Grand Theft Auto: Vengeance
Chapter Three: New City, New Start
It wasn't long after the helicopter took off that Michael, exhausted by the stressful events of the day, fell asleep in the back cabin. Hughes spared at glance at the sleeping Vercetti, furious for the boy's sake. Nineteen, newly orphaned, and probably unable to ever set foot in Vice City, his home, ever again. Hughes vowed to at least make sure the boy''s father's killers would not go unpunished. Despite his Irish blood, Hughes was a great beleiver in the Sicilian ideal that revenge was the only true justice.
Glancing at Michael again to make sure he was asleep, Hughes rotated the helicopter to the left so it now faced west. He piloted onwards, making for San Fierro. The Forelli hitmen had mentioned going there. Idiots. They might not have expected anyone to survive, but they still shouldn't have leaked information like that. It was unprofessional. Hughes would ensure the hitmen died, then travel to nearby San Andreas with Michael, where his some old Army buddies of his who were involved in the criminal underworld would hopefully help them out.
For the next few hours, Hughes flew on, lost in thought. Who did he know in San Fierro? There was an old Chink businessman who might be willing to provide them with some information, if the price was right. Unfortunately, Hughes had no money. Maybe he could offer his services in exchange for the information? Men like Wu Zi Mu always had need for people like Hughes. Then there was that nigger gang, the Grove Street Families, that had taken over most of everything a few years ago. Their mysterious leader, known only as "CJ" to the criminal underworld, might be willing to help. Hughes had heard a rumor about his mother being killed by gang warfare.
Tearing Hughes from his thoughts, the helicopter's radio crackled to life. "VFC-1, VFC-1, this is San Fierro Air Traffic Control. You roger?"
"Roger," Hughes said into the radio. "This is VFC-1. What's my approach vector?"
"You're clear for vector one-seven decimal two-eight. When you land, please stand by for Customs. Have a pleasant stay in San Fierro."
"Roger," Hughes said, and clicked the radio off. Time to wake the boy. "Michael," he called. "Michael, wake up!"
A groan sounded from the back cabin, followed by the sound of shuffling feet, unsteady on the bucking helicopter. "What?" the sleepy-eyed youth asked, his hair mussed from sleep and his clothes wrinkled.
"We're landing and Customs is going to inspect us. In the cabin there should be a pilot's uniform. Put it on. There should be a suitcase in the drawer to your left with an emergency set of fake ID's. As long as we're in San Fierro, you're Jake Calloway, a pilot for Vercetti Freight Company. I'm Greg Leplante, a mid-level exec here to do some business. Got it?"
Michael frowned. "I thought we were going to Liberty City."
"The Forelli hitmen who got your father said they were coming here. We'll take them out first, then head to San Andreas anyway. My Army buddies there will get us squared away. Rumor travels fast, and it might not be a good idea to be in Liberty City when the Forelli find out you're alive."
Michael nodded and went aft to get the requested items. Hughes combed his hair and affected an air of casual arrogance and amiability. The Customs idiots would think him nothing other then the story he fed them.
Time to take her in for landing, Hughes thought. From an expertise honed from years piloted the very same helicopter for Don Vercetti on out-of-town business trips Hughes set the copter down gently, barely bumping the ground at all. He powered down the rotor blades and opened the sliding door to the helicopter, unfolding the steps concealed in the floor so the Customs agents could get up.
"Morning," the Customs agent said to Hughes as he climbed the stairs. Hughes had hardly realized it was late morning, and suddenly felt exhuastion pull at him. He'd been up for more than thirty hours.
"Morning," Hughes replied. Michael, playing the role of pilot perfectly, said nothing. "No offense, but could you hurry this along? I have some important appointments to make."
"Sure," the Customs agent said easily, setting about to his task even slower than usual. Hughes smirked. Typical; he didnt' try to bribe him and so the Customs agent was being a jerk.
Hughes and Michael waited patiently for the Customs agent to finish his search, and after affirming they weren't smuggling anything into the city, they were set loose. Hughes had just enough money on him to provide a cab into the poorest, most rundown area of the city.
"What a dump," Michael observed. He was right. The street before them was nearly deserted. A middle-aged woman, apparently a prostitute, stood on the street corner, looking bored. A crack dealer, instantly recognizable by a long overcoat in the summer heat, paced back and forth in front of a convenience store, muttering to himself. The houses on the street were all unpainted and had their windows boarded up.
As soon as Michael and Hughes got out of the taxi, the driver sped off, having already collected his cash in advance. Hughes didn't like the nervous look in the driver's eyes when they had entered this neighborhood.
"Well, what now," Michael asked. "How do we find the Forelli?"
Hughes thought for a moment. "There's a Chinese gambler I know who operates some ritzy casino here. He won't give us any information for free, but I think he could find use for us if we wanted to hire ourselves out."
"If he operates such a ritzy casino, what are we doing here?" Michael asked, motioning with a hand to indicate their dreary surroundings.
"Because we need some supplies before we find Wu Zi Mu- that's his name- and to get these supplies without money, we'll have to commit a little theft. We're in this section of town because the cops are less likely to be patrolling. They never pay attention to the poor, only the rich. Cops here are way more corrupt than back home; half of them are bigger cocaine dealers than pushers themselves."
"I'm guessing we need some weapons, a car, and maybe a place to stay," Michael asked.
Hughes smiled. "I'll make a small-time crook outta you yet. But no, first we need money. We get enough of that, the rest will fall into place. Who would you rob first?"
Michael thought for a second. "The convenience store? It'd have the most money, right?"
Hughes smiled indulgently at his pupil. "Not a bad idea, except every low life within a mile has probably already tried it, and the clerk would have to be an idiot not to be packing heat- which we aren't. No, first we hit that crackhead over there. Dealers usually are good for a couple hundred bucks and rarely employ thugs. Remember that. Now, watch how it's done."
Michael followed shortly behind Hughes as the older man approached the drug dealer. Hughes didn't even have to say anything, the drug dealer spoke first.
"Hey, boys. . .looking for something special? I got what you need! Follow me, boys, follow me," he cackled, and led them into an alleyway. When they were out of sight, he opened his overcoat, revealing packets of cocaine, crack, pot, and numerous bags of multicolored pills. "What's your poison, boys?" he asked, grinning the broad, mad grin of a junkie.
"Money," Hughes grunted. "I'll take all you've got."
The drug dealer stopped grinning. "Money? Ain't never heard of no drug called money, you sure you got the right-"
He never finished his sentence. Hughes grabbed the weak, frail junkie around the throat and punched him as hard as he could in the face. Hughes had once been an amatuer boxer and was quite proud of his left hook. The dealer dropped. Working quickly, Hughes opened one of the packets of cocaine and rubbed the entire thing into the dealer's gums. Again, Hughes worked quickly and efficiently, relieving the dealer of all of his cash, his watch, and two of the packets of cocaine.
"C'mon, he said to Michael. "This is going to get messy in a second, once the convulsions hit. Between the head wound he got when he hit the ground and the cocaine overdose he just got, this guy ain't gunna be around for too long."
The two took off, walking quickly but not running, their heads down and eyes averted. When they had traveled several blocks, they came across a cheap diner where they carefully counted the money they had. Between what they had in their pockets and the drug dealer's money, they had about three hundred dollars between them. The weapons from the Kaufman Cab back in Vice City had been left with Mitch Baker so they couldn't be traced. As of right now, all they had to their names were the clothes on their backs, the helicopter they came in, and three hundred dollars. They didn't even have a cell phone between them; Michael had left his in the charger on the boat and Hughes had lost his during the fight when Don Vercetti had been killed. They ordered meals and ate in silence, each wondering what they would do.
Suddenly, Hughes' eyes lit up. "Of course!"
"What?" Michael asked, looking up from his lukewarm Salsbury steak. "What is it?"
"Larry Goodwhite!" Hughes whispered excitedly. "A few years before I started work with your father, he and I worked as enforcers for a bookie. The bookie got caught and went to jail and the cops nearly got us, too. Larry came here to work for the bookie's cousin, and eventually worked his way up till he ran the thing himself. Then, a couple years ago, when Wu Zi was expanding his empire, he overtook Larry's operation. He was so impressed with it, he let Larry keep it going, so long as he gave Wu Zi some of the profits. Larry was a good guy, he'll get us the in with Wu Zi."
Michael frowned. "If we have to earn the information from this Wu Zi guy, how are we supposed to get the Forelli? They'll probably be back in Liberty by then, laughing."
Hughes shook his head. "Wu Zi is a smart guy. He knows that if we try to skip town without paying him back, we'll never find work for anyone again, and end up on the ocean floor for trying." Hughes took out his wallet. "I still got his cell number in here somewhere, let's hope he didn't get a new one. . ."
After a moment of searching, Hughes found it, holding it up in triumph. Immediately, he sprang to the pay phone near the restrooms in the diner, dialing excitedly. Michael stayed at the table, working through a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, trying to act like he and Hughes weren't planning anything. Still, the waitress looked at him suspiciously. Michael waited what seemed like forever for Hughes to come back, who sat back down, grinning broadly.
"I got hold of him. He's got a place not far from here, but outside this neighborhood. He said we're not going to get a taxi out here, cab drivers don't go here much; they get robbed and jacked too often. It's too dangerous to walk, too, so we'll have to jack a car."
"That I can do," Michael said. "But I'm guessing all the parked cars are locked in this neighborhood, so we'll have to get a guy at a red light or something."
Hughes nodded. "You're learning, kid. You're learning."
Michael grinned and dropped some money on the table, covering the bill and the tip. The two left the restaurant and sought out the nearest red light. Perfect. An '81 Idaho was idling at a red light, the young man at the wheel distracted by the radio. He didn't look up when Michael approached the car and didn't even notice the young man was there until he opened the door and yanked on the driver's wrist, jerking him out.
"What the fuck," the driver yelled, reaching into his pocket for a switchblade. Christ, thought Michael. Am I the only guy in the city who isn't armed? Dodging the admittedly novice slash form the driver, Michael struck his wrist, sending the switchblade clattering to the ground. From there, Michael slammed his shoulder into the driver, smashing him up against the car, stunning him. While the driver fought to catch his breath, Michael threw him into the ground and hopped in the car. Hughes already sat in the passenger's seat, patiently waiting.
"What took you?" he asked as casually as if Michael was late to a lunch meeting or something.
"He had a knife," Michael explained, speeding off, leaving the driver with a splitting headache and without a car.
Larry hadn't lied, his apartment wasn't far away. Unfortunately, traffic in the city was horrible and it took Michael forty minutes to drive the eight blocks to bookie's place. When they arrived, Michael parked the car at a nearby municipal lot and locked the car with the keys inside. By now, the car's theft would have been reported to the cops and they'd be looking for it. The two walked into the building and found "GOODWHITE" printed on mailbox number 16B, which was on the six floor. Michael and Hughes rode the elavator to the six floor and found Larry's door, knocking on it. Almost at once, it was flung open and they were pulled inside by a nervous-looking, balding man who was apparently Larry.
"Thank God you guys are here," he exclaimed. "I need your help!"
"Nice to see you again too, Larry. How're things?" Hughes said sarcastically.
"I don't have time for that crap, Ian!" Larry screeched. "After you called, a bunch of thugs broke in and stole Wu Zi's weekly payment! If I don't get that back, I'm dead meat, man, you don't understand! Those Chinks are crazy, they'll chop my nuts off and feed them to people in the casino, they'll grind my pecker into-"
"All right, we get the picture," Hughes said, waving him off. "And if he kills you, he sure as hell won't help us, your friends."
"I swear, if you guys help me, I'll get you anything you want- just please, get that money back! I've got a motorcycle I use to make deliveries sometimes, you can use that!"
Michael stood up. "I'll go. You got a gun, Larry?"
"Who's that?"
Hughes stood too. "He's my student. I'm looking to pass on the old skills to him. You can trust him."
Larry swallowed noisly. "All right, but you stay here, Ian. We'll talk about getting you in with Wu Zi. The thugs who got me were Italians, I saw them take off in a black Sentinel. They'll probably head for Angelina's Bistro, over by the bridge. Oh, and you, whatever your name is," Michael turned and caught the gun Larry tossed him. "You're gunna need that."
RRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOAAAAAAAAR!
Michael couldn't help grinning like a kid as the motorcycle- a brand new PCJ- roared with power beneath him. He was good at riding bikes; he used to bomb around Viceport back home, raising hell and scaring the shit out of people when he occasionally used the sidewalks to avoid traffic. It wasn't long before Michael found Angelina's, but he hesitated going in. It was apparently a Mafia hangout. He thought, trying to remember which Family operated in San Fierro. It was a smaller, less-powerful family, he remembered. . .but who was it?
Ah, that's who. The Leones had fled here from Vice City after they were nearly wiped out by some gunman working for the Triads a while back. Now they competed with Wu Zi, the niggers, and the Vietnamese for control of San Fierro. Michael vaguely recollected they were big on prostitution, which nearly always went hand-in-hand with gambling, the biggest criminal enterprise in San Fierro. Seems like they were trying to get in on the gambling now, too.
Michael parked the bike, letting the engine idle as he checked the place out. The waiters were armed; he caught a glimpse at their holsters under their dinner jackets. Not a place he wanted to storm with. . . what had Larry given him, anyway? Ah, nice. A .44 magnum loaded with what appeared to be hollow nosed bullets. A wound from this gun would be a messy one indeed. Still, he had only one clip for it and that clip held only. . .six shots. Damn.
Suddenly, the sound of broken glass reached Michael's ears. A large, burly "waiter" had thrown a man through the window, and yelled for everyone to hear, "The Leones don't want any part in your dirty politics, Barzini! Get out and don't come back!"
Barzini! That had been the name of the man who had planted bombs on the Mercedes! Michael snarled, but stayed his hand. Barzini was running away, followed by three men in suits. He jumped into the passenger seat of a black Sentinel parked nearby, followed quickly by his associates. The car sped off, but not before Michael revved the bike and began following.
It wasn't long before they realized Michael was tailing them. It was lucky he was wearing a helmet; Barzini wouldn't be able to recognize him. Otherwise he might make a call to Liberty and the entire Forelli Family would come down on Michael's head. Instead, Barzini ducked his head out the window and emptied a .357 revolver into the air around Michael's chest. Michael dodged and weaved, allowing none of the bullets to hit him. The two men in the back also turned, firing their weapons- H&K semis, if the distinct sound the gunshots were making was any indicator. Michael withdrew the magnum from his pocket and drove one-handed for a moment, taking careful aim.
CRACK!
The sound of the gunshot echoed loudly through Michae's ears, even through the helmet. The back window of the car shattered and one of the gunmen in the back slumped forward. his head sporting a fist-sized hole in the back. The car swerved wildly as the driver was hit by blood and bits of bone and Michael took the time to take careful aim on his next shot.
CRACK!
The sharp crack permeated Michael's ears again, the gun's kickback making his bike buck beneath him. This time, the driver was hit, and the car swerved out of his control, the gas pedal still jammed down by the dead driver's foot. Barzini was trying to gain control of the car and presented an easy shot for Michael, but he didn't shoot the killer. He wanted Barzini to know it was from him. Instead, he lined up his third shot.
CRACK!
The final gunman in the back jerked as his head exploded and hit the door hard enough to tumble out onto the street. Michael was forced to jump the corpse in order to avoid hitting it. Barzini still hadn't gotten control of the car and had apparently decided to cut his losses and ditch the car. The passenger side door opened and Barzini jumped out, rolling when he hit the ground. Michael skidded and tried to turn around to take him out, but his bike couldn't take the tightness of the turn the move required and Michael found himself flying through the air. He landed some ten feet away, bruised but free from serious injury.
Staggering to his feet, Michael saw Barzini getting farther and farther away before melting into the seething mass of humanity that crowded San Fierro's streets. Bitterness so intense it soured his mouth rose in his chest. The acrid tang of failure was rarely tasted by Michael, which made it sting all the worse now. Trying to shake it off, Michael headed over to the bloodied Sentinel. It had struck a telephone pole after Barzini abandoned his attempts to regain control. Careful not to get his clothes bloody, Michael retrieved a suitcase from the enlarged glove compartment that proved to be full of cash. It had to contain at least forty grand, Michael estimated.
A siren blared somewhere in the background, cutting through Michael's thoughts like a machette. He shook his head. He had to get the money back to Larry's. Michael walked back to his borrowed bike and sped off, unable to resist showing off a little for the crowd and pulling a wheelie as he did so. With his helmet on, it wasn't like they could recognize him.
Still, Michael vowed solemnly to himself that wouldn't be the last Barzini saw of him.
Fin.
