CHAPTER 3—Gunning For Haitians
"No, Luigi, everything's going fine," Jason said into his telephone as he tapped several buttons on the laptop set up on the desk beside his bed. Jason's feet were resting on a bar spreading across the backside of the desk, and he was talking to Luigi Gotorelli, who was still in Liberty and curious for an update.
"Are you sure you've got Vercetti convinced? The Forellis tried to get their due money back from him, and he took out Sonny, and dozens of Mafia men, all by himself. He definitely isn't a man to be screwed with."
"I know, and I'm gaining his trust. We want him to know we're on his side, and the only way he'd agree to give us the money would be to do some jobs for him, and promise him something in return."
"You said exactly what we planned, right?" Luigi said into the telephone from his club in Liberty. "Ten percent of our income for the next ten years?"
"Actually, he turned me down on that offer," Jason said as he tapped some more on the keyboard, looking for some information on the Internet. He was researching Tommy's businesses, to find out exactly how much influence Tommy had in Vice City. "Said I had to come up with something better. He kind of put me on the spot, you know?"
"Yeah, and I take it you came up with something if he agreed to pay us?" Luigi pressed.
"Of course. I promised him a Hunter."
"A helicopter?!" Luigi nearly dropped the phone as he jumped from his seat. "Those things are being guarded at the Fort Baxter Air Force base. How in the world are we supposed to get one out of there for Tommy, Beretto? I don't care if you are family, if you screw this up—" Luigi let the threat hang in the air. He was obviously furious.
"Calm down, Lu," Jason growled, clicking away furiously. "I have a plan. I think the only way we could jack that thing would be for one of us to dress as a cop to sneak in, and for the army men to be distracted by something else."
"The old sneak and attack, eh?" Luigi seemed to be pondering this idea. "But the guys won't let you walk in the front door even if you are a cop. How are you going to get in?"
"Climb over the back wall, drop in, and act as if I belong," Jason said coolly. "I'm not sure what the diversion will be yet, but I'm thinking about it. Something with explosives." Jason leaned back and cracked his knuckles. "What do you think?"
"Jack a seven-forty-seven and crash it into something," Luigi suggested.
"You're talking crazy, Gotorelli," Jason laughed.
"Look," Luigi became serious, "you've promised the Vercetti Gang one Hunter helicopter. You'd better come up with a foolproof way of getting it to him, or your ass will be hanging out in mid-air, Beretto. The Leone Mafia can't bail you out of everything. We need the money to stop those Triads, and we need it now!" Luigi sounded somewhat pissed that Jason had offered a helicopter they didn't own, in return for money.
"Speaking of the Triads," Jason said quickly, to get Luigi calmed down, "what's going on with them? Any more news of the Shadow?"
"As a matter of fact, the Shadow was spotted for the first time...last night. He came back to his old hideout in the Red Light, and our men found him. Started gunning him down...seemed he had come for the Cheetah in the garage, and the guns he had left behind. Mafia men jumped him when he walked through the door. Must have been wearing armor under his jacket—he got away with the car, but one of the snipers shot him in the arm. He'll be in worse shape when he gets back to Staunton."
"You had him and you let him go?" Jason asked, sounding surprised. That didn't sound like the Mafia at all.
"Well, Cipriani's a little out of his league. Sometimes, we get the idea his mom's running the show more than him. I don't know what we're going to do, and no one's seen Joey for some time. He's been brooding up by his pop's mansion. Can't get him to talk to anyone but you. Unfortunately, you ain't here, Beretto."
"Enough about Joey, what are you planning on doing about Shadow?" Jason asked stiffly. "We still have him to handle. Once he's out of the picture, killing the Triads will become much simpler. Do you have any plans on how to take him out?"
Luigi sighed. "Ehhh, snipers are always on the look-out, but he ain't called the Shadow for nothing. It seems like anytime anyone sees him, he's gone in the blink of an eye, just like that!" Jason heard Luigi snap his fingers on the other line.
"You gotta find him," Jason snarled, sounding more angry than he meant to. "If you don't, who knows what member of the Mafia he'll kill next? It could very well end up being someone important—Toni, Joey, 8-Ball...or even you, Lu. We gotta find out where this guy's new hideout is, flush him out of it, and kill him without getting the cops involved. If you do, it'll make things more complicated than they already are."
"How the hell can we find someone like him? He's called the Shadow for God's sake!" Luigi growled.
"Listen," Jason snapped, making Luigi hesitate, "we're at each other's throats. Let me talk to Joey when I get back in a couple weeks, and we'll work things out. I don't know what to do besides let him run around by himself and hope he doesn't get himself killed like his old man. As for Shadow, keep the Cartel informed and make sure everything they know, you know. Shadow is a wanted man with them as well, and he'll have a hell of a time staying alive with everyone out to get him. Even the Triads are after him. If they finish him, it's all the better."
Jason hung up the phone and turned back to his computer. He swore under his breath, gazing at the screen. The only thing he could find on Mr. Vercetti was stuff he already knew—the fact that he owned eight businesses in town. Although, he did find actual lists of the businesses: Pole Position, a strip club; InterGlobal Films, an adult film studio; Kaufman Cabs, a successful cabby industry (thanks to Tommy himself); Cherry Popper's Ice Cream Factory, a drug front; Sunshine Autos, a car dealership he had bought from a retired football player; a Boatyard where he kept his two fastest boats; the Malibu, a bar and dancing club; and the Print Works, where an old man used plates Tommy got a hold of to make counterfeit money for their operations.
All in all, Jason thought it a very respectable chunk of the city. Looking at this, it was no surprise why Vercetti had turned down money as a reward for helping them out. He was wealthy beyond their wildest dreams, a billionaire, according to the news articles about him, and the only thing he didn't own was the law enforcement. That's why he wanted an Apache helicopter. Even though he might be too old to fly it himself, his estate had a heli-pad on top of it, and he could park it there.
Not only did Tommy own eight businesses, he had real estate all over Vice City. 1102 Washington Street, 3321 Vice Point, a room in Ocean Heights, a room in Ocean View, a room in Links View (which Jason was using now), and he owned the Hyman Condos. He also owned a casa in Vice Point. Also, he had his estate. Again, looking at all this, it was no wonder that Tommy refused money as his payment for funding their efforts in Liberty City.
Jason closed the website, yawned loudly and stood up. He blinked several times and glanced at the clock on his bedside table. One in the morning. He had to go to bed, and he stripped to his boxers. Within seconds after Jason's head hit the pillow, he was fast asleep.
Jason floored the pedal. He was running late for his meeting with Steve Scott. Blazing up the street at twenty over the limit, Jason was thankful it was so early in the morning—hardly any cops were out to notice his speeding. The Infernus shot left, onto a bridge and out over the water. Within seconds, he plopped back onto land again, and screeched right. Around the corner he went, and he pulled up against the curb, locking the car as he walked calmly through the gates and into the studio.
Waiting there to greet him was Steve Scott himself, Tommy's personal director. Steve was getting on in years, he was nearly fifty now, about as old as Tommy. Gray hair flew in the wind on his balding head. "This time," Scott said as he walked up, waving his arms at the sky, "we're going big! HUGE! Mounds of mashed potatoes, giant sharks, sexy girls, and—"
"Get to the point, Steve," Jason snarled. "I've got places to go, things to do, people to kill. Why in the world are the Haitians being spotted around here? Mr. Vercetti wants me to find out, if that's okay with you. Any ideas?"
"Oh sure, sure," Scott said quietly. "The Haitians are after my money. They figure they need to eliminate the Cubans right now, and if they get their hands on the money from my latest success, a movie called Close Encounters of the Naughty Kind, the crap'll really hit the fan. It earned millions in the box office, and I keep all my benefits with me at all times. Make sure no one gets away with—"
A Sanchez (type of dirt bike) went screeching past them, knocking Scott to the ground. Jason dodged just in time to see a Haitian riding the jacked Sanchez. He held up a suitcase, which Scott instantly recognized, "My money!", and several Vercetti Gang guys fired their guns after him, missing.
"Catch them, Jason!" Scott roared as he climbed to his feet. Jason started for his car, but a gang man wheeled in a brand new, silver PCJ-600. The sports bike gleamed in the sunlight as the polished metal bounced light in every direction. Jason marveled at its beauty for a second before hopping on and starting the engine. "That guy's probably heading for Little Haiti with my money!" Steve said loudly. "That bike's going to be used in my movie, so don't break it, Beretto!" There was a screeching, then a revving sound from over the wall and across the street.
Jason gunned the engine, dust kicked up from the wheel, and the motorbike shot out of the studio at break-neck pace. Steve was right...this baby was fast. So fast, he caught the Sanchez as it was heading over the bridge and into Downtown Vice City. Jason raised his Ingram Mac 10, keeping one hand on the handlebars, as the two of them flashed past the VCN building and headed right for Ammu-Nation. Was he going to turn, or keep going straight?
The Sanchez flashed left, heading down the main street that lead all the way down to Vice Port in the southern area of Vice City. Jason leaned, and his PCJ took the corner well. Jason aimed his uzi up for another shot, but the Sanchez swerved around a car, blocking his view. He swore under his breath and sped up. The Haitian man was getting too far away. The Sanchez was more maneuverable, and in the rush hour traffic (everyone was trying to get to work in the morning), maneuverability was highly favorable over speed, which the dirt bike had over the PCJ.
Jason was going to have to use his mind instead. The Sanchez roared right as it passed the fire department. Jason bumped onto the curb, and drove across an enclosed area to cut off the Sanchez. When the dirt bike rounded the corner and passed the pizza joint, Jason burst from bushes and landed on the street, aimed for the right. Jason had lost distance from the Haitian's bike in his own favor.
Hesitating with his gun, Jason sped up, as they were on a straight-away, and he had the advantage here. The Sanchez flashed down the road, passing the Hyman condo, and turned right. Jason pulled into the Hyman Condo's front area, streaked through, passed orange barriers, and turned left. The Sanchez came around the corner, heading right for Jason's bike. He raised his gun and squeezed the trigger. Bullets sprayed wildly from the muzzle, Jason held the gun tight as it rattled in his hand. The Haitian hadn't seen Jason coming. He screamed, thrashed like a madman, and fell from his bike as blood fountained from multiple holes in his body. The Sanchez crashed against the street, flipped on its front, and smashed right into Jason's front tire. The PCJ and Sanchez toppled to the ground, Jason managed to hit the brake, and he fell from the bike and landed hard on the pavement.
The Haitian man was moaning in pain, blood still spraying from the multiple holes on his chest and arms, although less violently now. The bullets had sprayed him right in the face as well, which wasn't bleeding as badly, but was still red and gory nonetheless. Jason stooped, completely unhurt from his fall, picked up the case of Scott's money, and questioned the Haitian man, who was barely alive.
"You couldn't have come all the way from Little Haiti to surprise us like that," he growled. "Scott would have heard the car you came in. Where are you guys hiding on Prawn? Cuz I know you are hiding somewhere, and when I find it, God help your Haitian friends."
The Haitian man spat on the ground as Jason's feet in disgust, shuddered, and died from blood loss. Jason picked up the PCJ-600, sat on the seat and steadied his case of money, then gunned the bike, heading back to the film studio where he had come.
Five minutes later, the PCJ revved back into the film studio, and Jason instantly saw Steve, hands folded, waiting for him. A clipboard was clutched in his left arm, Jason saw, as Scott unfolded his arms and came striding over.
Jason brought the bike to a halt and then stepped off, holding the case up by its handle and offering it to the director. "I got your case back," Jason grunted as Steve accepted the money. He opened it and his eyes flew across the bills.
"Excellent!" Scott said. "How did you do it?" he asked eagerly.
"Not important. Let's just say you won't have to worry about that guy anymore. There's just one thing that's bothering me, though."
"And what's that?" Scott asked as he snapped his case shut again and looked up, placing his sunglasses in his shirt pocket. "We got the money back, why are you worrying now? Tommy will be pleased to know you've done what he asked you to do. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it, you're bound to be paid highly after this."
"That's not the problem," Jason muttered as he leaned against the security guard's booth near the entrance. "We still didn't find out why the Haitians were after your money, Scott, and that's what Tommy really wanted to know. That's the one thing I didn't get out of that guy before he died."
"Isn't it obvious?" Scott asked as he stepped back into his studio, followed by the Vercetti Gang boys. "It's for the same reason you came here."
"Huh?" Jason grunted, not fully paying attention as he stared at the ground, thinking hard.
"Well, look at it this way. You came here, asking Tommy for money, because your gang, the Leone Mafia, wants to get rid of the Triads, right?" Jason nodded. "Ever since Tommy came to town, and helped Avery Carrington spark the gang war between the Haitians and the Cubans, the Haitians have been wanting to get rid of the Cubans for good, and own Little Havana as well. After they knock off the Vercetti Gang, they'd rule."
"What's your point?" Jason interrupted.
"You didn't let me finish," Scott growled. "My point is," he continued, adopting a more docile tone, "is that what it all boils down to is money around here. Tommy has money, the Mafia wants money, and the Haitians want money. If any of those have money, they solve their problem. Too bad the Cubans haven't been coming to Tommy for cash—I figure he'd happily give it to them."
Jason folded his arms and stared hard at the film director. "Okay, so they want money to kill the Cubans, but how are they getting here without us hearing the roar of their car? I doubt they'd walk that long way from Little Haiti to Prawn, that'd take forever on foot."
"It's not like Tommy's never done it in his day, back when he was a big-time field guy. But if I had to guess, I'd say they're stationed somewhere on Prawn itself." Steve let this idea hang in the air, and walked quickly back into the studio building "A", wheeling the bike in after him and muttering under his breath about the scratches all over its body.
Jason walked back outside, tossed his Ingram into the backseat of the gleaming white Infernus he had been given, sat down, and started the engine. What Scott had said intrigued him, he thought as he pulled from the curb and turned around, heading for the Vercetti Estate. Perhaps the Haitians were stationed somewhere on Prawn, and he knew where to go if he wanted the most likely place to look. Tommy Vercetti would probably be able to tell him.
"Oh, I know about those Haitians." Tommy leaned back in his chair as he handed Jason an envelope. Jason pocketed it and figured he'd open it later. "You might have stopped that guy from taking my money, Beretto, but you still don't know why they were after it."
"Scott has a pretty good guess," Jason ventured. "He said they must be hiding out somewhere on Prawn Island. No other way they'd be close enough to steal things at night. Best make sure you keep the gates firmly locked. I'd post some guards just inside the entrance."
"Advice taken," Tommy said as he rested his elbows on the table. "Look, it's almost the turn of the century, and I want to keep my fortune until I die." Jason smiled, making sure he avoided Tommy's eyes. Saying Tommy had a "fortune" was like saying the Pacific Ocean was "damp." The two just undermined the truth. Tommy Vercetti probably had more money in his account than all the residents of Vice City put together. As Tommy was constantly reminding his underlings, he didn't get there on easy street. No sir, he had to work to take over this town. With powerful friends like Ken Rosenberg, Avery Carrington, and Kent Paul, it's little wonder Tommy came to power in just under six months after arriving in Vice City.
"I understand this, sir, and to keep it going, I need someone to help me root out the Haitians' hiding spot. Could I take some of the Vercetti Gang along with me, and arm them with some good weaponry? They'd greatly assist me in finding the hideout."
"Agreed," Tommy said, after frowning in concentration for several seconds. "However, I want you to scout the island yourself, first, and once you suspect the location of the Haitians' lair, bust in with some of my boys. But do some sleuthing first, prove yourself to me, kid."
This made Jason laugh—he was hardly a kid. At nearly thirty years old, Jason was almost as old as Luigi Gotorelli.
"Fine," Jason said, standing up. He nodded at Tommy to indicate he knew what he had to do, and swept from the room.
An air of foreboding seemed to hang around Prawn Island. Ever since the nineteen-eighties, no one ever visited that island, except to make movies. It was a small place off the coast of Vice, and only three houses existed on the island, with a fountain in the middle that used to work.
Jason walked calmly past the statue, and stared at it. It was rusted, no longer producing water from its spouts. A chill arose on the back of his neck, and he pushed the sense of mystery on Prawn Island away from him, longing to be back in Liberty City, with the people he knew, the people that cared about him. Joey Leone, his childhood friend, seemed so far away from him now, all the way back in Liberty City, New York. Jason flicked a cigarette to the ground, pulling up his jacket and trying to shield himself from the relentless sheets of rain that fell from the skies. The light instantly went out as it hit the ground, and Jason crushed it to make sure.
Obviously, the first place to start his search was the three houses standing on Prawn. The two on the outer edges proved too run down since the eighties to be of any use. They were on the verge of being torn down. Jason figured that left the middle house to be inspected. He calmly walked up the front steps, pulled another cigarette from his pocket, and lit it as he stepped inside.
The house was very out-dated. Cobwebs hung from the walls, and odd carpet covered the residence. It obviously hadn't been used in some time, but Jason felt compelled to explore further. Wooden tables were strewn about the outside, rotting in their old age. Jason pried one of the drawers open and found stored SPANK inside it, a new drug. He snorted and slammed the drawer shut, almost knocking the table from its legs.
It quickly became obvious that the Haitians weren't using this house to hide in. After searching the main floor, the basement, and upstairs, Jason found no evidence to show anyone had even been inside the house for a very, very long time. Picking up his drenched coat from the coathook, Jason stepped gloomily back into the sleeting rain. And then, something caught his eye.
An abandoned pharmacy stood on the other side of the road. But that was not what caught his attention—there was a light in the upstairs window. Far be it from him to judge, but he doubted old pharmacies lit up by themselves. He moved calmly across the street, and approached the old building.
Faded red lettering was painted on the front, but Jason couldn't make out what it said. The only word he could read was its namesake, etched into the front of the building. It actually looked like a set Steve Scott could have used at one point, but that seemed somewhat farfetched. Jason rubbed away steam gathering on the window from the rain and peered inside. Through a crack in the wood boarding up the pharmacy, he saw a table in the immediate room, with a group of men wearing dark coats, and all of them doing something around the table. He couldn't tell what was happening, until one coat fluttered to the ground.
Underneath was revealed a man wearing blue shirt and white pants, with jet-black hair. He was a Haitian. The rest of the group followed suit, and Jason could see what they were doing—playing cards. One of the men vanished up a set of stairs near the table carrying several briefcases with him, and returned minutes later without anything. He sat down and began to play cards with his buddies. Their dialogue with muffled through the glass, but Jason could hear lots of laughing. Obviously, those scum were pleased with their night raid on the film studio. Well, as Jason had promised Tommy, he would give them a run for their money.
One Haitian man, his name was Ali Poulet, Auntie's nephew, sat back in his chair and revealed the cards he was holding to his friends. "A royal flush, you cannot compete with this, friends," he said and scooped his winnings to his place. One of his friends jumped up to protest, but Ali immediately shouted, "Shuddup, you lose fair an' square! If you can't take it, get out of this place, understand?"
The second man seated himself again as bets were placed.
A roaring fire accompanied them through the rain as they played their hands, their eyes flickering around the table to ensure no one cheated. In reality, every single player at the table was a lying cheater, but none would allow the others to find him in the act. One player even had extra cards in his favor in his shoe.
"Did you see the look on Scott's face when we took his money?" Ali laughed heartily, slapping his mate on the back. "Can't wait till Auntie lets us kill that man, eh?" The group shared another heartily laugh and drowned themselves in whiskey.
"Tommy Vercetti won't own Vice for much longer, boys!" Ali shouted loudly, sloshing his drink on himself. "We're takin' ov—"
BANG! The door fell from its hinges and slammed onto the ground. In the doorway, shrouded by the darkness of the night, was a man drenched in water. He shook the moisture from his eyes, and peered around. The shotgun with which he had unhinged the door was steady in his hands, and he snarled at them, "What's shakin', mates?"
Ali jumped up and snatched his pistol from a slot hidden under the table. He fired the gun, and the man outside leaped behind a chair to his left, hiding as a bullet smashed the glass behind him. Two Haitian men fell instantly, and it didn't take Ali long to see why—six Vercetti Gang men had poured into the room, all carrying MP5's,and let their guns rip and tear into the flesh of Ali's friends.
As for Ali, the crafty man overturned the table, sent the cards scattering, and let the table take the bullets. He returned fire, and a Hawaiian-shirt-clad man screamed and fell, hit through the shoulder.
"Come on, you pricks!" the first man yelled. "My name is Jason Beretto, get to know it, you're going to be seeing a hell of a lot more of me, I can guarantee it!"
Jason finally revealed himself in a trenchcoat, beige cargo pants, and a gray undershirt. He raised his shotgun and pulled the trigger. Ali fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding chest. "That's what you get for taking Vercetti Gang money, poor bastards!" Jason growled as he finished off the last of the Haitian men.
The team, now reduced to six, stormed up the stairs and kicked in the only door on the second floor. The tiny room had only four Haitian men in it. Jason and his buddies laid them flat after several seconds' firefight, and then Jason rapped out orders. "James, get downstairs and cover our retreat," one man rushed out, "the rest of you, gather up our loot and let's get out of here."
Coming back down, the gang found James' dead body. The Haitians had called reinforcements. Four Voodoos, cars normally driven by Haitian gang members, were parked outside, with men waiting to fire as they walked out. James had already been picked off, so Jason told everyone to go back upstairs. "We're going out to the roof. Let's move!"
They busted out a vent hatch cover and filed onto the roof. Jason slammed the cover back into place behind them and they set off across the rooftop with a purpose, moving for the south side of the island. As the other edge came into sight, Jason ordered them to jump. "Try and roll if you can," he said calmly, and he went over the edge. He rolled smoothly, jumped onto his feet, and motioned for his men to follow. Two men broke their legs, so the others shot them dead to shut them up. That left the team at three. Jason and his mates sprinted across the street, one gang man was hit through the legs and left arm, and he fell. The other two made it into the film studio and the gates clanged shut behind them.
With the money safe at the studio with Steve Scott (who awoke to meet them, since he had fallen asleep in his chair after wrapping the day's shoot), Jason doubted the Haitians would be back any time soon. And if they were, they would meet their match with the Vercetti Gang.