Vice City, Washington Beach, 7:04 p.m.
It was raining. Liquid curtains fell from the sky, splashing against the road and pavement. Disintegrating black clouds obscured the night sky, either a bad omen or a natural phenomenon. There was nobody on the streets, and only the occasional car occupied the roads. A blue Sentinel was parked by the roadside, next to a telephone booth. Tony was inside, calling home.
Christine arrived home later than expected. She kicked her shoes off outside the door, placing her grocery bags on the floor as she did so. She fished into her purse, removing a key ring. She fumbled with it, and dropped it.
There was a man watching her from the stairwell behind her. He was dressed in a black jacket, blue trousers, and white shirt. A moustache was his only distinguishing feature.
Christine picked the key ring up, unlocked and opened the door. Picking the bags up, she entered the apartment, leaving the door wide open. The man smiled a little, and almost started to walk in. He could hear a telephone ringing within the apartment.
Christine heard the telephone too. Dropping the bags on the floor, she flipped the lights on and raced for the telephone on the coffee table to her right, about ten feet away. She picked it up.
Tony hung up. Christine probably isn't home yet. Ah, well. He walked back to his car.
"Hello?" Chris asked. There was nothing save for a dial tone. She shrugged, and grabbed the bags on the living room floor. She walked forward, and turned right, heading for the kitchen.
The man outside decided that it was safe, and walked in. The apartment's living room was rather spacious, he decided. There was a sofa on the left side of the room, a chair in front of him, and a table on the opposite end with a TV set on it. A coffee table was placed next to the chair, with a telephone on it. There was even a balcony, which could be accessed by a sliding glass door. A pair of thick curtains on either side of the sliding door shielded it from sight, but he knew what to look for. He heard footsteps coming his way.
She entered the kitchen, switching the lights on as she did so. She placed the grocery bags on the kitchen table, and grabbed a pot. She filled it up with water from a tap, and placed it on the stove. After turning up the fire, she walked away to check on her fiancé's father. She walked back into the living room, and turned left, walking down the corridor in front of her. The man stood in the balcony, shielded from casual sight by the thick curtains. The rain wasn't blowing into the balcony, fortunately.
Chris entered the old man's room. He was asleep on his bed, with a pair of earphones over his ears. Out of curiosity, she picked them up, and placed the earphones over her ears. The song currently being played was Abba's 'Dancing Queen', her favorite song. She smiled, and bounced along with the tune as she left, disc player in her left hand. Walking over to the living room, she finally noticed the open door, and walked over to it, closing and locking it. Not that it would do any good, the intruder decided from his spot. She walked over to the kitchen, and prepared her special corn soup.
The man left the balcony, and walked over to the corridor. There were five doors to choose from, one at the end and two on either side. He picked the closest one on his left. The room was brightly lit, instantly destroying his natural night vision. A cupboard was mounted on the left side of the room. There was a desk and a chair on the far end of the room, facing the windows. A bed was on the right, with his target on it. Walking over, he sat on the bed.
"Hi there," the man said.
The old man's eyes shot open.
"Who the-"
"My name is of no concern to you, nor is my method of entering your room. Your boy killed my old boss. My new one wants you to fly to Tallahassee to…talk things over."
The older man shook his head. In his thirty years of experience, he knew that it would only mean one thing: death.
"Too bad, then."
The man reached into his jacket, removing a Smith & Wesson Mark 22 Mod 0 from his shoulder holster. Better known as the 'Hush Puppy', it was developed for the Navy SEALs in the Vietnam War to quietly eliminate Vietcong sentries and guard dogs. A long suppressor was screwed on the end, the better to kill quietly.
She had prepared the soup's ingredients, and now all she had to do was to give the old man his medicine. She reached into one of thee bags and removed a bottle of pills. She walked to the old man's room; still singing.
The assassin aimed the pistol at the old man. The ex-criminal lunged forward with a newfound strength, grabbing his assailant's arm with both hands and throwing his aim off just as he pulled the trigger. The 9x19 mm bullet cratered into the wall next to the bed, doing no damage to either man.
Gunfire is unmistakable, suppressed or not. Christine thought she had heard a loud pneumatic stapler being fired in old man's room. She stepped in, bottle in hand, wondering what it was.
The criminal grabbed the ex-criminal's hands, trying to wrench them off. Andy and Tony's father shouted, "Christine! Run and get help!"
Who the hell's Christine! He turned away from his target, seeing a frightened woman in the doorway, dropping whatever the hell she was holding on the floor. Now, he'd have to kill h-
The old man released one of his hands on the arm, and punched his opponent in the face. He rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a loud thud. The gun clattered out of his hand. Both men reached for it.
What the hell was that? Tony thought from the doorway. He turned, and saw Chris running towards him, a distraught expression on her face. His hands reached for his backup revolver, a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnum with a 2.5 inch barrel.
"What's wrong?"
"There's an armed man trying to kill your father in his room!" she screamed.
Shit.
Two suppressed gunshots pierced the air.
SHIT!
"Get down and call the cops," he whispered. She nodded, running for the telephone.
He gripped the .357 Magnum revolver low in both hands, pointing it at a forty-five degree angle downward, and ran to his father's room. Running to the door, he heard a muffled thud, and another. He recognized it for what it was. In movies, this is the time when the character starts worrying. Tony didn't. He reverted back to his training.
He stepped into the room. He saw a stranger on the floor, pistol in his right hand, fitted with a long silencer. His father was lying forward on the bed, with two dark holes in his chest, roughly over where the heart was.
"POLICE! DROP THE GUN!" Tony roared, aiming the revolver at the criminal's chest and cocking the weapon.
The murderer turned around, and brought his weapon to bear on the cop.
Tony pulled the trigger, sending a .357 Magnum jacketed hollow point bullet into the criminal's chest. The bullet blew through his ribcage like a hot knife through butter, and burst his heart into pulp.
Tony fired again, and again, barely noticing the recoil or muzzle flash. The next two bullets finished what their predecessor had started, completely eviscerating the criminal's heart. He fell over backwards, dropping the pistol. Rushing over, Tony felt for a pulse, already knowing that there wasn't. He rushed over to his father.
"Dad!"
The old man stared at him. He had a thousand things to say, and all of them wanted to burst forth from his mouth. But, he knew what was the most important.
"Tony, don't blame your brother."
Using up his last breath, the old man fell forwards, and collapsed naturally to the ground. Robert DiMilo, ex-gangster, was dead.
Tony reached over to feel for a pulse. There wasn't, as expected.
"DAD!" he screamed.
Tallahassee, the following morning
Nick had flown into the city. Andy was late, and when he was, something very bad had happened. He was, again, the gunman, dressed in his black trench coat, black trousers, white shirt, black leather shoes, and black sunglasses.
He was sitting at a bench in a park, reading a newspaper.
He caught the headlines, and the newspaper fell from his hands. His cigarette soon followed, landing on the discarded paper. Clenching his hands into stone fists of rage, he walked away.
A nearby boy wondered why that stranger didn't pick his paper up.
"Mister! Hey mister!"
The man didn't turn.
"You forgot your newspaper!"
He kept on walking.
The boy shrugged his shoulders, and looked at the paper.
DRUG RING SMASHED VICE CITY MOBSTER AMONG MEN ARRESTEDNick knew where to go. He had caught a taxi, and gave the driver directions by heart. Upon arrival, he gave him a twenty-dollar bill.
"And keep the change," he said, before walking off.
He was in front of what claimed to be a bar. It was really the headquarters of an Outfit, one that specialized in drugs, gambling, and information. Nick needed the last. He walked to the front door of the two-storey concrete building, under the sign 'Ricky's Bar'.
There were two bouncers there, both of them having served the big man for ten years. They recognized Tony, and let him in without a word.
The bar was off peak hours. Nobody was sitting at the chairs and tables scattered around the room. Only two die-hard customers were sitting at the bar, and were quietly nursing their beers. The waitresses and strippers were at home, sleeping away a night of work and/or 'pleasure'. A staircase to the bar's right, guarded by two small fry, led upstairs, to the office.
Nick knew the bartender, and the barkeep knew Nick by his reputation. He knew that Nick was some sort of professional killer working for Thomas Vercetti. He also knew that he couldn't be here for a drink.
"I need to talk to Big Ricky," Nick said. Only Made Men were allowed to refer to Richard Forrest like that. The bartender's eyes narrowed.
"For?"
"Business matters as a direct result of yesterday's events."
The bartender allowed his surprise to filter through. That was the code phrase for a man being sent on a mission of vengeance, according to Mr. Forrest. And if anyone says that, show him to the boss, and don't ask any questions, one of his Made Men added.
"Okay."
He turned to the guards.
"Bob, Dave, show him to the boss," he called.
The gangsters turned, seeing the Made Man.
"Come right this way, sir," the left man said.
"Sure."
Both gangsters flanked Nick as they walked up the wooden stairs. At the top, they found themselves in a corridor outside an office. Four guards, openly carrying Uzis, were standing next to the only door in or out.
"Steve says to let him see the boss," the man on Nick's right said.
"Who's he?" a guard asked.
"Nick Caruso," Nick replied.
One of the guards nodded, and knocked on the door.
"Who is it?" a voice demanded from within.
"Nick Caruso, boss."
"Nick Caruso…let him in."
The guard opened the door, and showed Nick in.
The office wasn't very impressive. The wall in front of the door was really a full-length window. A desk stood on the right side of the room, with a yellow couch in front of it. A telephone, one of the newer models, was on it. Several folders were staked neatly next to the telephone. A Persian rug covered the floor, contrasting with the white-painted walls.
Nick walked in, escorted by the guard. He turned to face the desk, seeing a middle-aged Caucasian standing behind it, a sign of respect for the Made Man. The boss was theoretically superior to the gangster from Vice City, but only theoretically.
"Bob, mind if you leave? We want our privacy."
The guard nodded, and left.
"Please sit."
Both men sat down.
"How may we help you, Mr. Caruso?"
"I have a friend. He arrived in Tallahassee yesterday to conduct a business deal with Oliver Powers. Only a few people knew about the deal. The men on my end are beyond suspicion. I want to know who in Tallahassee betrayed my friend. If you find him, I will consider your debt to me honored in full."
"Very well, Mr. Caruso, but I cannot guarantee any results."
"Thank you."
The man reached for the telephone, and made some calls, dialing the numbers without referring to anything. After some time, the phone rang. Picking it up, the boss listened, said 'Thank you,' and hung up.
"The man you're looking for is Thomas Kelly, Oliver Powers' boss. Kelly wanted to weaken Thomas Vercetti by removing his best men, and pin the blame on someone else. In this case, he used Powers as his Judas goat. When Vercetti contacted Powers, Powers told his boss, and Kelly set up the deal that ultimately ended up in what happened yesterday.
" Kelly's having dinner at the Shanghai Inn tonight at seven. He'll be in Room 20. You might wish to pay him a visit."
Nick smiled a little, and thanked him. He stood, and turned.
"Wait."
"Yes?"
"How many men do you need?"
He merely smiled before leaving.
Seven fifteen p.m., the Shanghai Inn
Nick drove his rented Mercedes into the restaurant's parking lot, and left it after it was parked. The parking lot wasn't particularly full or large, so it was rather easy for him to make a quick getaway.
The night air was cold and still as Nick strode into the restaurant. He knew it, all right. The hostesses there were all Chinese either in race or nationality, and willing to offer 'special' services. The entire restaurant had no common eating area; rather it had twenty separate rooms in a common corridor. After all, it wasn't just a restaurant.
Lanterns hung from the neon-lit signboard, each bearing a Chinese character. The signboard read 'The Shanghai Inn'. A pair of smiling hostesses dressed in traditional Chinese cheongsams and high heels flanked the door. Their dresses had specially cut slits reaching to the waist, exposing the entire leg. Nick smiled at them as he entered.
The reception counter was on his right, manned by another young Chinese woman, dressed in a modified green cheongsam. A hostess stood on her right, wearing a blue cheongsam, again slit to the waist.
"Do you have a reservation, sir?" the receptionist enquired.
"Yes. It's under the name 'Nick Smith'," Nick replied.
She checked a list on a clipboard in front of her.
"Okay, Mr. Smith. You're in Room 16."
"Thank you."
"Would you like to have a companion, Mr. Smith?"
As if on cue, the other hostess hooked her arm around his left arm.
"Sure," Nick replied.
"Let's go, handsome," she whispered seductively into his ear.
They walked down the corridor, which was lined with potted plants. Nick wrapped his left arm around her slender waist, and caressed her left leg. She shivered in response. Meanwhile, Nick quietly reached into a pocket with his free hand, and removed a Colt Government Model Blue Series 80 pistol, placing it in a nearby potted plant. She knows how to give a guy a hard-on, he thought. Too bad he had business to attend to.
She nestled her head in his neck, moaning as she did so, and he brought her closer to him. He turned around clockwise while moving forward, reaching into another pocket. He kissed her, and placed another pistol into another potted plant, turning as he did so.
And so, the dance went on. He continued caressing and kissing her lightly, occasionally turning. He maintained the illusion, not even pausing to think, letting his body move freely.
They stopped outside Room 16.
"Go inside, first, hon. I've got to go to the gents first," Nick whispered.
"Okay."
She entered the room, facing him and closing the door slowly with a seductive smile. He smiled, and turned away. The second the door closed, it faded into an ice-cold face. Reaching into his trench coat, he removed a pair of gloves and put them on before extracting another pair of Colt Governments and cocked them with his thumbs before disengaging their safety catches.
He strode over to Room 4, and braced himself. Placing an ear next to the door, he heard some whistling and catcalls, along with a heavy techno beat. It was occupied, all right, and not by one or two men. He had eighteen rounds in total, one in the chamber of each pistol, and it was enough.
He took a deep breath. He let it out. He took another one.
He kicked the door down and stepped in, interrupting the festivities within and raising his pistols. A smiling pair of hostesses was in the middle of the room, stripped to their skimpy underwear, and in the process of removing them in a striptease. Their cheongsams were next to them, arranged in an untidy heap. There were nine men in the room, two next to the door and seven sitting down at the table. They froze, and stared at him.
The gunman had no need for words; his guns would do the talking.
His right gun aligned itself with the man at the opposite end of the table, and his left gun crossed over his right arm, its muzzle a millimeter from the guard's chest. The girls screamed and ducked. He pulled the triggers, sending two .45 hardball rounds into two men. The first bullet broke a porcelain bowl apart in an explosion of china as it traveled, and smashed into the man's chest and knocked him over while the second blew a large hole in its target's heart. The bullet casings flew out of the ejection ports as he brought the pistols down from recoil.
He fired his left gun at a gangster on the right side of the table, three bullets ripping his chest open in a crimson spray, while crossing his right gun over his left arm and opened a hole in the other guard's head, blowing blood and brains out. More bullet casings were spat out of the ejection ports, ricocheting against the walls as they descended. The gangsters slumped forward, blood and gore staining the table red.
A gangster on the left started to reach for his gun, but Nick was faster, obliterating his lower jaw in a cloud of pink and blowing him backwards. The other gangsters cleared their guns in time for Nick to aim his weapons at them, one gangster to a pistol. The Made Man blazed through the rest of his mags, blowing their upper torsos, necks, and heads apart in two separate blazes of gunfire. They fell to their sides, bleeding from their multiple wounds.
The empty guns emitted smoke from their hot barrels as the professional killer scanned the area. All of the gangsters were down, and not moving. He released the blue-almost-black pistols from his grip, letting them fall and hit the ground. They bounced once as they impacted with the ground, landing with a soft thud.
"Get dressed, and get out," he ordered. The girls complied, quickly reaching for their clothing.
He left the room, and walked down the corridor.
After some time, he arrived at his second pistol. A door opened behind him. Spinning around, he grabbed the pistol with his right hand, cocking it and disengaging the safety as he turned, and knelt down in one fluid motion, his trench coat fluttering as he moved.
There were three criminals in front of him, armed with pistols. Easy targets.
Bringing the pistol up in both hands, Nick aimed at the closest gangster, and pulled the trigger. His first bullet entered the guy's chest, and the next two printed a large hole in his heart. Switching targets, he fired at the next gangster just as a bullet passed over his head. Ignoring it, he shot the gangster three times in the upper body, at least one round coring his head in a storm of brains, blood, and bone. The last one took another three shots to the chest and face, falling over backwards immediately.
He got up, and tossed the empty weapon aside. Reaching into a pocket, he removed a matchstick and wedged it between his teeth, a grim smile playing across his lips.
The man was lying under the wooden table. He recalled what happened just before that gunman came in and blew everyone to hell. His chest burned, and he remembered the shooter's bullet. He removed his Browning High Power from his pocket, and crawled forward, suit soaking up his blood, along with that of others. His legs had failed him, despite his best efforts. The girls had left.
When he reached the door, he crawled forward, and looked around. Through the pain, he registered the shooter's back, and he aimed the gun at him as best as he could before pulling the trigger.
The gunshot came as a surprise, registering as a murderously hard punch. It entered his lower right calf, just below the kneecap, and blew out, breaking the bone as it did. The next shot came even closer to the kneecap, and caused even more damage. Crying out in pain, he fell forward, right hand reaching desperately into the potted plant and left hand breaking his fall. The next shot entered his kneecap, shattering it and forever maiming him. His fingers closed around a pistol grip.
Spinning around, he brought the pistol to bear on the new criminal on the ground, and pulled the trigger once, twice, thrice, hardly feeling the recoil. The bullets entered his armpit, and smashed through his lungs, eventually entering his heart.
Nick got up, and limped towards the criminal, his wound leaving a bloody trail.
He placed the gun's muzzle at the dead man's head and pulled the trigger. And again. And again. And again. And again. And one more time, emptying the weapon. The criminal's head became a shattered mess of blood, brains and bone. Hell, there wasn't a head to speak of.
Nick smiled a cold, evil grin.
Take that, asshole.
Later in the evening…
The air was filled with the smell of death when Detective Chia stepped out of his car, dressed in a white cotton shirt and black trousers. He looked around.
The Shanghai Inn's parking lot was filled with police cars and ambulances, all parked haphazardly, as people in a hurry were wont to do. Cops stood around, discussing the murder and/or anything under the sun…moon, in this case. There weren't any live ones, Chia decided.
He was an outwardly old man, the wrinkles on his face giving truth to that observation. Large, magnified brown eyes looked out at the world, still retaining their spark of life. He wore even larger tortoiseshell spectacles, the kind whose ratio of length and height is equal to a television screen, and had the side effect of magnifying his eyes. Two pink arches defined his mouth, above which were two moles, each above one half of his mouth.
Around this time, the Crime Scene Investigators would have taken control of the scene. Chia was Homicide, automatically receiving the case. Reaching into his wallet, he removed his badge and police ID, palming them as he walked.
The door was barred by police tape, and guarded by a sergeant. A flash of his detective ID and badge was sufficient to convince the sergeant to let Chia pass. Chia ducked under the tape and walked into the crime scene.
Another detective was interviewing the distraught receptionist, simultaneously trying to calm her down and get a statement from her. A pair of investigators was examining a body, whose head was replaced by a huge pool of blood and brains, as though his entire body had bled out. Nine cartridge casings and an empty pistol next to the body explained the cause of his death, but not who had shot him. For now.
Chia walked over to the two investigators, carefully avoiding the evidence.
"Detective Chia. Anything special about this body?" he asked, flashing his badge.
"Apart from the fact that it doesn't have a head? Well, each of his hands has tattoos on 'em. No wallet, no ID; apart from the tattoos we ain't got no form of ID," an investigator said.
"Tattoos?"
"Take a look, Detective," his buddy replied.
Chia stooped down, and looked at the dead body's hands, avoiding the still pool of blood and brains.
The back of the left hand had eight tattoos, each a scarlet star. The other hand had more stars, giving a total of eighteen.
"…Isn't this Thomas Kelly?" Chia wondered out loud.
"How do you know? And who's Kelly?" the first investigator asked.
"Kelly's a local drug dealer. More often than not, I had to investigate his murders. He has killed eighteen men. He likes to tattoo a star on his hands for every kill."
"Ah…"
Kelly was Oliver Powers' boss. Powers got killed yesterday, along with some of his crew. That Vice City mobster…what's his name? Nicholas DiMilo? He was arrested yesterday, and the word on the street was that he had been set up. So, if Powers set DiMilo up, and DiMilo's boss gets shot dead…revenge hit? Maybe. It's worth asking DiMilo again. If he would just open his mouth and say something…
Author's Note: Despite my best efforts, this is the most heavily modified scene I had to write. The scene in the apartment took longer, largely because both the cop and assassin lost their weapons; Christine used the soup on the shooter, etc. I cut it short because I felt that the original was too unclear. The opening scene in Tallahassee is slightly different from the movie, since the movie uses a camera, and I don't. If you've watched it, you'll know what I mean. The bar in Tallahassee never existed in the movie; it was an office, but it'll be kind of disconcerting (in a story) to have a character in one place, and suddenly be in another without saying how he got there. The restaurant scene had to be modified, as the opening sequence wouldn't make sense if I didn't. Finally, the final scene is far longer than that in the movie, but I felt that I had to put it in.