About the time Vercetti was running about the yacht trying to locate
Colonel Cortez, Vince was waking up in an unfamiliar, yet all too familiar
place. He was in a room made of three cement walls, which pressed in
menacingly like looming shrouds of the Black Death. Directly in front of
him rested the forth wall, which unlike it's compatriots, was shedding
light on his rather bleak situation. That one wall was fortified by the
hard steel bars of a state holding cell, Vincent knew, without a doubt. The
bars were separated into two sets positioned vertically within their
respective square frames. While the bar set on the right was situated on a
track to allow it to roll and act like a door, the one of the right
remained stationary.
Vince understood where he was and what was happening, and he didn't like it. Momentarily panicked, not knowing how he managed to land himself here again, he bolted upright, his eyes shifting around the despicable place wildly. He was sitting on a standard prison cot, which was little more than a paper-thin mattress splayed on a two inch thick piece of iron. It hung horizontally (for the most part) with one side against the wall at a slightly crooked angle, suspended by a pair of rusting, and quickly deteriorating, chains like a lopsided drawbridge. Somewhere in the cell water dripped incessantly, and the dim lighting made the close walls and blackening metal doors look all the more daunting. Vince ran a weary hand through his dark hair as the night's event came flooding back to him. He remembered why he was here now, so he relaxed, glancing at the floor. He wasn't worried because he figured the Feds would simply send him back to New York and try to lock him up there. He was a wanted criminal there more than he was down in this godforsaken city. They could attempt it until they were blue in the face, but Vincent Vercetti was not one to keep his wrists in the cuffs. Everyone remembers how well his last trip on a prison convoy went, and it wasn't pretty.
His hair and clothes were still damp, and he shivered, not because it was cold, but because he was wet. He squeaked his shoe against the floor and was about test the limits of his consciousness by standing up and moving to the bars to see what was stirring, but a voice stopped him.
"It's about time, you know. I was beginning to think you were dead, and that they were just keeping you here to look at you and whisper to each other about their grand catch, like you were some sort of trophy."
Vince forgot about getting up and jumped in surprise instead. What the hell? Who was in the cell with him? Did they usually throw more than one person in a joint like this? He figured there were other cells, and he was the one to get shoved in with a stranger? One thing Vincent could not stand was a stranger. He scoffed. The damn police probably knew it and planned it that way. They put him in here when he didn't have the chance to complain, not that he would have. He narrowed his eyes, his hand going to the small of his back where he usually kept a small pistol tucked into his waistband, but of course it wasn't there anymore.
A soft laugh wafted to his ears through the darkness, and somehow he was comforted. "Jumpy little bastard aren't you there, Vince. Relax, it's just me."
Vince frowned. He recognized the voice as belonging to Mercedes, and he wondered why he hadn't thought it was indeed her when he first heard her speak. Another thing worried him, and it was a strange feeling. He hoped she was all right, and that she hadn't been harmed. It was a confusing sensation because he wasn't at all used to feeling sorry for himself, let alone anyone else. It was what allowed him to kill without ever looking back.
He blinked at her through the dim light, trying to make out her features. She was sitting across the small radius of the cell on the opposite cot wrapped in a gray, woolen blanket. Vince shook his head; she was definitely a sorry sight. Mascara dripped down her cheeks, her hair was completely disheveled, and she almost glowed through the paleness of her face. He ran a hand through his own hair and squinted at her pallid and almost scared looking expression, and he nearly felt sorry for her. He looked down at his feet.
Mercedes sniffled, rubbing a slender finger along the underside of her nose. "You know, we've really landed ourselves quite a bit of trouble. I never imagined it would ever come to this, at least not with Tommy around. My only hope is that he can get the hell out of here. The last thing he needs is to be caught."
Vince jumped up, nearly toppling over in the process, shaking his head violently. Mercedes immediately stopped speaking, knowing that she had said something terribly wrong. Vince clenched his hand into tight fist. He gestured to himself and then at the wall to the right, on the opposite side of the bars. Still, while displaying such a frantic emotion, he made no sound, and Mercedes didn't get it for a moment. Then it hit her.
"You don't want him to leave you here, do you?"
Vince stopping shaking his head and looked at her, his expression half worried and half melancholy. His shoulders jumped in a small shrug, and he glanced at the wall again. He wondered, in all actuality, if his brother would ever bother coming back for him, and if not for him, then for Mercedes. It was a puzzle to Tommy's heart, and Vince couldn't help but wonder if Mercedes had managed to solve it. He doubted it. There was the sound of jingling keys and a latch being lifted, and both prisoners looked toward the barred wall as Lance Vance was thrown roughly into the diminutive quarter. The man skipped a few steps, trying to find the balance to remain standing, failed, and fell, skidding across the floor a short distance. Almost immediately, he was up and yelling. Vince watched him frantically brush himself off, attempting to rid his white soirée of jail room grime. He was unsuccessful, but in the in end of the motion, he seemed satisfied.
"Hey," Lance cried indignantly, "watch the suit, man! Do you have any idea the stack of cash this thing cost me? Boy, I swear this piece of sharp outer wear is worth more than you, of ten of you! Ya miserable little twerp!" He checked himself over once again, twisting around to inspect his shirttails. He appeared placated by what he saw, even though there was a large smear of dust across his shoulder blades.
Mercedes took time to wonder what would happen to a poor old sap who had terrible allergies in a place like this. The on-duty prison warden didn't exactly in tuned with the whole idea of housekeeping. She supposed it didn't really matter. She watched Vince sit down and lean back against the wall. He seemed particularly antsy, and she wondered why. Her attention shifted back to Lance.
The guard that had deposited Lance into the cell slammed the sliding door shut, grumbling something under his breath about good-for-nothings. "Watch it, asshole," he muttered. Lance pretended not to hear him. Instead, he took in his surroundings, placing one hand on his hip. He shook he head at the poor conditions, and his wandering eyes finally fell upon his cellmates.
"Ah, they got you here too? It sucks, doesn't it?"
Vince stared at him, his dark eyes searching the man's face for something he was sure wasn't there. Something about Lance and this whole stupid mess just didn't sit right, didn't add up. After a moment of Vince's intense glare, Lance decided to talk to Mercedes instead. She was much better company anyway. He turned to her only to discover that she too was looking at him rather suspiciously.
"Lance, where were you during the whole fight on my father yacht? I don't think I saw you once during the whole scuffle. You're not one to tuck tail and run, so where were you hiding?" Mercedes simply gave voice to Vince's thoughts, and he leaned forward expectantly, waiting for the answer. He somehow doubted that Lance would concoct a very good excuse in the three seconds he had to do so before Vince was prepared to beat the truth out of him.
"I was below decks," Lance answered smoothly. It sounded rehearsed, and Vince wasn't buying it. Lance continued anyway, oblivious to Vince's skeptical look. "The law guys were everywhere on the boat. You people were all up top, so I figured it was better to guard a scarcely taken care of area rather than do so in one so heavy laden with you guys and all your guns."
Vince narrowed his eyes, giving him a very odd look. Lance frowned at him, moving to standing closer to the back wall of the cell, wondering if the younger Vercetti was going to go for his throat. He wouldn't put it past him. However, the worst failed to happen, and all attention shifted to the arrival of Special Agents Graydon Creed and Patrick Ford as they approached the cell and stood in a nearly identical stance just out of range of someone reaching through the bars.
Ford folded his arms across his chest, looking at the three criminals with a critical eye. Damn it felt good to see these people locked up and on display. "So, here you are. The great Vincent Vercetti. The man who escaped from prison and single-handedly sent Liberty City, New York to Hell." He paused and waited for a response of any kind, basking in the glow of his victory. Vince didn't say anything. He simply looked at his shoes, so Ford went on. "Just so you know, because you found it to be a good idea to turn your back on us back at Kaufman Cabs, your record will remain as it stands. You'll be tried on every offense you've manage to carry out up there. Not only that, but Liberty City will finally know your name. You're being transferred the day after tomorrow, because frankly, I don't want to deal with you. Good luck, kid. You're going away from a very long time." Vince looked at him, his face expressionless. Hasty observation might erroneously confirm that he hadn't even heard a word the agent had said, but truth was, Vince heard everything, saw everything. He was always alert, never liking to let anything slip past him. His concentrated gaze transferred to Lance, who was still standing in the shadow of the back wall. Lance shifted his weight, betraying his nervousness. Vince had that way about him, his dark eyes seeming perpetually hard with anger. It was as if the very fires of Hell burned somewhere deep within them. Given his way of life, it was a likely concept.
Creed cleared his throat, rocking back onto his heels and clasping his hands behind his back, relatively confident that he wasn't going to topple over in any direction. "I take it you don't have anything to say for yourselves," he said slowly. He looked at Mercedes first, and the at Vince, who didn't acknowledge him. Somehow, that was the response he had expected. Everyone remained silent. "Guess not." His eyes moved over to Lance. "What about you Mister Vance? Let's go. We'll talk."
Lance began to walk forward, gathering his self-composure up. The guard who had tossed him into the cell in the first place returned, sorting through a massive key ring. He was obviously unhappy with the idea of letting Lance out. He would have rather watched him rot behind bars. Vince stood in Lance's path, stopping the progress forward.
"Get out of the way, man. I've got places I need to be," Lance said easily, slipping past Vince and shooting a glance at Mercedes, who looked back at him rather distastefully, but her eyes were full of hurt, for Lance had once been a trusted friend of hers. As much as she hated him right now, she dreaded what Tommy would do to him when he found out what happened.
The cell door came open and Lance darted out, prompting the guard to quickly slam it shut again, for Vercetti was hot on his heels. His slammed against the bars, his face still unreadable, but his eyes dangerous. He back away from the wall, his eyes following Lance as Creed led him away.
"Temper, temper Mister Vercetti," Ford murmured as he followed, but even as he said it, he stepped closer to the wall, putting as much distance between him and the cell as possible. Vince was not a good man to be around when he was angry. Not in any case.
Lance glanced over his shoulder. "How's your witness protection program? You do have one, right?"
**********************************
Even as Lance spilled the beans about Vercetti's organization, Vercetti himself smelled a rat. He, accompanied by Rosenberg and Maria, was purposefully striding along the boardwalk on Ocean Beach. Vercetti had apologized profusely to Cortez for the trouble and the damage, and he managed to convince the colonel that all would be set straight. Vercetti had left still saying he was sorry for such an inconvenience, and while Cortez had heartily laughed it off, Vercetti still knew that the yachtsman's number one concern was his daughter. He wanted her back safely, and Vercetti was not in the mood to fail him.
The yacht returned the trio to the pier and Cortez has said his farewell and wished good luck all around. There were many repairs to be made on the boat, and he was anxious to get them done before he found himself learning how to breathe underwater. He reminded Vercetti of his cell phone number and other contacts so that Vercetti could call when Mercedes was out of imprisonment. Vercetti promised the call would come. With that, the plan was set in his mind, and there the three of them strolled down the sand, next to the boardwalk, but strangely not on it.
Vercetti was a considerably foul mood as he stumbled along in the sand. Rosenberg came to the conclusion that it would be a bad idea to complain about the sand in his shoes, or to ask any kind of inquiry. Vercetti was clearly not in the mood. He trudged along, slightly behind the leader of the pack, hand in the pockets of his pants, watching his feet. Maria moved along side of him, her eyes focused out across the blue waters of the ocean which lapped at the sand feebly, as the tide had no risen yet. She was silent for a long moment before the inclination to speak up overwhelmed her.
"I'm worried," she stated softly. "Vince was never good in closed up spaces."
"I'm sure he'll be fine," Vercetti answered gruffly.
"Tommy," Rosenberg began slowly, "If you don't mind me asking, where are we going, and what are we going to do now?" Vercetti remained quiet, and for a short period of time, Rosenberg wasn't even sure he had even heard the question. It was true that Vercetti was lost in his own world of thought, debating his different options and writing a list of pros and cons, but he wasn't so tied up mentally that he was going to leave the lawyer hanging there waiting for an answer.
"I'll tell you what we're going to do now," he said suddenly, stopping in mid-stride and turning on both Rosenberg and Maria so unexpectedly that they nearly ran right into him. Vercetti shook his head. "We're going to exterminate some vermin. Someone has been ratting out or locations. There ain't no way the cops could have known we were on that boat. We've got a leak, and I think I know who it is." Vercetti, now facing his two companions, gestured furiously with one hand as he spoke, clearly worked up.
"Who is it," Maria inquired carefully.
"You'll see when we get there. That is, of course if all this goes according to plan. I don't see any reason why it shouldn't though. I have most things in place in my head. All we have to do it get started," Vercetti answered, turning around again and resuming his quick pace.
"Where are we going?" Rosenberg risked speaking again.
"Vice Port."
"Why?"
"Because there we'll find the equipment we need to initiate a jail break." Vercetti said it so casually that Rosenberg nearly passed it up as normal conversation material. Then he shook his head and came to his senses.
"What? Hey, Tommy, what?"
Vercetti turned around again, but this time, Maria and Rosenberg managed to stop in time to do so without stumbling. "Listen to me," Vercetti said seriously, "this is very simple. We're going to get my brother and Mercedes out of the joint, and then we're going to find our rat and kill him."
Both his compatriots started at him for a moment as if they didn't understand the language he was speaking. It wasn't until Vercetti spun around again and continued on his way that they broke out of their silent trance. Maria furrowed her brow.
"Oh. Makes sense to me," she said.
"Perfect sense," Rosenberg agreed with a nod.
The followed Vercetti out of the basin of sand and onto the concrete path at the far end of the beach. Vercetti leaned against on the pillars that supported the long chains bordering the boardwalk and systematically emptied his shoes of sand. Rosenberg and Maria exchanged glances and did the same. Once that was finished, Vercetti led them into an alley where a convertible sat, having been left by some beachgoer who was certain the car was secure. Vercetti hopped over the driver's side door and pulled out the wiring panel. He hotwired the car and unlocked the doors as the engine roared to life. Vercetti gestured for the other members of his group to join him in the car. They did. It was a car meant only for two people: a driver and a passenger, so it was a tight fit. Maria had to squeeze between a very irritated Vercetti and a Rosenberg who was jabbering endlessly about the benefits of a quick hotwiring job. Vercetti pulled the car out onto the street, swinging the steering wheel around for a wide left turn, successfully hitting Maria in the face with his elbow. He came to the conclusion that the car was way too crowded. Yet, he didn't feel like finding a new one, so he promptly apologized and kept driving.
"We're going to see a friend of Vince's," he said. "You may know him, Maria. He goes by the name of 8-Ball. He's supposed to be the best bomb technician out there these days. I hear he's holed up somewhere in Vice Port."
"Yeah," Maria replied. "8-Ball moved down here after the Yakuza empire fell back up in Liberty."
"But Vice Port is a huge region, so I'm going to need help finding him," Vercetti continued as if he had never been interrupted. He jerked to the right to avoid a head on collision with a city bus. "Not to worry though. There are plenty of resources in this town. I know someone who just might know where a guy like 8-Ball decided to hole up."
"Who," Rosenberg wanted to know.
"You remember Avery, don't you?"
"Oh, so we--"
"Bingo."
***********************************
A/N: Hi everyone! So sorry for the late update. I've been up to my eyeballs in stuff to do. This chapter's kind of boring and I am so sorry for that. I'll make up for it later. You have my word. Once again, I urge you to review this so I can know how much I suck and all. I'll be happy to return the favor on any of your work. Oh, and by the way, if anyone out there is a fan of my character Vincent, check out my other story "Getting to Know the Reaper" and review there. Anyway, thanks!!
Vince understood where he was and what was happening, and he didn't like it. Momentarily panicked, not knowing how he managed to land himself here again, he bolted upright, his eyes shifting around the despicable place wildly. He was sitting on a standard prison cot, which was little more than a paper-thin mattress splayed on a two inch thick piece of iron. It hung horizontally (for the most part) with one side against the wall at a slightly crooked angle, suspended by a pair of rusting, and quickly deteriorating, chains like a lopsided drawbridge. Somewhere in the cell water dripped incessantly, and the dim lighting made the close walls and blackening metal doors look all the more daunting. Vince ran a weary hand through his dark hair as the night's event came flooding back to him. He remembered why he was here now, so he relaxed, glancing at the floor. He wasn't worried because he figured the Feds would simply send him back to New York and try to lock him up there. He was a wanted criminal there more than he was down in this godforsaken city. They could attempt it until they were blue in the face, but Vincent Vercetti was not one to keep his wrists in the cuffs. Everyone remembers how well his last trip on a prison convoy went, and it wasn't pretty.
His hair and clothes were still damp, and he shivered, not because it was cold, but because he was wet. He squeaked his shoe against the floor and was about test the limits of his consciousness by standing up and moving to the bars to see what was stirring, but a voice stopped him.
"It's about time, you know. I was beginning to think you were dead, and that they were just keeping you here to look at you and whisper to each other about their grand catch, like you were some sort of trophy."
Vince forgot about getting up and jumped in surprise instead. What the hell? Who was in the cell with him? Did they usually throw more than one person in a joint like this? He figured there were other cells, and he was the one to get shoved in with a stranger? One thing Vincent could not stand was a stranger. He scoffed. The damn police probably knew it and planned it that way. They put him in here when he didn't have the chance to complain, not that he would have. He narrowed his eyes, his hand going to the small of his back where he usually kept a small pistol tucked into his waistband, but of course it wasn't there anymore.
A soft laugh wafted to his ears through the darkness, and somehow he was comforted. "Jumpy little bastard aren't you there, Vince. Relax, it's just me."
Vince frowned. He recognized the voice as belonging to Mercedes, and he wondered why he hadn't thought it was indeed her when he first heard her speak. Another thing worried him, and it was a strange feeling. He hoped she was all right, and that she hadn't been harmed. It was a confusing sensation because he wasn't at all used to feeling sorry for himself, let alone anyone else. It was what allowed him to kill without ever looking back.
He blinked at her through the dim light, trying to make out her features. She was sitting across the small radius of the cell on the opposite cot wrapped in a gray, woolen blanket. Vince shook his head; she was definitely a sorry sight. Mascara dripped down her cheeks, her hair was completely disheveled, and she almost glowed through the paleness of her face. He ran a hand through his own hair and squinted at her pallid and almost scared looking expression, and he nearly felt sorry for her. He looked down at his feet.
Mercedes sniffled, rubbing a slender finger along the underside of her nose. "You know, we've really landed ourselves quite a bit of trouble. I never imagined it would ever come to this, at least not with Tommy around. My only hope is that he can get the hell out of here. The last thing he needs is to be caught."
Vince jumped up, nearly toppling over in the process, shaking his head violently. Mercedes immediately stopped speaking, knowing that she had said something terribly wrong. Vince clenched his hand into tight fist. He gestured to himself and then at the wall to the right, on the opposite side of the bars. Still, while displaying such a frantic emotion, he made no sound, and Mercedes didn't get it for a moment. Then it hit her.
"You don't want him to leave you here, do you?"
Vince stopping shaking his head and looked at her, his expression half worried and half melancholy. His shoulders jumped in a small shrug, and he glanced at the wall again. He wondered, in all actuality, if his brother would ever bother coming back for him, and if not for him, then for Mercedes. It was a puzzle to Tommy's heart, and Vince couldn't help but wonder if Mercedes had managed to solve it. He doubted it. There was the sound of jingling keys and a latch being lifted, and both prisoners looked toward the barred wall as Lance Vance was thrown roughly into the diminutive quarter. The man skipped a few steps, trying to find the balance to remain standing, failed, and fell, skidding across the floor a short distance. Almost immediately, he was up and yelling. Vince watched him frantically brush himself off, attempting to rid his white soirée of jail room grime. He was unsuccessful, but in the in end of the motion, he seemed satisfied.
"Hey," Lance cried indignantly, "watch the suit, man! Do you have any idea the stack of cash this thing cost me? Boy, I swear this piece of sharp outer wear is worth more than you, of ten of you! Ya miserable little twerp!" He checked himself over once again, twisting around to inspect his shirttails. He appeared placated by what he saw, even though there was a large smear of dust across his shoulder blades.
Mercedes took time to wonder what would happen to a poor old sap who had terrible allergies in a place like this. The on-duty prison warden didn't exactly in tuned with the whole idea of housekeeping. She supposed it didn't really matter. She watched Vince sit down and lean back against the wall. He seemed particularly antsy, and she wondered why. Her attention shifted back to Lance.
The guard that had deposited Lance into the cell slammed the sliding door shut, grumbling something under his breath about good-for-nothings. "Watch it, asshole," he muttered. Lance pretended not to hear him. Instead, he took in his surroundings, placing one hand on his hip. He shook he head at the poor conditions, and his wandering eyes finally fell upon his cellmates.
"Ah, they got you here too? It sucks, doesn't it?"
Vince stared at him, his dark eyes searching the man's face for something he was sure wasn't there. Something about Lance and this whole stupid mess just didn't sit right, didn't add up. After a moment of Vince's intense glare, Lance decided to talk to Mercedes instead. She was much better company anyway. He turned to her only to discover that she too was looking at him rather suspiciously.
"Lance, where were you during the whole fight on my father yacht? I don't think I saw you once during the whole scuffle. You're not one to tuck tail and run, so where were you hiding?" Mercedes simply gave voice to Vince's thoughts, and he leaned forward expectantly, waiting for the answer. He somehow doubted that Lance would concoct a very good excuse in the three seconds he had to do so before Vince was prepared to beat the truth out of him.
"I was below decks," Lance answered smoothly. It sounded rehearsed, and Vince wasn't buying it. Lance continued anyway, oblivious to Vince's skeptical look. "The law guys were everywhere on the boat. You people were all up top, so I figured it was better to guard a scarcely taken care of area rather than do so in one so heavy laden with you guys and all your guns."
Vince narrowed his eyes, giving him a very odd look. Lance frowned at him, moving to standing closer to the back wall of the cell, wondering if the younger Vercetti was going to go for his throat. He wouldn't put it past him. However, the worst failed to happen, and all attention shifted to the arrival of Special Agents Graydon Creed and Patrick Ford as they approached the cell and stood in a nearly identical stance just out of range of someone reaching through the bars.
Ford folded his arms across his chest, looking at the three criminals with a critical eye. Damn it felt good to see these people locked up and on display. "So, here you are. The great Vincent Vercetti. The man who escaped from prison and single-handedly sent Liberty City, New York to Hell." He paused and waited for a response of any kind, basking in the glow of his victory. Vince didn't say anything. He simply looked at his shoes, so Ford went on. "Just so you know, because you found it to be a good idea to turn your back on us back at Kaufman Cabs, your record will remain as it stands. You'll be tried on every offense you've manage to carry out up there. Not only that, but Liberty City will finally know your name. You're being transferred the day after tomorrow, because frankly, I don't want to deal with you. Good luck, kid. You're going away from a very long time." Vince looked at him, his face expressionless. Hasty observation might erroneously confirm that he hadn't even heard a word the agent had said, but truth was, Vince heard everything, saw everything. He was always alert, never liking to let anything slip past him. His concentrated gaze transferred to Lance, who was still standing in the shadow of the back wall. Lance shifted his weight, betraying his nervousness. Vince had that way about him, his dark eyes seeming perpetually hard with anger. It was as if the very fires of Hell burned somewhere deep within them. Given his way of life, it was a likely concept.
Creed cleared his throat, rocking back onto his heels and clasping his hands behind his back, relatively confident that he wasn't going to topple over in any direction. "I take it you don't have anything to say for yourselves," he said slowly. He looked at Mercedes first, and the at Vince, who didn't acknowledge him. Somehow, that was the response he had expected. Everyone remained silent. "Guess not." His eyes moved over to Lance. "What about you Mister Vance? Let's go. We'll talk."
Lance began to walk forward, gathering his self-composure up. The guard who had tossed him into the cell in the first place returned, sorting through a massive key ring. He was obviously unhappy with the idea of letting Lance out. He would have rather watched him rot behind bars. Vince stood in Lance's path, stopping the progress forward.
"Get out of the way, man. I've got places I need to be," Lance said easily, slipping past Vince and shooting a glance at Mercedes, who looked back at him rather distastefully, but her eyes were full of hurt, for Lance had once been a trusted friend of hers. As much as she hated him right now, she dreaded what Tommy would do to him when he found out what happened.
The cell door came open and Lance darted out, prompting the guard to quickly slam it shut again, for Vercetti was hot on his heels. His slammed against the bars, his face still unreadable, but his eyes dangerous. He back away from the wall, his eyes following Lance as Creed led him away.
"Temper, temper Mister Vercetti," Ford murmured as he followed, but even as he said it, he stepped closer to the wall, putting as much distance between him and the cell as possible. Vince was not a good man to be around when he was angry. Not in any case.
Lance glanced over his shoulder. "How's your witness protection program? You do have one, right?"
**********************************
Even as Lance spilled the beans about Vercetti's organization, Vercetti himself smelled a rat. He, accompanied by Rosenberg and Maria, was purposefully striding along the boardwalk on Ocean Beach. Vercetti had apologized profusely to Cortez for the trouble and the damage, and he managed to convince the colonel that all would be set straight. Vercetti had left still saying he was sorry for such an inconvenience, and while Cortez had heartily laughed it off, Vercetti still knew that the yachtsman's number one concern was his daughter. He wanted her back safely, and Vercetti was not in the mood to fail him.
The yacht returned the trio to the pier and Cortez has said his farewell and wished good luck all around. There were many repairs to be made on the boat, and he was anxious to get them done before he found himself learning how to breathe underwater. He reminded Vercetti of his cell phone number and other contacts so that Vercetti could call when Mercedes was out of imprisonment. Vercetti promised the call would come. With that, the plan was set in his mind, and there the three of them strolled down the sand, next to the boardwalk, but strangely not on it.
Vercetti was a considerably foul mood as he stumbled along in the sand. Rosenberg came to the conclusion that it would be a bad idea to complain about the sand in his shoes, or to ask any kind of inquiry. Vercetti was clearly not in the mood. He trudged along, slightly behind the leader of the pack, hand in the pockets of his pants, watching his feet. Maria moved along side of him, her eyes focused out across the blue waters of the ocean which lapped at the sand feebly, as the tide had no risen yet. She was silent for a long moment before the inclination to speak up overwhelmed her.
"I'm worried," she stated softly. "Vince was never good in closed up spaces."
"I'm sure he'll be fine," Vercetti answered gruffly.
"Tommy," Rosenberg began slowly, "If you don't mind me asking, where are we going, and what are we going to do now?" Vercetti remained quiet, and for a short period of time, Rosenberg wasn't even sure he had even heard the question. It was true that Vercetti was lost in his own world of thought, debating his different options and writing a list of pros and cons, but he wasn't so tied up mentally that he was going to leave the lawyer hanging there waiting for an answer.
"I'll tell you what we're going to do now," he said suddenly, stopping in mid-stride and turning on both Rosenberg and Maria so unexpectedly that they nearly ran right into him. Vercetti shook his head. "We're going to exterminate some vermin. Someone has been ratting out or locations. There ain't no way the cops could have known we were on that boat. We've got a leak, and I think I know who it is." Vercetti, now facing his two companions, gestured furiously with one hand as he spoke, clearly worked up.
"Who is it," Maria inquired carefully.
"You'll see when we get there. That is, of course if all this goes according to plan. I don't see any reason why it shouldn't though. I have most things in place in my head. All we have to do it get started," Vercetti answered, turning around again and resuming his quick pace.
"Where are we going?" Rosenberg risked speaking again.
"Vice Port."
"Why?"
"Because there we'll find the equipment we need to initiate a jail break." Vercetti said it so casually that Rosenberg nearly passed it up as normal conversation material. Then he shook his head and came to his senses.
"What? Hey, Tommy, what?"
Vercetti turned around again, but this time, Maria and Rosenberg managed to stop in time to do so without stumbling. "Listen to me," Vercetti said seriously, "this is very simple. We're going to get my brother and Mercedes out of the joint, and then we're going to find our rat and kill him."
Both his compatriots started at him for a moment as if they didn't understand the language he was speaking. It wasn't until Vercetti spun around again and continued on his way that they broke out of their silent trance. Maria furrowed her brow.
"Oh. Makes sense to me," she said.
"Perfect sense," Rosenberg agreed with a nod.
The followed Vercetti out of the basin of sand and onto the concrete path at the far end of the beach. Vercetti leaned against on the pillars that supported the long chains bordering the boardwalk and systematically emptied his shoes of sand. Rosenberg and Maria exchanged glances and did the same. Once that was finished, Vercetti led them into an alley where a convertible sat, having been left by some beachgoer who was certain the car was secure. Vercetti hopped over the driver's side door and pulled out the wiring panel. He hotwired the car and unlocked the doors as the engine roared to life. Vercetti gestured for the other members of his group to join him in the car. They did. It was a car meant only for two people: a driver and a passenger, so it was a tight fit. Maria had to squeeze between a very irritated Vercetti and a Rosenberg who was jabbering endlessly about the benefits of a quick hotwiring job. Vercetti pulled the car out onto the street, swinging the steering wheel around for a wide left turn, successfully hitting Maria in the face with his elbow. He came to the conclusion that the car was way too crowded. Yet, he didn't feel like finding a new one, so he promptly apologized and kept driving.
"We're going to see a friend of Vince's," he said. "You may know him, Maria. He goes by the name of 8-Ball. He's supposed to be the best bomb technician out there these days. I hear he's holed up somewhere in Vice Port."
"Yeah," Maria replied. "8-Ball moved down here after the Yakuza empire fell back up in Liberty."
"But Vice Port is a huge region, so I'm going to need help finding him," Vercetti continued as if he had never been interrupted. He jerked to the right to avoid a head on collision with a city bus. "Not to worry though. There are plenty of resources in this town. I know someone who just might know where a guy like 8-Ball decided to hole up."
"Who," Rosenberg wanted to know.
"You remember Avery, don't you?"
"Oh, so we--"
"Bingo."
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A/N: Hi everyone! So sorry for the late update. I've been up to my eyeballs in stuff to do. This chapter's kind of boring and I am so sorry for that. I'll make up for it later. You have my word. Once again, I urge you to review this so I can know how much I suck and all. I'll be happy to return the favor on any of your work. Oh, and by the way, if anyone out there is a fan of my character Vincent, check out my other story "Getting to Know the Reaper" and review there. Anyway, thanks!!