"So you know what to do, right?" the man asked.
His only reply was a grunt from the shooter next to him.
The two of them were in a blue Washington, parked outside the Vice City docks. The first man was a low-level Mob soldier who really didn't want to be here. He was dressed in a clean-cut blue business suit, which was starting to feel uncomfortable despite the air-conditioning. The other was dressed in his trademark black leather jacket, white shirt, and brown cargo pants. A Beretta M9 lay nestled in his hands, with its safety on. His finger was on the trigger, in the mistaken belief that it was okay to do so as long as the safety was on.
"Okay…so let's just wait…"
The shooter leaned back in his seat, trying to relax. Here he was, on 'vacation' in Vice City, and a job had to come up. He had decided to take a short break from the gang violence in Liberty City, and ended up here. Then, Mike called him, and hired him.
Well. All the crimes he had committed were simply for the money, after all. He had blazed a path across the country, earning a million dollars in every city he had stopped at before leaving, eventually ending up in VC, with a countless number of dead men and women behind him.
Mike didn't really have to hire him. It was so damn easy that calling up a person of his skills seemed…ridiculous. Ah, well, he was getting paid for this, so who gave a shit?
"Hey! Here he is!" the soldier exclaimed, a little too loudly for the leather-jacketed man. He looked up. A blue Sentinel drove past the mobsters and into the ports.
"Okay! Go! And for crying out loud, don't—" the gangster squealed.
The hired killer left the car before the soldier could finish. Pocketing his pistol, he walked into the Vice City Docks.
Tony pulled his car up a few yards from the supposed meet. He didn't have his duty pistol with him, no shoulder weapon, just his faithful S & W Model 19. He didn't call for backup either. After all, nobody would believe him unless he caught all of them in the act.
The inspector reached for his revolver, pulling it out in anticipation of a gunfight. He kept his finger off the trigger, and his weapon at low carry. In front of him were several cargo containers, each several feet high, blocking his view of the pier. Frowning, he walked towards the cargo containers. Arriving at them, he took a quick peek around, seeing nothing of interest. Then, he walked past the container in front of him, and turned left, going deeper into the ports.
The man in the leather jacket saw his quarry enter the docks. He ran forward, quickly but silently, drawing his pistol and flicking off the safety.
Tony moved deeper and deeper into the ports, wending his way through the maze of containers. The dockworkers evidently had no sense of organization; there was no logical arrangement to the containers. The inspector kept his revolver close to him, his finger still off the trigger.
The killer tracked the inspector, following his footsteps. Where he lost sight of Tony or couldn't hear him, he guessed, heading towards the docks. Only the hunt mattered now, and he was the hunter. The men traveled on parallel courses, occasionally intersecting. Then, it was time.
Tony finally made his way through the maze, and at the docks. Raising his weapon, he scanned and breathed, seeing…
Nothing!
The man in the leather jacket was behind Tony, smoothly raising his Beretta so quickly that his hands were almost a blur. He instinctively aimed at Tony's chest, before remembering his mission. He adjusted his aim low and to the right, before squeezing the trigger.
The bullet entered Tony's right arm, tearing a long hole through his flesh. Tony shouted in surprise and pain, going down. His revolver fell from his hand, clattering on the ground. Another shot echoed through the docks, a bullet hole appearing an inch above the previous wound. Red blood spurted out of the holes, forming a pool of scarlet.
The shooter brought his pistol up, next to his face in the classic and erroneous high carry stance, and walked away.
Job passed, he thought.
Later in Vice City…
Andy leaned back into his cab's leather seat. It was a busy day; he had only been working for three hours and he had already picked up and delivered five people to wherever. His knowledge of the side streets of VC had helped him to no end, allowing him to take his fares to their destinations faster than expected. He had already earned fifty dollars in tips already, in addition to his fares… Well, he could get used to this sort of life. If only Mike would leave him alone, and if only Tony would—
An electronic trilling disrupted his thoughts. It was emitted from a car-mounted telephone, installed just under the meter in the dashboard. The man picked it up, bringing it to his ear.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Is this Andrew DiMilo?" a tired-sounding male voice enquired.
"Yes…may I help you?"
"I'm Doctor Steven O'Toole at Vice City General Hospital. Your brother has just been shot."
A second passed.
A lifetime went by.
"WHAT!"
Andy arrived at the hospital ten minutes later, breaking just about every speed limit on the way. Incredibly, the VCPD traffic cops were elsewhere as he broke the law multiple times. Maybe that was why there were so many unseen traffic violations, he decided grimly.
Bursting through the entrance, he came face-to-face with a female nurse.
"Where's the ER?" he asked, almost shouting.
The nurse pointed the way, and he rushed off without a word of thanks or acknowledgement. Time seemed to slow down, as though someone wanted him to experience every nanosecond of agony to the fullest. Every step seemed to take a lifetime to complete, and every inch felt like a mile. But, Andy traversed the distance fairly quickly, and found himself outside the Emergency Room in short order.
Only to find a pair of uniformed cops standing guard outside the door. Striding towards the door, he tried to enter, only to be forced back by the police officers.
"How's my brother?" he demanded.
"Sorry sir, you're not allowed in," the nearest of the two coldly replied.
"Let him in," a firm voice ordered from behind Andy.
Turning around, the ex-con saw a man dressed in street clothes. On first glance, he was just a normal civilian. However, Andy knew his type: he was a plainclothes detective, maybe even an inspector...or maybe just an off-duty police officer who was recalled. Then, he caught sight of a police ID card hanging on a loop around his neck. It read: 'CAPTAIN J. BURROWS'.
The cops parted, letting Andy through. Both ex-criminal and lawman entered the ER.
They beheld Tony lying on the operating table, heavily anaesthetized. Wires snaked out from electrodes on his body, terminating at electronic devices whose use neither man knew about, except for the ECG. The electrocardiogram showed a strong, steady pulse, though the amount of blood on the floor and operating table belied that.
A team of surgeons surrounded Tony, working to repair his damaged arm. They were all dressed in surgical greens, working as delicately as possible. At a corner, Christine Graham DiMilo held her husband's left hand, weeping silently.
Burrows placed a hand on DiMilo's shoulder.
"The police needs your cooperation. You'll be called up anytime for an interview. Just for your information."
Nighttime, on the roof of the Cherry Poppers Ice Cream Factory…
Nick wondered why the hell he had been so stupid. Mike had 'invited' him for a 'chitchat' on the roof of the Cherry Poppers factory…the facility that actually processed the drugs. After all, he thought that Mike would want to re-invite him into the Mob. Sure, he could not refuse the offer, but now, Mike's goons were beating the living shit out of him.
Like, now.
His right cheek exploded into white pain as an iron bar collided into it. Blood streamed down from his nose and a laceration on the left side of his head. His face was contorted into varying shades of red, black, blue, and purple. The green overalls he was wearing was caked with his blood and grime.
Nick got up, recovering from the vicious blow. He stared at Michael DeFrantz, right in front of him. To Nick's sides were Mike's bodyguards, wielding heavy iron bars. Behind him was the edge of the roof, leading to a long, fatal drop down to the busy street below.
Another strike to his guts knocked the wind out of Nick, causing blood to spray from his mouth and nose. He gasped in pain, just as another goon landed a blow on his back, slamming him to the ground.
Nick picked himself up once more. He was a Made Man, dammit! Why the hell are they doing this to him? Why the hell was he even allowing them to do this to him? Why the hell couldn't he fight back, at least? He'd rather fight them than get beaten up this bad!
That was when he remembered that he was crippled and unarmed, while the gangsters were fit and packing guns under their expensive business suits.
Shit.
Mike sauntered up to him, an air of arrogance surrounding him. Reaching for his silk tie, he used it to gently dab the blood from Nick's face. Nick recoiled a little as the material stung his wounds.
"Nick, do you think you're a hero? If you are, jump!" Mike challenged.
Nick turned around, looking over his shoulder. His entire body was burning and stinging, calling for rest and repair. The cars on the street passed by at high speed, their rear and headlights leaving trails of color in the night. The road was bathed in an amber glow, waiting to illuminate a shattered, bloodied body.
No, he could not jump. That bastard would want him to jump. Besides, heroes never kill themselves to make others happy. Nick turned to face Mike, silently promising that he would get through this ordeal…and make him pay. Big-time. Nick's face contorted into a grim smile, promising of vengeance.
Nick straightened himself, keeping his thoughts of vengeance masked behind a stoic face.
"Hah! Knew it. Nick, Nick, Nick…how many times must I say this? If Andy doesn't want to join, we don't need to give you face…or even need you." Mike said, shaking his head.
Mike threw his first punch of the night, landing it on Nick's nose. It didn't break, but some blood vessels were severed, and more blood was released over his fist. Mike unleashed a left uppercut that connected solidly with Nick's chin, knocking him out.
As Nick fell, he heard Mike say, "Take him to UCS."
United Cab Service HQ, later that night…
The day shift had returned, and was now maintaining their cabs in the garage. The eight drivers and mechanics of the shift were scattered around the area, tending to their vehicles or just chatting away, relaxing after a hard day's work.
Roger Johnson was doing some paperwork at a desk, in plain view of the entrance, when something told him he should look outside, like right the hell now.
Looking up, he saw four black Sentinels race up to the building before coming to a screeching halt. The rear doors of the third car opened, and a body was kicked out. It hit the hard floor, rolled for a few feet, and came to a halt just at the entrance.
"What the hell?" the nearest mechanic asked rhetorically.
As if on cue, the doors of the other Sentinels burst open. Four men per car stepped out at the same time. They advanced upon the building.
"Who the hell are you?" another driver asked.
The men, dressed in dark business suits, stopped just outside the business.
"Mr. DeFrantz sends his regards, courtesy of Mr. Vercetti. Tell Andrew DiMilo to talk to the boss…if he's brave enough. C'mon, guys!" their leader shouted.
"Shit!" Johnson swore.
The Mafia goons rushed into the building, extracting saps, axes, knives and clubs from their coats, and brandishing brass knuckles. They fanned out as they entered, and used their weapons to destroy whatever property they could get their hands on. A table shattered under the pressure of several axe blades. A cab's windshield was shattered into hundreds of glass fragments, its tires punctured. A chair was converted into firewood.
The ex-convicts looked on, stunned, before the experiences of their previous lives kicked up. Picking up tools for want of weapons, the drivers charged at DeFrantz's subordinates.
Both sides clashed. The end result was a brawl as ugly as a knife fight in a bar. An axe-wielding Mafia criminal engaged a driver, but before he could do anything, the ex-con slammed his spanner into the goon's head, knocking him out. A mechanic received multiple punches from a Mafia man wearing brass knuckles, resulting in massive internal bleeding. A pair of criminals double-teamed a driver with saps, breaking several ribs before he got up and fought them off. Another Mafia man was ambushed by a driver who crashed his tire-iron into his neck. He fell, unconscious.
Roger Johnson tried to cease the fight, but was pounced upon by another Mafia soldier. The two of them grappled with each other on the ground, both men struggling to gain the advantage. They wrestled with each other, with Roger eventually getting on top. He spit into the criminal's eye, causing enough pain to cause him to disengage and cover it, screaming all the way.
Andy DiMilo returned to the UCS building in his cab just in time to watch the fight develop. He jammed the brakes outside the building, opened the door, and virtually flew towards the fighters.
"Sop fighting! Stop fighting!" he screamed.
Roger got up, and shouted, "STOP FIGHTING, DAMMIT!"
The Mafia leader turned, looked into Andy's face from his position, and sneered.
"The boss wants you to have a chat with him…if you're brave enough," he added.
"Okay."
"Good."
The leader stood up, a little disappointed that Andy didn't put up a fight…but what the hell, his job was done.
"GUYS! Let's go! We're done here!" he shouted.
The Mafia soldiers disengaged themselves and fled, dragging away the injured and the unconscious.
"What the hell did you fight them for? They were just following orders! Now we're asking for it!" Roger reprimanded his employees.
"Sorry boss…" they apologized.
Meanwhile, Andy ran over to the body. He saw that it was dressed in green overalls…like Nick's…and was covered in blood…! Turning him over, Andy examined Nick. He was unconscious, and he looked like hell, but he was still breathing.
"I'm going to get Nick out of here!" Andy called.
"Okay!"
Chia waited patiently opposite the UCS building in an unmarked car, at a street junction. Next to him was Captain Burrows, who had volunteered to drive him around. Both men had seen the fight, had seen everything. Chia figured that since the fight was over, Andy and Nick would try to leave as soon as possible.
And when they did…the police would get the answers to some very interesting questions.
Suddenly, the men heard a car engine activate. A few seconds later, a taxi shot out of the entrance of the building, and turned right towards the cops.
"Go!" the Chinese-American urged.
The captain complied, pressing hard on the accelerator, angling the car towards the taxi. Before the driver could react, the cop had caused a controlled crash, colliding into the cab and bringing it to a stop, in the process causing the hood to buckle. Both police officers jerked hard in their seats, but their seatbelts prevented them from flying out of the windscreen. The driver, too, was wearing a seatbelt, and was saved from further injury.
Both cops leapt out of their seats and out of the cars, drawing their service pistols and pointing them at the driver, whose face was illuminated in the glow of the unmarked car's single surviving headlight.
"POLICE! Hands up! Hands up!" the Inspector bellowed.
"VCPD! Show me your hands!" the police Captain added.
The driver raised his hands in surrender almost immediately. They looked at him, realizing that—
"He ain't DiMilo!" the captain announced.
The lights also illuminated the interior of the taxi…which was empty.
"And Caruso's missing!" Chia declared.
"Hey, cops, what gives?" the driver asked, smiling inwardly to himself.
While the captain tended to the driver, Chia scanned the roads to his left. Another taxi materialized, and drove rapidly away from the building. It was too dark to take note of the license plate, and it would take too long to go after the taxi. A nagging suspicion raised its ugly head within his mind.
"Damn! They got away," Chia muttered.
The multi-storey parking lot at Washington Heights, later that night…
Andy had driven Nick to the top floor of the empty parking lot. By then, Nick had regained consciousness. Both men stood outside their car in the middle of the empty parking lot, looking around.
Vice City's buildings were defined by pretty white and neon signs, adding vibrancy and life to the area. The Washington Heights shopping centre, too, was well lit, adding more colors to the light show. The hotels in the south of VC, too, made their presence known, with the lights of their helipads glowing like tiny beacons in the dark. There were no stars in the bright, clear, night sky, however; the light from the ground had washed out natural starlight. But that was all right; the lights had become an ultramodern work of art, if only in the eyes of the beholder.
"I never realized Vice City was so beautiful at night. It will vanish one day, I'm sure," Nick mused.
"Yeah," Andy replied.
Nick turned to Andy.
"Come back and retake the Family with me, Andy. Then, we can make a fortune, leave Vice City for good, and maybe retire to some tropical island somewhere," Nick thought out loud.
"No way," Andy rejected, deadpan, as he turned to face Nick.
"Nick…last time, three years ago, we weren't afraid to die! Nobody and nothing could stop us! Now, you're afraid, aren't you? What happened to you? Why are you so timid?"
"Now, we don't have to commit crimes to survive. If you want to leave VC, then fine; let's go together, and start a new life, but don't go after Mike."
"If that's the case, then you go first!"
"Even if you kill Mike and take over, so what? The police will still go after you! You'll still be hunted down! I've already lost a brother! I don't want to lose you too!" Andy pleaded.
"Nick, wake up! Don't you know what he's done to us? We have to get back at him!"
"In that case, leave me!" Andy shouted.
"Andy! I've my own ideals! I'm not afraid to die! I've been patiently waiting for you for three years! I just want to take back what's ours, and prove to them that we are still worthy of respect! That we can still do that! We're Made Men, dammit! Nick, what happened to you? I didn't know that prison changed you so much! I didn't know you're such a coward!"
"Nick—"
"Andy, since you don't wish to join me, fine. I'll go my way, and you go yours. We all have to choose a road for ourselves," Nick spat, before turning around and limping away on his one good leg.
"Nick!" Andy called.
"Damn you, Andy!" Nicholas Caruso replied furiously, heading downstairs.
Andrew DiMilo didn't catch up with Nick. Instead, he stood and stared after the disappearing figure.
Author's Note: My mid-years are over…but not my 'O' levels. I'm also working on a full-length novel in conjunction with my fanfiction and original fiction pieces, so please be patient. I've kept the dialogue as true to the original as I can make it, but I've had had to add in some extras and remove some bits here and there. The Cherry Poppers Ice Cream Factory was really an apartment block in Hong Kong, and the parking lot was Victoria Heights in the movie. I had to make do…