Don't trust his lies
The Man held his pistol up by his ear and yanked the slide. As he let the slide snap the bullet in place, its mechanized click left a malevolent smile on his face.
He filled his pockets with three magazine clips before grabbing his shotgun. Today's kill was gonna be made in 12 seconds…with a 12-gauge. The handgun was just there for a precaution in case things got complicated. His Uzi and AK would have to rest in his backseat for today. They will rest alongside his bat and molotovs.
Hepburn Heights was an active residential area in Liberty City, and the place never seemed to shut up with its noisy Diablos. A motorcade of their fire-streaked, Stallion cars lined the streets with their blackness; it looked like an oil spill whenever they arrived. One of them blared their horns at the Man, causing him to turn his gaze over to the driver's face. He glowered at the Diablo gang member.
"I'll show you drivin!" the Diablo shouted. "You came to the wrong side of the hood, holmes!"
The Man drew his finger up at the thug in the car. He rested the barrel of his shotgun against his collarbone so the driver could see it as he walked past the car. He had worked for El Burro…and this was how that endowed donkey repaid him? What a load of shit. He should have taught that Diablo driver a lesson in respect.
He made his way past noisy pedestrians and street thugs before entering the apartment complex. As he walked up the steps towards the third floor, his right hand tightened around the handle of his shotgun. For some reason, walking up these steps reminded him of that girl Misty he had picked up so long ago. That girl with the accent and the green outfit had been his connection to Joey. Now, he was back here with a more violent motive. Strange how things seemed to lead back to the beginning.
It was Room 324. The Man stood before the door as still and emotionless as the door itself. The shotgun was dangling in his hand; the barrel was pointing straight down. All he had to do now was knock, aim, and pull the trigger.
Catalina…isn't that the name, sweetheart? Catalina's the one who has been on your mind this whole time.
Malibu had told him that the other night. It was creepy, but it was clever. Undercover cops just knew how to pull your strings. They knew how to convince and deceive simply because they were the drug dealers and hookers they posed as. The only difference was… they carried a badge. That was all. If that badge was lost, their cover was the only thing they had left. It didn't matter whether or not they were cops to begin with. They were already the criminals they posed as. In order to catch a wolf, you must first become a wolf. That was the philosophy behind the undercover cop. The Man had heard that from somewhere but forgot where it came from (it must have been from a great movie).
He pounded on the door. It sent a reverberating echo in the hallway. After a few seconds, he heard feet shuffling from behind the doorway. Then the twisting of three deadbolts, followed by the knob shaking to open.
And there she was.
She was dressed a little more conservative this time around. Her skirt sank down to her knees, while her blouse was buttoned up. Only the sight of her generous breasts remained; their size made her blouse stretch out tight, outlining the flowery lace of her bra beneath. Tiny bumps representing her nipples stuck out from the peak of her chest. The more the Man thought about them, the more he felt like changing his mind. But things had be done. And they had to be done now.
"Sweetheart! Oh, I'm so glad you're here! We have to—"
His fist sent her staggering back against a shelf. Glass ornaments and picture frames somersaulted. She winced as her hands went up to her face. Those breasts shook wonderfully; they bobbed and warbled from under her shirt. The Man stepped into the room and slammed the door. He cocked his shotgun.
And shoved the barrel down her face. He pressed the tip of the barrel against the mole below her left eye. The pressure of his force smeared her features and caused them to stretch…as widened blue eyes stared up at him. Her blonde, wavy hair was strewn everywhere. Too bad it was going to be red now. His finger moved to pull the trigger—
"I'M AN EX-COP!" she screamed, shutting her eyes.
The Man's finger stopped before the trigger.
"Whatever Escobar told you is a lie," she strained from under clenched teeth. "I'm telling you…he's sent men up here after us—if you even think you're being set-up by me, you have it all wrong! Escobar has you set-up!"
He narrowed his eyes at her. Bullshit. He added more pressure to her face. He wasn't listening. This finger right here was going to move and—
"Please, just think about it, sweetheart…the blue would be all over your ass if I was a cop. Why would I just lie here? Shit, just think about it! Okay…okay, so Escobar isn't really my ex-boyfriend—I just wanted you to kill him! Look at this gun I have! I would've pulled this on you by now!"
The Man looked down her waist and noticed the gun tucked under the hem of her skirt. Her hands had been free the entire time, and that Heckler & Koch USP sidearm had remained there. Was she telling the truth? Or was she simply pulling some clever trick to win his trust and then shoot him afterwards?
Don't trust her lies, muchacho.
He grunted, stiffening his arms. The shotgun shifted as he did that, and it yanked a shuddering scream from out of her throat. The sound made his trigger finger twitch. She kept her eyes closed, gasping for breath. Shit, she looked like a frightened little schoolgirl.
"T-those men are… g-gonna be up here s-soon," she quavered, sniffing. "And o-once they're here…they're not gonna care if I'm dead or n-not…since they'll be after you too."
Why was he listening to her…
(She is full of more nonsense than a thousand pounds of South American horseshit.)
Or…was she?(Escobar knows you're after him and has sent men out to kill you.)
Just shoot her!
(I know a way you can get back at her. Catalina…isn't that the name, sweetheart?)
But, what if…(They have sent an undercover cop by the name of Malibu to find you and bring you back to jail.)
Jail? Like hell was he going back!
(Ten years…for love.)
How about this, muchacho!
(Ten years…for being gullible.)
Anything except for being gullible.
The Man pulled the trigger.
The shotgun leapt back at him, pounding at his abdomen with its recoil. The shot exploded from out of the barrel and dispersed its lead bearings through the air. A flash of flames followed the 12-gauge assault. It traveled horizontally through the room, spinning at speeds beyond the eye's reach…
And struck the chest of a Colombian standing at the doorway.
"You gonna be sorry!" the dying South American screeched. Blood spilled from the side of his mouth. He reeled back with his Uzi and squeezed the trigger at the Man.
A puffy-sounding puph-puph-puph-puph! filled the air. The Man dove behind a couch as the wall opened up and spewed white dust around him. The glass ornaments on the shelf shattered, throwing glass shards in multiple directions. Splintered holes lined the boards on the shelf. The Man crawled up, crouched against the couch, and shifted his ear towards the doorway.
Echoing footsteps entered the room, followed by bits of incomprehensible Spanish. The Man made out a lot of "to kill" verbs attached to nouns that sounded like "gringo". He also heard a gagging voice struggling to speak as it choked in its own blood. The Man peered from the corner of the couch and watched as two furious pairs of eyes from beside a bloody finger turned to meet his gaze.
"You want the chainsaw, gringo?"
He spun back. 9mm bullets ripped through the fabric of the couch. Cotton strands whirled about. The Man felt a bullet whistle past his ear. He ducked his head low and cocked the shotgun…waiting for three seconds before hurling his body out from the side of the couch. He squeezed the trigger.
Flames licked from the tip of the barrel as the 12-gauge roared. A shot struck one of the gunman's knees, shattering it wide open with spinning bone fragments and splashing blood. A scream bawled across the room. The Man pumped the handle back and fired again—while an empty shell danced around him. The Colombian flew back with multiple holes blooming from his chest. He crashed over a coffee table. Glass fragments came up and rained over the gunman's face. His bloody face was locked in a scream, as a sharp edge from the table speared its way out of his neck.
The Man shifted his eyes on the other gunman. He had been too focused on the first one to notice the other roll out from behind the kitchen counter with one of those Ingram Uzis pointed at him. His leather jacket suddenly ruffled. Bullets thudded against his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs. The force of the lead expenditures slammed him back against the floor. He fell on his back, coughing blood. The dazed Man then found himself wheezing up the hollow barrel of a MAC-11 Uzi…held by a member of the Colombian Cartel. He stared down at the Man with eyes glowing with white fury.
"You brave, big man? There is no problem to kill you!"
The Man sighed.
Gunshots rattled the room. It stung the senses and surged a throbbing pain in the heads of its listeners, like a sudden explosion. The room lit up as the sounds progressed, and the speed of several bullets flicked blood at the wall. What began as a clean slate of white plaster immediately became a red-speckled display of a bloodstained wall.
Blood poured from the mouth of the Colombian. A ghastly exit wound gaped from his forehead, while several more were strewn across his chest. The fingers wrapped around his Uzi grew limp, allowing gravity to pull the silver weapon towards the floor. It clacked on the hard tile before remaining still on its side. And like a domino, the gunman tipped over…falling over to reveal the stunning figure of Malibu standing behind him.
She fell to her knees, sinking lower until her legs formed an M on the floor. Smoke slithered from the tip of her .45 caliber handgun. Beside her shins, a handful of brass casings rolled across the floor. She drew in heavy, laborious breaths as her azure eyes glared at the Man, watching his every move with narrowed eyes. She remained silent.
The Man grunted as he sat up. He felt at the armor beneath his jacket and winced. Flattened lumps of lead clattered on the floor. He had been lucky. If the bullets struck his head, things would have been very different. And he owed a portion of his luck to Malibu.
She raised her gun at him. "Look…sweetheart," she said with a morbid glint in her eye. "I no longer have the patience—or the sanity—to prove anything to you right now. Either you agree to help me get out of here, or you're gonna be joining these dead Cartel in Hell." She then cocked her gun. "Your choice."
The Man thought about it as he wiped the blood from his mouth. He had nothing else to lose; the Colombians were already after them, and Escobar has proven his guilt by setting him up. And the Man didn't like being set up. Whether he liked it or not, he was stuck with Malibu—the ex-cop hooker, whom he screwed the other night. The idea almost seemed like marriage…
"Oh, and in case you're wondering about your money," Malibu said. "It's stashed in a garage somewhere, and if you want to know where it is, you're gonna have to help me find Escobar."
And that was the ring which held them together…
The Man took his shotgun and stood up, brushing dust off his jacket. He walked to where Malibu sat and stood over her, staring down at the gun pointed at his head. He paused for ten seconds…before taking her arm to hoist her up.
"Never knew you were such a gentleman," she scoffed while getting up to her feet. "If you'd been this nice before, I would have given you real orgasms last night."
The Man glared at her, narrowing his eyes. He cocked his shotgun.
Malibu smiled, wiping at the indented ring on her face caused by the tip of his shotgun. "Now we're even."
