"Ow! Jesus Christ, Mercedes! Who the hell taught you how do to that, the
Nazis?!" Tommy Vercetti felt like complaining, so he did. After all, he had
every right to; he was the one who had been shot through the shoulder while
standing on top of a prison transport vehicle, right? Mercedes Cortez stood
off to his right, having seen the ruckus of the night on the evening news.
Apparently, Vice City's finest forgot to hang the "Do Not Disturb" sign outside the door on this one. The news crews had infested the scene like locusts, and a helicopter for News 5 at Ten had followed the convoy to the bridge, where it stayed high enough to watch the action. Everything had been caught on tape. Mercedes, being worried about a good friend, ventured onto the streets and managed to meet her boys at Kaufman Cabs in Little Haiti. There they had all ducked into a back room for the night, free of the police for the time being.
Mercedes pulled a canvas cloth tight around the five layers of gauze bandage she already had covering the gunshot wound in Vercetti's right shoulder. Vercetti winced, grumbling something incoherent under his breath and shifting his weight where he sat on a line of crates against the wall closest to the door.
"Hold still, Tommy," Mercedes snapped. "Would you rather leave it alone so it can fester and eventually claim your life?" Vercetti shook his head, making a face. She nodded. "Thought so." She gave the canvas strip one last tug and tied it off. Vercetti grimaced and put a hand over it, frowning.
He, Mercedes, Lance, and twelve of the surviving Vercetti boys were gathered in Kaufman Cabs' secondary garage. Vercetti had purchased the company as it floundered about on the brink of bankruptcy a while back, he wasn't sure when exactly. He had pulled the company above water and nearly destroyed the threat of its competitor, Vice City Cab Company. He had rather enjoyed that. But for now, the Vercetti gang would be safe and taken care of, for if the FBI or the VCPD was to come looking for them, Kaufman's employees would gladly deny everything and remain loyal to their boss and protector.
"What now?" Lance spoke up then, from his position on a few stacked wooden crate in the corner. He peered at Vercetti, watching him closely. He had always admired Vercetti for his work and his efficiency, and he sometimes wished he could be more like him. He never said anything about it of course. Vercetti didn't like it when his friends belittled themselves. He said it made them weak and susceptible to traitorous acts.
Vercetti shook his head and sighed, looking down and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I don't know." Exhaustion was evident in his voice, and it hung over the occupants of the room like a shroud of death. "Maybe we should just stay here for the night and then head over to Print Works tomorrow for some cash. I have a feeling we'll need it. Then we can figure out what to do from there with clear heads."
"Yeah, okay, but in any case, the cops are going to be crawling all over your assets, Tommy. They're going to be looking for you, for us. We're going to need a new way to move on the streets so we won't end up getting capped in the ass," Lance said, stifling a yawn.
Vercetti watched him and then nodded. "Yes, well, they know I own the boatyard and Coke Baron's Masion, and they might even know that I had something to do with the success of InterGlobal Films. But I have been careful enough with the others to have kept them a secret," he said, counting his assets in his head.
"Even so," Mercedes said, entering the conversation, "the entire country now knows that you're on the loose thanks to those crack heads in the press. You'll never be able to walk around this town in broad daylight. Not only are the street gangs and the police after you, but there will now be hundreds of civilians out for the reward on your head."
Lance nodded his agreement wearily.
Vercetti rubbed at his sinuses, silent for a moment. Then he looked up at Lance. "All right. Let's just get some sleep. We can sort this mess out tomorrow morning."
There were some grumbled responses as the gang commenced collapsing into the dusty lawn chairs that had been set up around the room, or into the backseats of partially destroyed cabs. Lance fell asleep right where he sat in his little corner on the crates. Vercetti watched them quietly, and Mercedes watched him.
"You aren't going to go to sleep, are you Tommy."
"Nah. I'm keep going to keep an eye out. I don't want to be caught by surprise or anything. I don't know what kind of help the police are going to get now. They already had the feds, so they might be stepping it up again," he said.
"You aren't gonna be doing nobody any good if you don't get some sleep. I can see you're tired. I'm sure the people in the main office will give plenty of warning when and if the police decided to raid the place," Mercedes responded quietly. She sat down next to him, leaning back against the wall.
He raised an eyebrow at her. "We'll see." He couldn't remember Mercedes ever showing real concern for him, and for that matter, it was damn weird for her to be matronly. He frowned and looked back down the floor, praying to the god he'd never believed in that things would eventually untangle themselves to that he could breathe without fear again.
"You know, my father could probably help you out here, Tommy. You know, get you out of Florida or something. Do you think I should give him a call?" Mercedes interrupted his musing, and he looked at her, a little surprised.
"Isn't he in Costa Rica or something like that by now?" Vercetti had done a few jobs for Mercedes' father in order to get cash way back when he had first been starting out in Vice City. The Colonel had been greatly impressed at Vercetti's competence and with his ability to keep a promise. By the time Vercetti assisted Cortez and his men in getting out of Vice City's shark infested waters when trouble loomed, he had come to the conclusion that he was never going to see the generous Latino again.
"Could be, but Daddy would do anything for a friend. I'm sure he wouldn't mind coming to pick you up," Mercedes said. She pulled at her short skirt, waiting for him to answer her. He was considering it, wondering it would be wise to hop out of town now, before things boiled down to the barest of bones.
"No," he said at last. "Keep him as a reserve. We're not quite sure what we're up against just yet. Leaving the country might present undue problems. You know, more issues than would have been encountered if we had stayed for a little while."
He hid a yawn behind his hand, and Mercedes stood up. She patted him gently on his wounded shoulder and walked away to find a more comfortable place to settle down. He smiled, hating to see her leave, but loving to watch her go.
*********************
Patrick Ford had an idea. After the night's bridge mishap, he had rushed back to the Vice City Police Department and immersed himself in computer files, trying to find something, anything to use against Vercetti. He managed to pull up the FBI database on his borrowed computer terminal, and after briefly forgetting his password, he finally found what he was looking for. Vercetti didn't have much of a family, but Ford was able to find exactly what he thought he needed in the "Remaining Relatives" section of Vercetti's large file. With his plan firmly placed in his mind, quickly grabbed Creed and booked seats on the next flight out of Miami to New York.
"Now will you tell me where the hell we're going?" Creed sipped at his diet Coke and watched his partner gaze out the window the cabin at the clouds that were slipping soundlessly underneath the vessel. Creed didn't have even the faintest inkling as to where they were headed specifically. All he knew was that he was on a flight, sitting next to Ford, bound for Liberty City. Ford had refused to tell him just what was going on, but Creed had a feeling it was something big. His partner often got an odd, sadistic look behind his eyes when something huge was about to happen.
"I'll tell you when we get there," Ford replied.
"Quit being so damn overdramatic!" Creed spoke a little too loudly in his frustration, and many people in the cabin turned to look in the direction of the disturbance. Creed turned a shade of red and lowered his voice sheepishly with a nervous laugh. "Come on, Pat. You're making me look like an idiot here."
"You're making yourself look like and idiot. Just sit tight for a few hours. Enjoy the flight, have a drink," Ford said with a broad smile. "Don't worry, you'll see when we get there. Relax." There was a beat of silence. "Besides," Ford added, "I like build up suspense around you. Your reactions are priceless."
"You are one mean bastard," Creed said, pouting.
"Yep. You sure said it," Ford replied.
*******************
Lance Vance woke up with a horrible crick in his neck. The position he had slept had not been kind to him, but then again, you couldn't expect anything different. He had slept on a stack of crates jammed in the corner, after all. He rubbed the side of his neck, wincing. A quick glance around the quiet garage revealed that he was one of four people awake. Mercedes was sitting in the corner farthest from him, legs crossed as she watched the security monitor viewing the front of the room. Vercetti had installed that camera himself, muttering something about how people couldn't be too careful. It was just a precaution -- just in case something happened. Two of the gang members were sitting on either side of a tiny, round table in the center of the room, cleaning and oiling a slew of weapons.
The other ten gang members remained in the deep throes of slumber where they had fallen last night, much like Vercetti himself, who was stretched out across the line of crates, his arms crossed behind his head. Looking at him there, Lance found it somewhat difficult to see him as Vice City's most wanted criminal. Sleeping, Vercetti looked just like any other man. Lance shook his head slowly.
"Morning Mercedes," he called across the room, stretching out his stiff joints somewhat and hopping off his crates. He dusted off his pants. "What's on television?"
"Not a lot," she replied. "A few Haitians tried to rob the old woman in the front office, but she shoved that old sawed off shot gun that Tommy gave her into their faces and made short work of that." Mercedes laughed softly as Lance neared her.
Lance glanced at the monitor over her shoulder. "Who in the hell his that?" He squinted at the fuzzy, black and white display as a man in a light suit walked into Kaufman's main garage. The man approached the office and tapped on the window. The old woman looked up with narrowed eyes. Lance leaned in for a better look. "Is that Ken Rosenberg?"
Mercedes examined the display. "You mean that crazy, insecure lawyer that Tommy says is no good for anything except getting high?" Vercetti, although he was fond of Rosenberg, did not speak highly of his ability to handle situations that often arose.
"Yeah," Lance said with a soft chuckle. "That would be the guy." He walked over to the door and opened it a crack, just enough to see out. He heard the clerk say something about not "knowing no Vercetti fellow," and Rosenberg scoffed.
"Listen lady, you don't understand. I'm Tommy's friend! I'm his ally, his partner, his associate!" He waves his arms about in jerky gesticulations for emphasis. The clerk did not look amused.
"I'm telling you. I don't know anyone by the name of Tommy, or by the name Vercetti. Now move on out of here before I move you myself," she said flatly.
Lance chose that moment to intervene. He stepped out of the doorway, half in the back room and half in the main garage. "It's okay, Kathryn. We know him. Rosenberg, get your ass back here before someone finds it convenient to shoot you in the back of the head," he said.
Rosenberg shot a nervous glance at Kathryn, who had a hand on her newly acquired weapon. Not wanting to stick around for too much longer to see what kind of shot she had, he quickly followed Lance and they ducked back into the secondary quarter.
"What the hell are you doing here, Ken?" Lance closed the door behind them quietly and turned around to face the lawyer, who was straightening his large-framed glasses.
Rosenberg was about to respond when a noise behind him caught his attention. He whirled around in time to see Vercetti sit up on the crates and rub his eyes in way of waking himself up. With a deep sigh, he became as aware as he was going to get for the moment. He looked around. Rosenberg's eyes lit up.
"Tommy! Jesus man, I thought you were dead! I mean, that's the word on the streets. You know, I was talking to Avery Carrington about a lot where we might be able to build something really useful, like I don't know. Something to increase our franchise," he rattled.
Vercetti blinked. "Huh?" He shook his head as if to clear it. "Wait, what the fuck are you doing here, Ken?"
"I was just asking him that," Lance stated, feeling as if he was doing the right thing.
"There were rumors around that you had been killed in a police raid last night. I just dropped by to confirm some stuff. Let me tell you, I had to go to just about every one of the businesses to find you because--" Ken started.
Vercetti jumped of the crates and grabbed Rosenberg by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him hard against the support post behind him, successfully cutting him off. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Vercetti demanded loudly. "You got shit for brains or something?! The fucking police know that you know me, Ken, and you probably just led them here!"
Rosenberg tried to stutter a response, frightened by Vercetti's sudden outburst of anger, but Vercetti's attention had already shifted. "And if they followed this asshole here, Lance, then you've just confirmed our presence by letting him in here!"
Although Vercetti had not released Rosenberg, Lance look a step away from his fury. He slowly backed up, his hands raised in front of him. Vercetti let go of Rosenberg, roughly pushing him back in the process. "God! I'm surrounded by total morons!"
"Hey listen, Tommy. I'm really sorry. I wasn't thinking," Lance said, finally finding his voice. He watched Rosenberg, still terrified, brush off the front of his suit and straighten his glasses again.
"Oh," Vercetti spat venomously. "You weren't thinking. I suppose that makes everything just fine and dandy, now doesn't it." His voice dripped with sarcasm. Vercetti paced a small square then took out his anger on an innocent box that sat nearby. It sailed through the air and hit the far wall over a sleeping gang member, who woke with a startled yelp. Vercetti paused for a moment, and the room fell silent. Sirens could be heard wailing in the distance.
Over the hidden intercom, Kathryn gave a quick warning. "Heads up, Boss!"
"Shit!" Vercetti threw a hard look at Lance and Rosenberg before addressing his gang. "Got up boys, it's time to party." He moved over to a corner of the room diagonal from the one the security monitor sat in and moved a paint shelf rack away from the wall. With that out of the way, he kneeled down and pried up a loose floorboard, revealing a stash of handguns, assault rifles, grenades, and machine guns.
"Let's lock and load," Lance exclaimed, catching the AK-47 that Vercetti tossed to him. Vercetti himself shoved a Colt Python into his front pocket, clipped a few grenades to his belt, and locked the chamber of a Spas-12 shotgun. The gang followed suit, gathering the rest of the weapons from the hiding place. Rosenberg and Mercedes hung back. They weren't equipped with the skill necessary for such a dangerous operation. Vercetti nodded to Mercedes and then led his gang out the back door and up the fire escape ladders to meet the screaming sirens from the roof of the building. War was about ensue.
Apparently, Vice City's finest forgot to hang the "Do Not Disturb" sign outside the door on this one. The news crews had infested the scene like locusts, and a helicopter for News 5 at Ten had followed the convoy to the bridge, where it stayed high enough to watch the action. Everything had been caught on tape. Mercedes, being worried about a good friend, ventured onto the streets and managed to meet her boys at Kaufman Cabs in Little Haiti. There they had all ducked into a back room for the night, free of the police for the time being.
Mercedes pulled a canvas cloth tight around the five layers of gauze bandage she already had covering the gunshot wound in Vercetti's right shoulder. Vercetti winced, grumbling something incoherent under his breath and shifting his weight where he sat on a line of crates against the wall closest to the door.
"Hold still, Tommy," Mercedes snapped. "Would you rather leave it alone so it can fester and eventually claim your life?" Vercetti shook his head, making a face. She nodded. "Thought so." She gave the canvas strip one last tug and tied it off. Vercetti grimaced and put a hand over it, frowning.
He, Mercedes, Lance, and twelve of the surviving Vercetti boys were gathered in Kaufman Cabs' secondary garage. Vercetti had purchased the company as it floundered about on the brink of bankruptcy a while back, he wasn't sure when exactly. He had pulled the company above water and nearly destroyed the threat of its competitor, Vice City Cab Company. He had rather enjoyed that. But for now, the Vercetti gang would be safe and taken care of, for if the FBI or the VCPD was to come looking for them, Kaufman's employees would gladly deny everything and remain loyal to their boss and protector.
"What now?" Lance spoke up then, from his position on a few stacked wooden crate in the corner. He peered at Vercetti, watching him closely. He had always admired Vercetti for his work and his efficiency, and he sometimes wished he could be more like him. He never said anything about it of course. Vercetti didn't like it when his friends belittled themselves. He said it made them weak and susceptible to traitorous acts.
Vercetti shook his head and sighed, looking down and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I don't know." Exhaustion was evident in his voice, and it hung over the occupants of the room like a shroud of death. "Maybe we should just stay here for the night and then head over to Print Works tomorrow for some cash. I have a feeling we'll need it. Then we can figure out what to do from there with clear heads."
"Yeah, okay, but in any case, the cops are going to be crawling all over your assets, Tommy. They're going to be looking for you, for us. We're going to need a new way to move on the streets so we won't end up getting capped in the ass," Lance said, stifling a yawn.
Vercetti watched him and then nodded. "Yes, well, they know I own the boatyard and Coke Baron's Masion, and they might even know that I had something to do with the success of InterGlobal Films. But I have been careful enough with the others to have kept them a secret," he said, counting his assets in his head.
"Even so," Mercedes said, entering the conversation, "the entire country now knows that you're on the loose thanks to those crack heads in the press. You'll never be able to walk around this town in broad daylight. Not only are the street gangs and the police after you, but there will now be hundreds of civilians out for the reward on your head."
Lance nodded his agreement wearily.
Vercetti rubbed at his sinuses, silent for a moment. Then he looked up at Lance. "All right. Let's just get some sleep. We can sort this mess out tomorrow morning."
There were some grumbled responses as the gang commenced collapsing into the dusty lawn chairs that had been set up around the room, or into the backseats of partially destroyed cabs. Lance fell asleep right where he sat in his little corner on the crates. Vercetti watched them quietly, and Mercedes watched him.
"You aren't going to go to sleep, are you Tommy."
"Nah. I'm keep going to keep an eye out. I don't want to be caught by surprise or anything. I don't know what kind of help the police are going to get now. They already had the feds, so they might be stepping it up again," he said.
"You aren't gonna be doing nobody any good if you don't get some sleep. I can see you're tired. I'm sure the people in the main office will give plenty of warning when and if the police decided to raid the place," Mercedes responded quietly. She sat down next to him, leaning back against the wall.
He raised an eyebrow at her. "We'll see." He couldn't remember Mercedes ever showing real concern for him, and for that matter, it was damn weird for her to be matronly. He frowned and looked back down the floor, praying to the god he'd never believed in that things would eventually untangle themselves to that he could breathe without fear again.
"You know, my father could probably help you out here, Tommy. You know, get you out of Florida or something. Do you think I should give him a call?" Mercedes interrupted his musing, and he looked at her, a little surprised.
"Isn't he in Costa Rica or something like that by now?" Vercetti had done a few jobs for Mercedes' father in order to get cash way back when he had first been starting out in Vice City. The Colonel had been greatly impressed at Vercetti's competence and with his ability to keep a promise. By the time Vercetti assisted Cortez and his men in getting out of Vice City's shark infested waters when trouble loomed, he had come to the conclusion that he was never going to see the generous Latino again.
"Could be, but Daddy would do anything for a friend. I'm sure he wouldn't mind coming to pick you up," Mercedes said. She pulled at her short skirt, waiting for him to answer her. He was considering it, wondering it would be wise to hop out of town now, before things boiled down to the barest of bones.
"No," he said at last. "Keep him as a reserve. We're not quite sure what we're up against just yet. Leaving the country might present undue problems. You know, more issues than would have been encountered if we had stayed for a little while."
He hid a yawn behind his hand, and Mercedes stood up. She patted him gently on his wounded shoulder and walked away to find a more comfortable place to settle down. He smiled, hating to see her leave, but loving to watch her go.
*********************
Patrick Ford had an idea. After the night's bridge mishap, he had rushed back to the Vice City Police Department and immersed himself in computer files, trying to find something, anything to use against Vercetti. He managed to pull up the FBI database on his borrowed computer terminal, and after briefly forgetting his password, he finally found what he was looking for. Vercetti didn't have much of a family, but Ford was able to find exactly what he thought he needed in the "Remaining Relatives" section of Vercetti's large file. With his plan firmly placed in his mind, quickly grabbed Creed and booked seats on the next flight out of Miami to New York.
"Now will you tell me where the hell we're going?" Creed sipped at his diet Coke and watched his partner gaze out the window the cabin at the clouds that were slipping soundlessly underneath the vessel. Creed didn't have even the faintest inkling as to where they were headed specifically. All he knew was that he was on a flight, sitting next to Ford, bound for Liberty City. Ford had refused to tell him just what was going on, but Creed had a feeling it was something big. His partner often got an odd, sadistic look behind his eyes when something huge was about to happen.
"I'll tell you when we get there," Ford replied.
"Quit being so damn overdramatic!" Creed spoke a little too loudly in his frustration, and many people in the cabin turned to look in the direction of the disturbance. Creed turned a shade of red and lowered his voice sheepishly with a nervous laugh. "Come on, Pat. You're making me look like an idiot here."
"You're making yourself look like and idiot. Just sit tight for a few hours. Enjoy the flight, have a drink," Ford said with a broad smile. "Don't worry, you'll see when we get there. Relax." There was a beat of silence. "Besides," Ford added, "I like build up suspense around you. Your reactions are priceless."
"You are one mean bastard," Creed said, pouting.
"Yep. You sure said it," Ford replied.
*******************
Lance Vance woke up with a horrible crick in his neck. The position he had slept had not been kind to him, but then again, you couldn't expect anything different. He had slept on a stack of crates jammed in the corner, after all. He rubbed the side of his neck, wincing. A quick glance around the quiet garage revealed that he was one of four people awake. Mercedes was sitting in the corner farthest from him, legs crossed as she watched the security monitor viewing the front of the room. Vercetti had installed that camera himself, muttering something about how people couldn't be too careful. It was just a precaution -- just in case something happened. Two of the gang members were sitting on either side of a tiny, round table in the center of the room, cleaning and oiling a slew of weapons.
The other ten gang members remained in the deep throes of slumber where they had fallen last night, much like Vercetti himself, who was stretched out across the line of crates, his arms crossed behind his head. Looking at him there, Lance found it somewhat difficult to see him as Vice City's most wanted criminal. Sleeping, Vercetti looked just like any other man. Lance shook his head slowly.
"Morning Mercedes," he called across the room, stretching out his stiff joints somewhat and hopping off his crates. He dusted off his pants. "What's on television?"
"Not a lot," she replied. "A few Haitians tried to rob the old woman in the front office, but she shoved that old sawed off shot gun that Tommy gave her into their faces and made short work of that." Mercedes laughed softly as Lance neared her.
Lance glanced at the monitor over her shoulder. "Who in the hell his that?" He squinted at the fuzzy, black and white display as a man in a light suit walked into Kaufman's main garage. The man approached the office and tapped on the window. The old woman looked up with narrowed eyes. Lance leaned in for a better look. "Is that Ken Rosenberg?"
Mercedes examined the display. "You mean that crazy, insecure lawyer that Tommy says is no good for anything except getting high?" Vercetti, although he was fond of Rosenberg, did not speak highly of his ability to handle situations that often arose.
"Yeah," Lance said with a soft chuckle. "That would be the guy." He walked over to the door and opened it a crack, just enough to see out. He heard the clerk say something about not "knowing no Vercetti fellow," and Rosenberg scoffed.
"Listen lady, you don't understand. I'm Tommy's friend! I'm his ally, his partner, his associate!" He waves his arms about in jerky gesticulations for emphasis. The clerk did not look amused.
"I'm telling you. I don't know anyone by the name of Tommy, or by the name Vercetti. Now move on out of here before I move you myself," she said flatly.
Lance chose that moment to intervene. He stepped out of the doorway, half in the back room and half in the main garage. "It's okay, Kathryn. We know him. Rosenberg, get your ass back here before someone finds it convenient to shoot you in the back of the head," he said.
Rosenberg shot a nervous glance at Kathryn, who had a hand on her newly acquired weapon. Not wanting to stick around for too much longer to see what kind of shot she had, he quickly followed Lance and they ducked back into the secondary quarter.
"What the hell are you doing here, Ken?" Lance closed the door behind them quietly and turned around to face the lawyer, who was straightening his large-framed glasses.
Rosenberg was about to respond when a noise behind him caught his attention. He whirled around in time to see Vercetti sit up on the crates and rub his eyes in way of waking himself up. With a deep sigh, he became as aware as he was going to get for the moment. He looked around. Rosenberg's eyes lit up.
"Tommy! Jesus man, I thought you were dead! I mean, that's the word on the streets. You know, I was talking to Avery Carrington about a lot where we might be able to build something really useful, like I don't know. Something to increase our franchise," he rattled.
Vercetti blinked. "Huh?" He shook his head as if to clear it. "Wait, what the fuck are you doing here, Ken?"
"I was just asking him that," Lance stated, feeling as if he was doing the right thing.
"There were rumors around that you had been killed in a police raid last night. I just dropped by to confirm some stuff. Let me tell you, I had to go to just about every one of the businesses to find you because--" Ken started.
Vercetti jumped of the crates and grabbed Rosenberg by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him hard against the support post behind him, successfully cutting him off. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Vercetti demanded loudly. "You got shit for brains or something?! The fucking police know that you know me, Ken, and you probably just led them here!"
Rosenberg tried to stutter a response, frightened by Vercetti's sudden outburst of anger, but Vercetti's attention had already shifted. "And if they followed this asshole here, Lance, then you've just confirmed our presence by letting him in here!"
Although Vercetti had not released Rosenberg, Lance look a step away from his fury. He slowly backed up, his hands raised in front of him. Vercetti let go of Rosenberg, roughly pushing him back in the process. "God! I'm surrounded by total morons!"
"Hey listen, Tommy. I'm really sorry. I wasn't thinking," Lance said, finally finding his voice. He watched Rosenberg, still terrified, brush off the front of his suit and straighten his glasses again.
"Oh," Vercetti spat venomously. "You weren't thinking. I suppose that makes everything just fine and dandy, now doesn't it." His voice dripped with sarcasm. Vercetti paced a small square then took out his anger on an innocent box that sat nearby. It sailed through the air and hit the far wall over a sleeping gang member, who woke with a startled yelp. Vercetti paused for a moment, and the room fell silent. Sirens could be heard wailing in the distance.
Over the hidden intercom, Kathryn gave a quick warning. "Heads up, Boss!"
"Shit!" Vercetti threw a hard look at Lance and Rosenberg before addressing his gang. "Got up boys, it's time to party." He moved over to a corner of the room diagonal from the one the security monitor sat in and moved a paint shelf rack away from the wall. With that out of the way, he kneeled down and pried up a loose floorboard, revealing a stash of handguns, assault rifles, grenades, and machine guns.
"Let's lock and load," Lance exclaimed, catching the AK-47 that Vercetti tossed to him. Vercetti himself shoved a Colt Python into his front pocket, clipped a few grenades to his belt, and locked the chamber of a Spas-12 shotgun. The gang followed suit, gathering the rest of the weapons from the hiding place. Rosenberg and Mercedes hung back. They weren't equipped with the skill necessary for such a dangerous operation. Vercetti nodded to Mercedes and then led his gang out the back door and up the fire escape ladders to meet the screaming sirens from the roof of the building. War was about ensue.