so interesting out here?"

"A'ight. Stop here."

They stopped - moved a little to the left, the plentiful trucks to either side giving them some cover.

"Look… there. T'word the river."

Big warehouse at 12 o'clock, blue and white, "Broker Port Authority - Pier 14" in Helvetica placed at the top. Couple hi-vis jackets vests milling around, few trucks in a little loading bay. A little bit far off, naturally, couple hundred feet.

"They lease the big warehouses out to multiple tenants," Ramon continued. "Certain sections are reserved, means plenty of offices, plenty of business. Most of the space in this loading area used for cargo traffic 'n shit, trucks, moving all these containers."

"Ain't got the best view." Latrell absolutely didn't, as the subject of conversation was a couple hundred feet away. Ramon met that with an um, an ah, and a sigh.

"Hold on." Took him a little while, but he pulled out his phone, opened an app. "See this?" Tap-tapped on Duplex maps to a big blue warehouse with a big blue door.

"Yeah."

"That's where we're getting inside. Them little doors on the left. You see it?"

"Uh… yeah, yeah."

"We can't enter frontways since they got guards posted at night time, would do. And I don't know if they port authority or they the type to put someone in cement shoes, you feel?"

"Ah."

"So we finna move past 'em, clock the doors, and find what we're lookin' for. I got a feeling they keep the dirty stuff up inside the warehouse, move 'em out all discreet-like. Make sure they don't get checked by customs on the way out. Could be anything."

"How you know that?"

"Irregularities in the books. Back at the army terminal they got the offices for that company."

"Torpedo or whatever?"

"Yup. They renting out space at this pier, got pretty much the entire thing locked down. Checked some shit and they profits higher than pretty much any other part of the East Hook Complex. And if you do the math you realise a big chunk'a that ain't being added to profit reports. If a big ticket is making this much cash they wouldn't just have an office at some rundown-ass complex, and the PA would be putting that shit in they quarterlies."

"What?"

Ramon groaned. "Basically, they making more money than the port is saying they is. And the port only reports cargo that's processed through them. The contracts that they make ain't line up with the cash the port says they make."

"So… what? That's just fraud shit. Taxes."

"It's a sign the thing is a front. Then you actually check info on the company and you get more details. All these contacts in the Mediterranean, in Central America. People who have criminal records. A lot of Russian and Italian: Alexey Goralsky. Gennady Roitman. Ivan Sapozhnik. Really, mijo, I could go on, some these guys you don't e'en wanna mention. You start going down the rabbit hole, shit. You get dudes like Jack Acri, Roy Zito, fucking Donato Cantavespre or some shit. Roy motherfucking Zito! Dudes who have they own pages on the internet. Dudes who aren't just connected, but are fucking in the Gambettis, dudes back in Italy. Bad mother-"

"My nigga, I think we're trespassing right now. Can we do this later?"

"We might not be."

"We jumped a big fence, homie, are we moving or not?"

"A'ight, a'ight. We can't go in the warehouse now, though."

God-fucking-damn it. "What?"

"I told you, the place is locked down."

"Then why the fuck we here?!"

"Well… look over, uh…" Ramon pointed, a little to the left, through a gap in the chainlink, this light brown, pebbled brick building. "There. That's a port office. They got security guards in there. And, by any chance, records. Floorplans."

"Oh."

"Oh yeah. So, we movin', or not?"

In the shadows, they moved. Slunk past, through the parking lot, by abandoned containers. By sketchy looking guys taking smoke breaks, by laborers moving all over; dudes with clipboards. You could see, in the corners, these guys not dressed in the de-facto uniform - some wearing hi-vis, sure, but they didn't look like stevedores. Couple out of place logos: a bit of Eris here, a couple sneakers there. That was the distinction. The longshoremen wore work boots. These guys wore sneakers.

One of the windows was open, jarred it a bit, hopped on in. Break room. Stale coffee, tables, water cooler or two. Little TV by a white board. Nobody on break, though.

"Who'da thought we could do this shit in broad daylight?"

"Shut the fuck up, L." Maybe that was for the best.

Out the door, into the hallway: empty. More doors both sides, signs reading bullshit, desks and lockers visible through frosted glass. Nothing of value, not what they were looking for. If they were getting ledgers, they weren't getting it from Johnny P. Schmuck.

Only one way to go. Upstairs was similar, nothing but unremarkable doors, frosted glass with text enshrined, oranges and browns, but… ah.

Records. Jackpot. Furthest away from the staircase, by a window, view of the dockland, the expressway snaking by parks and residentials. Latrell pointed, Ramon nodded, they moved on. The door was unlocked.

Inside: shelves and boxes. Boxes on shelves. Cabinet after cabinet, computer and a desk in the corner. Maybe this was a union treasurer's place? Latrell didn't really know, at this point to say he had a familiarity of the ins and outs of the American cargo shipping industry would be a tad exaggerated.

"Fuck they do here?" he inquired, voice hushed.

"In the room?"

"Nah, son. The building."

Ramon shrugged. "Important part is they keeping documents here, papi." Guess it wasn't Latrell's business to know. "You need'a keep watch, L. Place empty so far but who knows."

"Who knows? Nigga, this ain't too good for my confidence. I'm breakin' into some shit and I ain't know what the fuck is going on. Again."

"Deja de quejarte. Just check the door."

Silence was deafening, cracked the door a bit. Too hot for this shit. Humid, too, collected. Turning on a fan near the desk didn't do much, so he had to crack the door open. No air conditioning, apparently.

Ramon coughed, a little *ahem*, kept digging. Pulled a file, thumbed through a little, dropped it on the table nearby.

"You sure they ain't gon' check for prints?" Latrell asked.

"You watch too much Science of Crime, my friend. Fingerprints ain't magic, nobody got they own special one or nothin'. Ain't no cameras either."

"How the fuck you know that?"

"I don't. But this ain't something they gon' wanna report, right? Means they have to check the files, and this lick ain't exactly legit. Could be- eyy."

"What?"

"Got something. I think."

"You think?"

Ramon checked the pages, fiddled with them, lips curling. "Nah, homie," he grinned. "I know. Bro, keep watch, man, I needa get some pics."

"Just take the file and we'll look it."

"Nah, they can't know what we was lookin' at. Can't steal shit." He placed the folder down on a nearby table, got his phone out. "We get busted for trespassing, but we don't get busted for burglary."

Latrell just nodded. This was procedure now, likely would be. Didn't even bother to ask what he'd found. Fuck was it anyway, what could possibly be so important? Blueprints, documents, what? What? Disrespect. That's what it was. Disrespect. Risking his ass, his reputation, for some bullshit 'score', like this was some heist movie. Heists, and jobs, and raids. Just call it a robbery. Says he respects him more than anyone else and can't even pull himself out of this fantasy Vinewood-type bullshit. Pissed him off, looking back, and forth. And back. And forth. Hallway was empty. Ramon was snapping pictures. Back and forth. Too hot. Too goddamn hot.

One hand on the doorframe, he turned. "Are you done?"

"Hey, chill the fuck out, man. Just checking to see if-"

Latrell knew what had happened even before there was a grip on his wrist. You could feel the presence. Big hands, sweat. Was it his sweat or Latrell's? Whatever.

"Fuck," Latrell said.

There was this weird moment where they all just kind of stared at each other: deer in the headlights. Latrell was looking up at this burly guy in work boots, receding hairline, strong jaw. Work-boots was looking at these two guys, the black guy that was half-in the hallway and incredibly conspicuous, the other guy wide-eyed with some documents and folders strewn on the table and his hands on a phone. Look up, look back. Back and forth. It was only a couple seconds, really.

So Latrell punched the guy.

Dockworker was probably more than 200 pounds of muscle, but he was caught off guard, clocked straight in the nose, a punch hard enough that blood was drawn. Latrell wasn't sure if it was his or the other guy's. He didn't have time to find out. It was fluid, quick, phone in his pocket, the two bolted. Stevedore was still wailing, cursing the world for a second, kneeling, hand on his nose. They were at the staircase before he could get up.

Feet racing, bang-bang-bang. If the cursing upstairs didn't alert anybody, the banging sure did, and sure enough a door was open at the end of the staircase. Another guy, black dude, fluoro-vest, froggy face switching from confusion to anger.

"Hey, what-"

Body check, right to the chest, into the door. Slammed shut, second dude on the ground. Latrell didn't have time to dust himself off, nearly slipping on the lino floor, leading the charge. Guy upstairs was on his feet at this point, you could hear the bang-bang-bang, no time to think. No time to think. They were in the break room again, less a climb but more a jump out the window.

Scraped his fucking knee. Christ. Ow.

You could hear a door nearly bust down by the office. Burlyman shouting. Moolies, he was saying. "Some fuckin' moolies breakin' in the office!" right to this guard guy, hoodie on, smoking something, could probably see the sweat glisten off his head from half a mile off. And then there were three. Latrell didn't have time to check.

They were up at the fence, wind breaking, hot air against the face. It was screaming, the wind screaming along with the men behind, deafening. An explosion of adrenaline, an explosion of sound. The metallic clang as he jumped on didn't silence it, scrambling as he grabbed for the top. Heart beat going, thump-thump-thump-thump, staccato.

He lept.

Another stumble, no grazes this time. Home free.

"Rat motherfucker! fucking rat motherfucker, get back-" Frogface was croaking out, rattling the fence, voice trailing as feet dug into the pavement. Nobody else was going for them, no more rattling.

They ran through the street, back on Champlain, into a little alley between the shuttered storefronts, a closed down delicatessen and a maybe-open-maybe-not hipster bar. Dust still kicking, they mashed right, past a parking lot, alley after alley. Street after street. Full sprint.

It was three blocks until they stopped.

Some park. Basketball court. Out of breath. Latrell was grabbing his knee now, bleeding harder. Dribbling down his leg, mixing with the sweat. Ramon was on his ass now, hard breaths. Latrell up on the hoop's pole.

Wordlessly. They looked at each other, this quick, desperate look.

And that's when the laughing started.

Karin Rebel - Toyota Hilux

Eden State Parkway - Garden State Parkway

Elway Road & Ecker Court - Shell Road & Bouck Court, Brooklyn

Sunrise Park - Sunset Park

Gristmill - Gowanus

Champlain & Wayne Streets - Columbia St. & Kane St.

Alexey 'Alyosha' Goralsky - Alonso Goralski

Science of Crime - CSI