"I want you to kill Vladmir Makar."
I sloshed Rico Lobo's expensive tequilia in his fancy glass and kept my poker face straight. His office was sparse, spartan, but i liked it. He was the sort of man that didn't have to impress people with material possesions, which was admirable. Not quite my style, but admirable all the same. I tried to read Lobo's expression; nothing there. Although I knew he was apprehensive; he had to be. I wanted to make the man sweat. After all, I knew as soon as he proposed the hit that I would take it, but I didn't have to let him know it.
Of course he didn't just come out and say it. The cat was pretty smooth. Asking me about my plane ride over, what I thought of his fair city, how my time in Liberty was. Idle chit-chat, just waiting to lay it on me. I'll have to admit that Lobo suprised me with his knowledge of my exploits. He knew all about my involvement with the Leone family, my dealings with the Yakuza, jobs I pulled for Donald Love, and most importantly, how I settled the score with a certain Columbian cunt; someone sure did their homework. Styx was sitting in the corner, studying his hands. Little prick. I wondered how he came to consort with the likes of Lobo. He seemed like a little pencil neck white bread gopher peon. But they do say that appearances are deceiving, don't they?
Lobo broke it down for me. San Andreas was primarily run by two warring factions: Lobo's set, and Makar's. Makar ran a prostitution ring out of his swanky euro-trash club, The Red Star. He also dabbled in the sales of narcotics. I pressed Lobo for a little bit of info, but didn't want to push it. Lobo let on that he was in the bussiness of "distribution". I scoffed at this. It could've been Spank, it could've been blow, it could've been just about anything, I really didn't care much. I asked what having control of San Andreas was worth to him.
"One million dollars." He said through a cloud of Mexicali cigar smoke.
I threw back my head and laughed. Lobo laughed along with me. He was testing me.
"You're kidding, right?"
Lobo kept a stone face.
"Mr. Lobo-"
"You may call me Jefe."
"Awright, Jefe. I made a million dollars in a month in Liberty driving taxis and playing with RC cars. Gotta up the ante, chief."
"Fair enough. I'm always open for negotiation. Another drink?"
Knock, knock. Two raps on Lobo's door. Styx looked up, like snapping out of a daze. Lobo stared at me.
"Expecting someone?" I said.
"Yes?" Lobo bellowed at the oak door.
No reply. The silence was followed by two more knocks on the door. Lobo opened a drawer behind his desk and pushed a button. He leaned into the drawer and spoke into it.
"Joel. I thought I instructed you not to disturb me while I was with our new associate."
Dead static.
"Joel?" Lobo didn't sound afraid, but the man was definately alarmed.
Knock, knock.
Lobo opened another drawer and extracted a double barrelled Remington, laying it on his desk. Something was definately up. I wondered if this was maybe another test. Lobo rose and walked around the desk, placing a hand on my shoulder, indicating something to me. He walked to the wall by the door, shotgun in hand. I pulled out Styx's gat, and followed suit. Styx was up, holding up the wall, but on the other side of the door.
"Open it, Angelo." Jefe commanded. Styx had lost his petulant snot nose demeanor. It looked like someone had poured a ton of fresh guts down his throat; the dude almost looked hard. He nodded and put a hand on the knob, twisting it slowly. Jefe racked his gun, and Styx threw the door ajar.
Heavy Set fell through the doorway into Lobo's office, face first. His body hit the deck, a series of bullet holes in his back. Fuckin A, I thought.
"Holy shit!" Styx exclaimed.
A well dressed gent did a forward rolled into the room. We watched him roll past us and come out of his summersault, kneeling down, pisol drawn. He immediately peppered shots into Jefe's desk chair, like he thought that Lobo was going to be sitting in it. I don't think he realized that he was shooting at nothing until it was too late. The dapper fuck peered over his shoulder as the thunder of Lobo's Remington filled our world. His head was vaporized above the nose. Dapper slumped down, as Lobo rack his gun, shell popping out onto the floor. Jesus. Two more designer clad lemmings charged through the door, guns blazing. Instinctively, I got down and gave them a little something to think about, tagging one in the neck and the other a couple times in his upper torso, emptying Styx's clip into them. Three down, how many more to go, I thought wildly. Then a little metal ball was tossed into the room, just to spice things up. It seemed to be missing a pin.
Fuck.
Using absolutely none of my brains and utilizing pretty much all of my balls, I chased after it. I snatched the granade up, and chucked it out Lobo's only window, roughly at the speed of light. It exploded almost immediately after sailing into the San Andreas night. Shards of glass flew everywhere. I tried to shield myself, but I was slashed up pretty nice. Now I looked over my shoulder, much like our late dapper friend, to face the barrel of a .45 pointing at me. The man holding it was now standing the doorway, also dressed to the nines. Damn. If nothing else, these cats knew where to shop. Nice shades too.
Suddenly, two hands yanked the fuck from his flank and slammed him into the wall. He dropped his piece and his pretty little sunglasses shook askew. Styx pulled his fists back and pelted him with a flurry of hooks and crosses, pelting the fucker with combos that Roy Jones Jr. would've been proud of. I rolled to the side and watched this display of allout fisticuffs. Styx kneed the asshole in the crotch then kayed him with a solid uppercut as he was doubled over. A healthy sounded crunch of broken bones resinated though Jefe's office like a gunshot. Still in a frenzy, Styx knelt over the dude and continued to sock the life out of him, greasy hair flying everywhere, Styx now in the open doorway. I waited for Styx to be torn apart by more fire, but the bullets never came. I guess whoever these men were, they thought that four would do the job. Styx gave the unlucky well dressed cat a final blow to the head and stood up, brushing off his ratty ass leather jacket. I got up and peeked out the doorway. Nothing. Down the stairs. Nobody. The joint was clear, so I walked back into Lobo's office. Jefe was knelt over, examining one of the fallen hitmen.
"Where'd you learn to throw like that?" I asked Styx, genuinely surprised. He must've registered my amazement, cause the cocky swagger was back, now at full blast.
"Golden Gloves, Washington state, '95 and '96." He threw a couple more punches into the air. "Looks like I still got it, bro."
"Yeah, I've seen better." I lied. I turned to Lobo. "Who were these jokers?"
Lobo grabbed the wool clad arm of one of the dead and yanked on the fabric, exposing the wrist. There was a black tattoo there, the emblem of a psyth and star visable.
"This is Makar's logo. These were his men." Lobo spit on the body. "They were sent to kill me."
Styx kicked over the late Heavy Set, otherwise known as Joel. An expression of angush was plastered on Heavy Set's face for eternity. Poor dude. He seemed cool. After all, he busted Styx's balls when we came in. Shame.
"Darwin's rule, maiz." Styx laughed.
"Calle te." Lobo sternly asserted. He turned to me. "Well? What is it going to be then, Vegas Minor of Liberty?"
I had yanked out a Lucky Strike and lit up.
"Three million, and this Russian shitball is an obituary. This has now ventured into the realm of personal business. I don't like being shot at. He's going to pay for this. Believe it."
A smile broke across the face of Rico "Jefe" Lobo.
"Muy bien. Bueno suerte. But I don't think you'll need it."
"Fuckin A i won't. Where should I start?"
"Vegas," Lobo said, "I thought you would never ask."
So we got down to it.
I sloshed Rico Lobo's expensive tequilia in his fancy glass and kept my poker face straight. His office was sparse, spartan, but i liked it. He was the sort of man that didn't have to impress people with material possesions, which was admirable. Not quite my style, but admirable all the same. I tried to read Lobo's expression; nothing there. Although I knew he was apprehensive; he had to be. I wanted to make the man sweat. After all, I knew as soon as he proposed the hit that I would take it, but I didn't have to let him know it.
Of course he didn't just come out and say it. The cat was pretty smooth. Asking me about my plane ride over, what I thought of his fair city, how my time in Liberty was. Idle chit-chat, just waiting to lay it on me. I'll have to admit that Lobo suprised me with his knowledge of my exploits. He knew all about my involvement with the Leone family, my dealings with the Yakuza, jobs I pulled for Donald Love, and most importantly, how I settled the score with a certain Columbian cunt; someone sure did their homework. Styx was sitting in the corner, studying his hands. Little prick. I wondered how he came to consort with the likes of Lobo. He seemed like a little pencil neck white bread gopher peon. But they do say that appearances are deceiving, don't they?
Lobo broke it down for me. San Andreas was primarily run by two warring factions: Lobo's set, and Makar's. Makar ran a prostitution ring out of his swanky euro-trash club, The Red Star. He also dabbled in the sales of narcotics. I pressed Lobo for a little bit of info, but didn't want to push it. Lobo let on that he was in the bussiness of "distribution". I scoffed at this. It could've been Spank, it could've been blow, it could've been just about anything, I really didn't care much. I asked what having control of San Andreas was worth to him.
"One million dollars." He said through a cloud of Mexicali cigar smoke.
I threw back my head and laughed. Lobo laughed along with me. He was testing me.
"You're kidding, right?"
Lobo kept a stone face.
"Mr. Lobo-"
"You may call me Jefe."
"Awright, Jefe. I made a million dollars in a month in Liberty driving taxis and playing with RC cars. Gotta up the ante, chief."
"Fair enough. I'm always open for negotiation. Another drink?"
Knock, knock. Two raps on Lobo's door. Styx looked up, like snapping out of a daze. Lobo stared at me.
"Expecting someone?" I said.
"Yes?" Lobo bellowed at the oak door.
No reply. The silence was followed by two more knocks on the door. Lobo opened a drawer behind his desk and pushed a button. He leaned into the drawer and spoke into it.
"Joel. I thought I instructed you not to disturb me while I was with our new associate."
Dead static.
"Joel?" Lobo didn't sound afraid, but the man was definately alarmed.
Knock, knock.
Lobo opened another drawer and extracted a double barrelled Remington, laying it on his desk. Something was definately up. I wondered if this was maybe another test. Lobo rose and walked around the desk, placing a hand on my shoulder, indicating something to me. He walked to the wall by the door, shotgun in hand. I pulled out Styx's gat, and followed suit. Styx was up, holding up the wall, but on the other side of the door.
"Open it, Angelo." Jefe commanded. Styx had lost his petulant snot nose demeanor. It looked like someone had poured a ton of fresh guts down his throat; the dude almost looked hard. He nodded and put a hand on the knob, twisting it slowly. Jefe racked his gun, and Styx threw the door ajar.
Heavy Set fell through the doorway into Lobo's office, face first. His body hit the deck, a series of bullet holes in his back. Fuckin A, I thought.
"Holy shit!" Styx exclaimed.
A well dressed gent did a forward rolled into the room. We watched him roll past us and come out of his summersault, kneeling down, pisol drawn. He immediately peppered shots into Jefe's desk chair, like he thought that Lobo was going to be sitting in it. I don't think he realized that he was shooting at nothing until it was too late. The dapper fuck peered over his shoulder as the thunder of Lobo's Remington filled our world. His head was vaporized above the nose. Dapper slumped down, as Lobo rack his gun, shell popping out onto the floor. Jesus. Two more designer clad lemmings charged through the door, guns blazing. Instinctively, I got down and gave them a little something to think about, tagging one in the neck and the other a couple times in his upper torso, emptying Styx's clip into them. Three down, how many more to go, I thought wildly. Then a little metal ball was tossed into the room, just to spice things up. It seemed to be missing a pin.
Fuck.
Using absolutely none of my brains and utilizing pretty much all of my balls, I chased after it. I snatched the granade up, and chucked it out Lobo's only window, roughly at the speed of light. It exploded almost immediately after sailing into the San Andreas night. Shards of glass flew everywhere. I tried to shield myself, but I was slashed up pretty nice. Now I looked over my shoulder, much like our late dapper friend, to face the barrel of a .45 pointing at me. The man holding it was now standing the doorway, also dressed to the nines. Damn. If nothing else, these cats knew where to shop. Nice shades too.
Suddenly, two hands yanked the fuck from his flank and slammed him into the wall. He dropped his piece and his pretty little sunglasses shook askew. Styx pulled his fists back and pelted him with a flurry of hooks and crosses, pelting the fucker with combos that Roy Jones Jr. would've been proud of. I rolled to the side and watched this display of allout fisticuffs. Styx kneed the asshole in the crotch then kayed him with a solid uppercut as he was doubled over. A healthy sounded crunch of broken bones resinated though Jefe's office like a gunshot. Still in a frenzy, Styx knelt over the dude and continued to sock the life out of him, greasy hair flying everywhere, Styx now in the open doorway. I waited for Styx to be torn apart by more fire, but the bullets never came. I guess whoever these men were, they thought that four would do the job. Styx gave the unlucky well dressed cat a final blow to the head and stood up, brushing off his ratty ass leather jacket. I got up and peeked out the doorway. Nothing. Down the stairs. Nobody. The joint was clear, so I walked back into Lobo's office. Jefe was knelt over, examining one of the fallen hitmen.
"Where'd you learn to throw like that?" I asked Styx, genuinely surprised. He must've registered my amazement, cause the cocky swagger was back, now at full blast.
"Golden Gloves, Washington state, '95 and '96." He threw a couple more punches into the air. "Looks like I still got it, bro."
"Yeah, I've seen better." I lied. I turned to Lobo. "Who were these jokers?"
Lobo grabbed the wool clad arm of one of the dead and yanked on the fabric, exposing the wrist. There was a black tattoo there, the emblem of a psyth and star visable.
"This is Makar's logo. These were his men." Lobo spit on the body. "They were sent to kill me."
Styx kicked over the late Heavy Set, otherwise known as Joel. An expression of angush was plastered on Heavy Set's face for eternity. Poor dude. He seemed cool. After all, he busted Styx's balls when we came in. Shame.
"Darwin's rule, maiz." Styx laughed.
"Calle te." Lobo sternly asserted. He turned to me. "Well? What is it going to be then, Vegas Minor of Liberty?"
I had yanked out a Lucky Strike and lit up.
"Three million, and this Russian shitball is an obituary. This has now ventured into the realm of personal business. I don't like being shot at. He's going to pay for this. Believe it."
A smile broke across the face of Rico "Jefe" Lobo.
"Muy bien. Bueno suerte. But I don't think you'll need it."
"Fuckin A i won't. Where should I start?"
"Vegas," Lobo said, "I thought you would never ask."
So we got down to it.