At the exact moment Vercetti and his compatriots were moving off to put
their plan in motion, a black FBI Washington pulled up from the opposite
side of the building and parallel parked nearly flawlessly in front of the
two glass doors of the entrance. The engine shut off, and the car stood
silent for a moment, almost as if it were contemplating proceeding further.
In truth, however, it was the people inside the vehicle engaged in such the
hesitation. Creed leaned forward and gave the club the once over through
the windshield. He was obviously not impressed with what he saw, but he
couldn't hide the fact that he was somewhat uncomfortable with where his
job had led him.
"Jeez," he said quietly, not really to anyone in particular. "Leave it to Vercetti to purchase and run a place like this one." Creed was one of those kids that got straight A's and won the town's spelling bees. He never really had any ambition to do anything that was considered dirty or off the rule book of life. Thus, he had never been to a strip club, and because of that, he was extremely uneasy. Shy around women who were fully clothed, it was hard to tell what he would do around them when they weren't wearing anything at all.
Ford looked at his partner haphazardly. He was probably the exactly opposite of Creed. They were black white, night and day. Ford had always had a penchant for getting into trouble, and he always needed someone there to bail him out. He had been, in today's standards, a normal teenage boy. He had no problems walking up into the Pole Position now. Creed's reluctance amused him.
"What's wrong with you," he asked. "Are you afraid you'll get distracted in there? Maybe see something you will regret later? Or maybe it's the exact opposite. Maybe you're scared that you'll see something in there that you'll like. Is that it?"
Creed frowned at Ford's teasing smile. "No," he replied defensively. "I was just commenting."
Ford's smile grew wider. He un buckled his seat belt and opened the door. He was halfway out of the car before he spoke again. "Just keep your eyes shut," he said with a laugh. "Don't worry, I won't let you run into to anything."
Creed rolled his eyes. He released his seatbelt and opened his door, grumbling to himself. Slamming the door, he looked up at the building, shielding his eyes against the sun. He shook his head. He was being such a moron. What was he afraid of? Come on, Creed. Just go. Ford was already through the doors, and Creed jogged to catch up with him.
The club was alive. Music blared over a multi-speaker system, the bass making the building tremble. Customers were scattered about the main room of the club, some sitting at tables, so right up against the runways where girls moved up and down, flaunting and almost taunting. Lights strung up on low-hanging electrics flashed with the beat of the music. The entire room was dominated by the strobes, the walls turning blue, red, and the traditional white in turn. All around, people watched scarcely dressed women dance on tabletops and counters. Ford blinked. The lights began to pound through him, giving him the worst kind of headache. He turned around and faced the bar on his right. He waved his arm to get the tender's attention.
"Hey," he shouted over the loud ruckus of the club, "we're looking for the owner of this place. Can you tell us where he is?" Ford shifted his weight so that he was leaning on the edge of the bar slightly sideways. Like a man making a movie, he flashed his identification at the bewildered bartender.
The tender shrugged impassively, and then he leaned forward. "He's not in right now," he said, wiping his hands on a white towel and then slinging it over his shoulder. "but if you boys really need to see him, you can't probably check the office upstairs. Sometimes someone from his crew is up there."
Ford nodded and moved away from the bar. He pushed past Creed, who was standing relatively close to him and walked off toward the back of the club. Creed followed close behind him. It wasn't long before they reached a long, narrow orange-lit hallway with doors on either side. A look inside one of the rooms revealed that they were private booths for "viewing" purposes. Ford shook his head, slightly disgusted and spotted a staircase on his left that led up into nothing but darkness. He immediately went up. The staircase was longer than it looked, and both agents were puffing for air by the time they reached a tall wooden door that stated "Employees Only." They walked in after briefly exchanging glances. The door was unlocked, and Ford realized the abnormality of such a development a little too late. Vercetti would have never left the door unlocked. Think of all the people who could just waltz in a take whatever the hell they wanted!
Nevertheless, the two agents walked into the office, closing the door behind them. Ford looked around, half expecting the office to be desolate, half expecting to be attacked by someone hidden in the shadows. He started when he saw Ken Rosenberg sitting rigidly behind the desk. "Rosenberg," he choked, shocked. His voice cracked with disbelief. The cowardly lawyer was the last person he had expected to see. Mercedes Cortez, sure. Vincent Vercetti, sure, why not? But Kenneth Rosenberg?!
Rosenberg looked at them frankly, obviously trying to conjure up the courage to look like he knew what he was doing. It wasn't working very well. He wiped sweat away from his brow nervously. "Um, we thought you FBI boys would come looking here," he said, his words shaking in fear.
"Damn straight we came here. Now where the hell is Vercetti," Ford demanded sternly.
Rosenberg shrugged. "I have absolutely no idea," he answered. "We got separated after our little adventure at Kaufman's, and I got this phone call from him that said to meet you people here at this time. Tommy knows exactly what you guys are doing here. He knows your every move. You can't out smart a fox." He paused. "But he didn't tell me where he was. So I don't know."
Ford leaned over the desk abruptly and caught Rosenberg by the collar of his suit jacket. "Yes you do," he accused. "You know exactly where he is, and you're going to tell me or else ---"
"Or else what," Rosenberg exclaimed. "Or else you'll bust me and I'll go to jail of eight million years? Or else you'll rip my throat out and leave me lying here on the floor while you walk off back downstairs like nothing ever happened? Come on! I told you, I don't know! I swear it!"
"You had better speak up Mister Rosenberg," Creed said nonchalantly, gazing out the window of the office, trying to pretend that he didn't see them at all. "My partner has a short fuse. I can't guarantee that I can stop him from putting you in a body bag."
"Hey! Y-you can't threaten me like that," Rosenberg told him fiercely.
"Who says," Ford asked, still not releasing the terrified lawyer's jacket. "As long as we doing go too far and actually kill you, we're well within our rights. We can, however, force you to tell us what you know by taking you down the local police station under the suspicion of harboring and/or aiding a wanted criminal. If you haven't noticed yet, you're sort of impeding our investigation. So talk."
"P-put me d-down," Rosenberg pleaded, stammering out of sheer alarm.
"Not until you tell me where Vercetti is."
"D-downstairs! He's downstairs, second room on the r-right!"
Ford finally let go, and Rosenberg slumped back into his chair, straightening his glasses. "Thank you," the agent said politely. The lawyer looked up at him in disbelief.
"Sure, sure. No problem," he said. "I hope Tommy kicks your ass," he added under his breath.
Creed led the way of the office. "That guy is going to need some new pants, I think," he said as Ford closed the office door behind him. That had gone over well. Sort of. At least they knew now that Vercetti was somewhere in the building. All they had to do now was get him cornered so that they could make the arrest. Easier said than done. Vincent and the others were probably with him, which outnumbered the agents considerably. Well, no bother. The arrest would be made, as difficult as it would be to pull off.
Both agents drew their guns from their belt holsters and crept down the stairs. Once they neared the room that Rosenberg had indicated, they spun around and pressed their backs against the outer wall, out of sight. There was no telling what was waiting for them in that room. Vercetti could have set up an entire arsenal, guns pointed right at the doorframe. Today was not a good day to die, Creed decided. He took a deep breath. On Ford's hasty signal, they sprang out in front of the door, guns poised, and eyes surveying the area for any immediate danger.
There was nothing in the room. Creed and Ford both relaxed, but they kept their guns up, just in case. The room remained motionless as their eyes perused it, until they ran across a single dancer, her body swaying gently with the beat of the music, her back towards them.
"That is not Vercetti," Creed commented, blinking slowly.
"Really now," Ford said flatly. "Thank you so much for pointing that out. I would have never known that that woman there is not Thomas Vercetti if you not so graciously told me." The sarcasm was heavy. Ford advanced into the room, his gun outstretched before him. "Tell me where he is."
"Who," the dancer wanted to know. "I would appreciate it if you would stop pointing that thing at me."
"Hey Pat," Creed said. "Is that who I think it is?"
"Yes," Ford replied. "Come now Miss Cortez. Tell me where Vercetti is. This is not the time to play dumb with me. I don't like it when people do that." He circled around here, his gun never leaving face level.
"Which one? Junior or Big Brother?"
"Either, both. Just tell me."
"Well, it really depends on which one you want to see right at this very second of you life," Mercedes responded. She stopped moving and placed a hand on her hip. There was an audible click from somewhere in the room unseen. It took the agents a moment to realize that the sound had come from behind them. Creed froze, too close to the door, and to danger, to make any sudden movements. Vince had racked the slide of his shotgun, a warning to them, telling them that he was there.
"Drop your weapons gentlemen, and when I say weapons, I mean all of them. That includes the ones in your ankle and shoulder holsters. After you've done that little job for me, I want you to pull you pocket inside out and leave them like that so I can see that. I want you do all of this very slowly so I know you aren't going to go Clint Eastwood on me or something, got it?" Mercedes was smirking at them.
Creed's pistol dropped from his hand. He wasn't keen on being shot in the back. Ford wasn't about to give up that easily. He immediately spun around and fired his gun, pulling another, heavier pistol from under his jacket in the same movement. Suddenly, he had two weapons and was firing like man possessed at Vince, who dove for cover around the other side of the doorframe.
Bullets thudded dully into the wood, forcing it to splinter. Creed, taken completely by surprise did the only thing that he could do; he ducked. Shards off the doorframe flew in every direction as Mercedes pressed herself against the wall of avoid them. Ford stopped firing long enough to see Vercetti appear on the other side of the doorframe, next to Vince. He had apparently been somewhere down the hall prior to the gunfire. Outraged and desperate to right Vercetti's wrongs, Ford took a swift step over Creed and moved out into the hall, one gun pointed in either direction. Vercetti looked down the barrel of Ford's gun. "You know," he said. "I am getting really tired of being on this end of a weapon. That's three times in the last two days."
"Get used to it Vercetti," Ford growled. He was about to advance forward when Vercetti tackled him with lightning fast movements, and both men toppled to the floor. Caught by surprise, Ford discharged his second weapon and Vince went down as well. Vercetti wrenched the gun from Ford's grasp as the agent pulled the second gun up to bring down on the back of his neck. The hilt missed and struck Vercetti in the back of the head. Vercetti saw stars for moment, his vision blackening on the edges. He shook his head. He wasn't about to let himself fall unconscious.
He managed to twist himself around to get a hold of the other gun and soon Ford was without his weapons. Ford wasn't about to be left helpless, however. He struggled for a second before managed to bring his first up for a hard punch that caught Vercetti right in the jaw. Vercetti fell back a little, yelping quietly in shock more than pain. That was enough to allow Ford to push himself up and grab the FBI issue hand gun that he originally lost grip on. He landed another punch in Vercetti's face before scrambling to his feet. He aimed the gun at Vercetti, who was sitting on the floor, supporting himself on one elbow while his other hand was up to his nose. Blood gushed through his fingers.
"Jesus," Vercetti muttered.
"Get up," Ford ordered, gesturing with his gun.
"Freeze." There was another click as the hammer of a .45 was pulled back and locked into place. Ford turned his head to see the silvery black barrel of the gun right next to his left eye. He immediately dropped his own weapon. It fell heavily to the floor. "Not a good time to play Dare Devil, FBI man," Maria commented as she continued to level the gun.
Ford showed her that his hands were empty. Damn, this wasn't good. Vercetti picked himself up off the floor, his hand still stopping the blood flow from his nose. Maria guided Ford back into the room and sat him down next to Creed, who was being tied up by Lance. A series of slip knots would keep him from finding his way to freedom. Handcuffs secured his arms behind his back, and someone had stuffed a gag in his mouth. Lance made sure he could breathe before tying a cloth around his mouth to keep him from expelling the gag.
Ford sat down hard next to his partner and was tied up in much the same manner. Vercetti picked up both the government issue Sig Sauer and the Colt Python from where they had fallen. He entered the room and stood in front of Creed in Ford, examining them in silence for a long moment. He hefted the Python in his hand. "Nice gun, FBI man," he said at last. "I don't remember law enforcement ever issuing these things to agents, so it must be your own little toy, right? Buy it in the Ammunation in Downtown Vice? What's in there, five thousand? That's heavy."
"You son of a bitch," Ford spat venomously.
"Temper, temper FBI man. Don't give yourself an aneurysm. You've got this funny little vein bulging thing going on in your forehead. It looks like you might pop. It's kind of scary; you may want to have that checked by a doctor or something," Vercetti replied. He removed his hand from his nose just long enough for a stream of blood to trickle onto his shirt. Shit, Ford had nailed him hard. He put his hand back.
Lance tied the gag around Ford's mouth, much to the FBI agent's disdain. He tried to yell something to them, but his words were too muffled to be understood. Vercetti shot a glance at Vince, who was sitting in the middle of the hall, one hand over his chest. "You okay?"
Vince nodded.
"Ah, the blessings of a Kevlar vest," Maria reflected somewhat wistfully.
"Good. Well fellas," he said, looking back at Creed and Ford. "We're going to leave you here for a little while, out of the way. You understand right?" His voice sounded oddly nasal as he tried to staunch the blood, so he wouldn't likely bleed to death or some such nonsense. "Oh, and my girls don't like the long arm of the law, so you keep your hands to yourselves," he added. It wasn't as if they could break the ties, but Vercetti rather liked the way that sounded. "Let's get out of here."
"What are we going to do now, Tommy? We can't just leave them there. Don't you think someone is bounded to notice," Rosenberg asked nervously as the group exited out the back door of the club. They began to pile back into the van again. Mercedes took her place behind the wheel.
"Don't worry so much, Ken. You know how worked up you can get. I don't want you getting too stressed out of this. You're liable to ruin a perfectly good pair of pants. Remember how you reacted to a door being slammed," Vercetti asked, accepting the handkerchief Lance handed him. "Get in the car."
Rosenberg complied and sat down next to Vince, who scooted pointedly away, as if he really believed that the lawyer was capable ruin his pants. Rosenberg shot him a dirty look as Vercetti climbed into the back and pulled the back doors shut. Vince put his jacket back on. He hadn't wanted to mess it up on the mission, so he had taken it off, but the air conditioning blasting from the vents as Mercedes started the van's engines told him that he would need, if only for the car ride.
"Where to," Mercedes asked as she backed the van onto the road. Good question. Vercetti thought about it. They couldn't go back to Malibu Club now. If the FBI got loose, that would be the next place that they would discover. The last thing he wanted was to be under federal siege. He rubbed at his chin, where two days worth of stubble had started to grow.
"Um, well, Mercedes, do you still have a way to contact your father?"
"Yes."
"All right. Then let's head for the docks in Washington Beach."
**************************
In the assistant director's office on the seventh floor of the FBI headquarters, the telephone rang. And it ran again. And again. Finally, someone scooped it up off its cradle and spoke into it. "Grimm here," the AD said, not even looking up from the report he was reviewing. He made a small noise of disgust before putting the folder down and hastily signing his name at the bottom. His agents really needed to learn how to write. He wandered how someone had gotten this far without knowing how to spell "bureau" correctly. He realized that the phone had not made a noise, like there was no one on the other end. "Hello?"
"Assistant Director Alexander Grimm," a voice stated gravely.
Grimm raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, putting the end of the pen into his mouth and gently tapping against his teeth. "Yes. Who is this?"
"It may interest you to know that your Vice City agents have been bested by the best. You will find them tied and gagged in the Pole Position strip club in Ocean Beach," the voice said. Then there was a click and Grimm received a dial tone. He frowned and gently put the phone back where it belonged. He paused for a second before getting on the intercom that connected him to the outside office.
"Sarah?" "Yes sir," came his secretary's voice.
"Who do we have working down in Vice City, Florida right now?"
"Let me check for you, sir."
Grimm let go of the button and sat back, pondering. He wondered how an anonymous tip caller had managed to bypass all the lower lines and get a direct link to his office. He had thought the FBI wires to be rather secure. Could he have been wrong? He hoped to God that he wasn't, for if he was, he could be dealing with a major crisis in the times to come. He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the phone.
"Sir?" Sarah's voice came back over the intercom. "We currently have two agents working out of Washington in Vice City."
"Who are they?" Grimm leaned forward.
"Special Agents Graydon Creed and Patrick Ford," she answered.
"Get me a special operations team right away, Sarah. I have a feeling we're being set up in some way."
"Right away, sir."
---------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Sorry it wasn't a big action scene, but there's something kind of large over the horizon. Bear with me, and I'll show it to you. I hope you guys like the story thus far. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and if anybody has any questions feel free to ask. I feel I should remind you that my little GTA yarn is not following the game. This is entirely my own. I hope you all will remember that and not flame me later on when things start to go haywire.
-Maverick
"Jeez," he said quietly, not really to anyone in particular. "Leave it to Vercetti to purchase and run a place like this one." Creed was one of those kids that got straight A's and won the town's spelling bees. He never really had any ambition to do anything that was considered dirty or off the rule book of life. Thus, he had never been to a strip club, and because of that, he was extremely uneasy. Shy around women who were fully clothed, it was hard to tell what he would do around them when they weren't wearing anything at all.
Ford looked at his partner haphazardly. He was probably the exactly opposite of Creed. They were black white, night and day. Ford had always had a penchant for getting into trouble, and he always needed someone there to bail him out. He had been, in today's standards, a normal teenage boy. He had no problems walking up into the Pole Position now. Creed's reluctance amused him.
"What's wrong with you," he asked. "Are you afraid you'll get distracted in there? Maybe see something you will regret later? Or maybe it's the exact opposite. Maybe you're scared that you'll see something in there that you'll like. Is that it?"
Creed frowned at Ford's teasing smile. "No," he replied defensively. "I was just commenting."
Ford's smile grew wider. He un buckled his seat belt and opened the door. He was halfway out of the car before he spoke again. "Just keep your eyes shut," he said with a laugh. "Don't worry, I won't let you run into to anything."
Creed rolled his eyes. He released his seatbelt and opened his door, grumbling to himself. Slamming the door, he looked up at the building, shielding his eyes against the sun. He shook his head. He was being such a moron. What was he afraid of? Come on, Creed. Just go. Ford was already through the doors, and Creed jogged to catch up with him.
The club was alive. Music blared over a multi-speaker system, the bass making the building tremble. Customers were scattered about the main room of the club, some sitting at tables, so right up against the runways where girls moved up and down, flaunting and almost taunting. Lights strung up on low-hanging electrics flashed with the beat of the music. The entire room was dominated by the strobes, the walls turning blue, red, and the traditional white in turn. All around, people watched scarcely dressed women dance on tabletops and counters. Ford blinked. The lights began to pound through him, giving him the worst kind of headache. He turned around and faced the bar on his right. He waved his arm to get the tender's attention.
"Hey," he shouted over the loud ruckus of the club, "we're looking for the owner of this place. Can you tell us where he is?" Ford shifted his weight so that he was leaning on the edge of the bar slightly sideways. Like a man making a movie, he flashed his identification at the bewildered bartender.
The tender shrugged impassively, and then he leaned forward. "He's not in right now," he said, wiping his hands on a white towel and then slinging it over his shoulder. "but if you boys really need to see him, you can't probably check the office upstairs. Sometimes someone from his crew is up there."
Ford nodded and moved away from the bar. He pushed past Creed, who was standing relatively close to him and walked off toward the back of the club. Creed followed close behind him. It wasn't long before they reached a long, narrow orange-lit hallway with doors on either side. A look inside one of the rooms revealed that they were private booths for "viewing" purposes. Ford shook his head, slightly disgusted and spotted a staircase on his left that led up into nothing but darkness. He immediately went up. The staircase was longer than it looked, and both agents were puffing for air by the time they reached a tall wooden door that stated "Employees Only." They walked in after briefly exchanging glances. The door was unlocked, and Ford realized the abnormality of such a development a little too late. Vercetti would have never left the door unlocked. Think of all the people who could just waltz in a take whatever the hell they wanted!
Nevertheless, the two agents walked into the office, closing the door behind them. Ford looked around, half expecting the office to be desolate, half expecting to be attacked by someone hidden in the shadows. He started when he saw Ken Rosenberg sitting rigidly behind the desk. "Rosenberg," he choked, shocked. His voice cracked with disbelief. The cowardly lawyer was the last person he had expected to see. Mercedes Cortez, sure. Vincent Vercetti, sure, why not? But Kenneth Rosenberg?!
Rosenberg looked at them frankly, obviously trying to conjure up the courage to look like he knew what he was doing. It wasn't working very well. He wiped sweat away from his brow nervously. "Um, we thought you FBI boys would come looking here," he said, his words shaking in fear.
"Damn straight we came here. Now where the hell is Vercetti," Ford demanded sternly.
Rosenberg shrugged. "I have absolutely no idea," he answered. "We got separated after our little adventure at Kaufman's, and I got this phone call from him that said to meet you people here at this time. Tommy knows exactly what you guys are doing here. He knows your every move. You can't out smart a fox." He paused. "But he didn't tell me where he was. So I don't know."
Ford leaned over the desk abruptly and caught Rosenberg by the collar of his suit jacket. "Yes you do," he accused. "You know exactly where he is, and you're going to tell me or else ---"
"Or else what," Rosenberg exclaimed. "Or else you'll bust me and I'll go to jail of eight million years? Or else you'll rip my throat out and leave me lying here on the floor while you walk off back downstairs like nothing ever happened? Come on! I told you, I don't know! I swear it!"
"You had better speak up Mister Rosenberg," Creed said nonchalantly, gazing out the window of the office, trying to pretend that he didn't see them at all. "My partner has a short fuse. I can't guarantee that I can stop him from putting you in a body bag."
"Hey! Y-you can't threaten me like that," Rosenberg told him fiercely.
"Who says," Ford asked, still not releasing the terrified lawyer's jacket. "As long as we doing go too far and actually kill you, we're well within our rights. We can, however, force you to tell us what you know by taking you down the local police station under the suspicion of harboring and/or aiding a wanted criminal. If you haven't noticed yet, you're sort of impeding our investigation. So talk."
"P-put me d-down," Rosenberg pleaded, stammering out of sheer alarm.
"Not until you tell me where Vercetti is."
"D-downstairs! He's downstairs, second room on the r-right!"
Ford finally let go, and Rosenberg slumped back into his chair, straightening his glasses. "Thank you," the agent said politely. The lawyer looked up at him in disbelief.
"Sure, sure. No problem," he said. "I hope Tommy kicks your ass," he added under his breath.
Creed led the way of the office. "That guy is going to need some new pants, I think," he said as Ford closed the office door behind him. That had gone over well. Sort of. At least they knew now that Vercetti was somewhere in the building. All they had to do now was get him cornered so that they could make the arrest. Easier said than done. Vincent and the others were probably with him, which outnumbered the agents considerably. Well, no bother. The arrest would be made, as difficult as it would be to pull off.
Both agents drew their guns from their belt holsters and crept down the stairs. Once they neared the room that Rosenberg had indicated, they spun around and pressed their backs against the outer wall, out of sight. There was no telling what was waiting for them in that room. Vercetti could have set up an entire arsenal, guns pointed right at the doorframe. Today was not a good day to die, Creed decided. He took a deep breath. On Ford's hasty signal, they sprang out in front of the door, guns poised, and eyes surveying the area for any immediate danger.
There was nothing in the room. Creed and Ford both relaxed, but they kept their guns up, just in case. The room remained motionless as their eyes perused it, until they ran across a single dancer, her body swaying gently with the beat of the music, her back towards them.
"That is not Vercetti," Creed commented, blinking slowly.
"Really now," Ford said flatly. "Thank you so much for pointing that out. I would have never known that that woman there is not Thomas Vercetti if you not so graciously told me." The sarcasm was heavy. Ford advanced into the room, his gun outstretched before him. "Tell me where he is."
"Who," the dancer wanted to know. "I would appreciate it if you would stop pointing that thing at me."
"Hey Pat," Creed said. "Is that who I think it is?"
"Yes," Ford replied. "Come now Miss Cortez. Tell me where Vercetti is. This is not the time to play dumb with me. I don't like it when people do that." He circled around here, his gun never leaving face level.
"Which one? Junior or Big Brother?"
"Either, both. Just tell me."
"Well, it really depends on which one you want to see right at this very second of you life," Mercedes responded. She stopped moving and placed a hand on her hip. There was an audible click from somewhere in the room unseen. It took the agents a moment to realize that the sound had come from behind them. Creed froze, too close to the door, and to danger, to make any sudden movements. Vince had racked the slide of his shotgun, a warning to them, telling them that he was there.
"Drop your weapons gentlemen, and when I say weapons, I mean all of them. That includes the ones in your ankle and shoulder holsters. After you've done that little job for me, I want you to pull you pocket inside out and leave them like that so I can see that. I want you do all of this very slowly so I know you aren't going to go Clint Eastwood on me or something, got it?" Mercedes was smirking at them.
Creed's pistol dropped from his hand. He wasn't keen on being shot in the back. Ford wasn't about to give up that easily. He immediately spun around and fired his gun, pulling another, heavier pistol from under his jacket in the same movement. Suddenly, he had two weapons and was firing like man possessed at Vince, who dove for cover around the other side of the doorframe.
Bullets thudded dully into the wood, forcing it to splinter. Creed, taken completely by surprise did the only thing that he could do; he ducked. Shards off the doorframe flew in every direction as Mercedes pressed herself against the wall of avoid them. Ford stopped firing long enough to see Vercetti appear on the other side of the doorframe, next to Vince. He had apparently been somewhere down the hall prior to the gunfire. Outraged and desperate to right Vercetti's wrongs, Ford took a swift step over Creed and moved out into the hall, one gun pointed in either direction. Vercetti looked down the barrel of Ford's gun. "You know," he said. "I am getting really tired of being on this end of a weapon. That's three times in the last two days."
"Get used to it Vercetti," Ford growled. He was about to advance forward when Vercetti tackled him with lightning fast movements, and both men toppled to the floor. Caught by surprise, Ford discharged his second weapon and Vince went down as well. Vercetti wrenched the gun from Ford's grasp as the agent pulled the second gun up to bring down on the back of his neck. The hilt missed and struck Vercetti in the back of the head. Vercetti saw stars for moment, his vision blackening on the edges. He shook his head. He wasn't about to let himself fall unconscious.
He managed to twist himself around to get a hold of the other gun and soon Ford was without his weapons. Ford wasn't about to be left helpless, however. He struggled for a second before managed to bring his first up for a hard punch that caught Vercetti right in the jaw. Vercetti fell back a little, yelping quietly in shock more than pain. That was enough to allow Ford to push himself up and grab the FBI issue hand gun that he originally lost grip on. He landed another punch in Vercetti's face before scrambling to his feet. He aimed the gun at Vercetti, who was sitting on the floor, supporting himself on one elbow while his other hand was up to his nose. Blood gushed through his fingers.
"Jesus," Vercetti muttered.
"Get up," Ford ordered, gesturing with his gun.
"Freeze." There was another click as the hammer of a .45 was pulled back and locked into place. Ford turned his head to see the silvery black barrel of the gun right next to his left eye. He immediately dropped his own weapon. It fell heavily to the floor. "Not a good time to play Dare Devil, FBI man," Maria commented as she continued to level the gun.
Ford showed her that his hands were empty. Damn, this wasn't good. Vercetti picked himself up off the floor, his hand still stopping the blood flow from his nose. Maria guided Ford back into the room and sat him down next to Creed, who was being tied up by Lance. A series of slip knots would keep him from finding his way to freedom. Handcuffs secured his arms behind his back, and someone had stuffed a gag in his mouth. Lance made sure he could breathe before tying a cloth around his mouth to keep him from expelling the gag.
Ford sat down hard next to his partner and was tied up in much the same manner. Vercetti picked up both the government issue Sig Sauer and the Colt Python from where they had fallen. He entered the room and stood in front of Creed in Ford, examining them in silence for a long moment. He hefted the Python in his hand. "Nice gun, FBI man," he said at last. "I don't remember law enforcement ever issuing these things to agents, so it must be your own little toy, right? Buy it in the Ammunation in Downtown Vice? What's in there, five thousand? That's heavy."
"You son of a bitch," Ford spat venomously.
"Temper, temper FBI man. Don't give yourself an aneurysm. You've got this funny little vein bulging thing going on in your forehead. It looks like you might pop. It's kind of scary; you may want to have that checked by a doctor or something," Vercetti replied. He removed his hand from his nose just long enough for a stream of blood to trickle onto his shirt. Shit, Ford had nailed him hard. He put his hand back.
Lance tied the gag around Ford's mouth, much to the FBI agent's disdain. He tried to yell something to them, but his words were too muffled to be understood. Vercetti shot a glance at Vince, who was sitting in the middle of the hall, one hand over his chest. "You okay?"
Vince nodded.
"Ah, the blessings of a Kevlar vest," Maria reflected somewhat wistfully.
"Good. Well fellas," he said, looking back at Creed and Ford. "We're going to leave you here for a little while, out of the way. You understand right?" His voice sounded oddly nasal as he tried to staunch the blood, so he wouldn't likely bleed to death or some such nonsense. "Oh, and my girls don't like the long arm of the law, so you keep your hands to yourselves," he added. It wasn't as if they could break the ties, but Vercetti rather liked the way that sounded. "Let's get out of here."
"What are we going to do now, Tommy? We can't just leave them there. Don't you think someone is bounded to notice," Rosenberg asked nervously as the group exited out the back door of the club. They began to pile back into the van again. Mercedes took her place behind the wheel.
"Don't worry so much, Ken. You know how worked up you can get. I don't want you getting too stressed out of this. You're liable to ruin a perfectly good pair of pants. Remember how you reacted to a door being slammed," Vercetti asked, accepting the handkerchief Lance handed him. "Get in the car."
Rosenberg complied and sat down next to Vince, who scooted pointedly away, as if he really believed that the lawyer was capable ruin his pants. Rosenberg shot him a dirty look as Vercetti climbed into the back and pulled the back doors shut. Vince put his jacket back on. He hadn't wanted to mess it up on the mission, so he had taken it off, but the air conditioning blasting from the vents as Mercedes started the van's engines told him that he would need, if only for the car ride.
"Where to," Mercedes asked as she backed the van onto the road. Good question. Vercetti thought about it. They couldn't go back to Malibu Club now. If the FBI got loose, that would be the next place that they would discover. The last thing he wanted was to be under federal siege. He rubbed at his chin, where two days worth of stubble had started to grow.
"Um, well, Mercedes, do you still have a way to contact your father?"
"Yes."
"All right. Then let's head for the docks in Washington Beach."
**************************
In the assistant director's office on the seventh floor of the FBI headquarters, the telephone rang. And it ran again. And again. Finally, someone scooped it up off its cradle and spoke into it. "Grimm here," the AD said, not even looking up from the report he was reviewing. He made a small noise of disgust before putting the folder down and hastily signing his name at the bottom. His agents really needed to learn how to write. He wandered how someone had gotten this far without knowing how to spell "bureau" correctly. He realized that the phone had not made a noise, like there was no one on the other end. "Hello?"
"Assistant Director Alexander Grimm," a voice stated gravely.
Grimm raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, putting the end of the pen into his mouth and gently tapping against his teeth. "Yes. Who is this?"
"It may interest you to know that your Vice City agents have been bested by the best. You will find them tied and gagged in the Pole Position strip club in Ocean Beach," the voice said. Then there was a click and Grimm received a dial tone. He frowned and gently put the phone back where it belonged. He paused for a second before getting on the intercom that connected him to the outside office.
"Sarah?" "Yes sir," came his secretary's voice.
"Who do we have working down in Vice City, Florida right now?"
"Let me check for you, sir."
Grimm let go of the button and sat back, pondering. He wondered how an anonymous tip caller had managed to bypass all the lower lines and get a direct link to his office. He had thought the FBI wires to be rather secure. Could he have been wrong? He hoped to God that he wasn't, for if he was, he could be dealing with a major crisis in the times to come. He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the phone.
"Sir?" Sarah's voice came back over the intercom. "We currently have two agents working out of Washington in Vice City."
"Who are they?" Grimm leaned forward.
"Special Agents Graydon Creed and Patrick Ford," she answered.
"Get me a special operations team right away, Sarah. I have a feeling we're being set up in some way."
"Right away, sir."
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A/N: Sorry it wasn't a big action scene, but there's something kind of large over the horizon. Bear with me, and I'll show it to you. I hope you guys like the story thus far. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and if anybody has any questions feel free to ask. I feel I should remind you that my little GTA yarn is not following the game. This is entirely my own. I hope you all will remember that and not flame me later on when things start to go haywire.
-Maverick