Chapter 9: Payback
Nick kept his facial expression neutral as he strode ('gimped' would be better, though he didn't want to admit it) into the underground parking lot of Tommy Vercetti's printing press. His overcoat, dusty and faded with age, swung gently from side to side with each step, covering a couple of the grease stains on the green overalls he was wearing.
It had finally boiled down to this. Mike had forever lost Nick's loyalty, and more importantly, his respect. That made mike a personal enemy, not a professional one. Nick had been in the mob long enough to know that personal enemies will do their best to kill you anytime, anywhere, while professional ones only do so if they decided that it was in their best interests to do so…and that there was no risk to them.
Nick didn't particularly care what would happen to him, so long as he could get some payback. Besides, seeing as how Mike had quietly taken over Tommy Vercetti's business in Vice City, he figured that he was doing the bossTommy Vercettia favor by ridding his organization of a traitor.
The old man running the place, Oliver whatshisname, was right in front of him. Nick had been trailing the old man ever since he stepped out of the building to buy some snacks and stationery for the workers in the Print Works, eluding the rest of Mike's men when necessary.
Reaching under his coat, Nick pulled out a pair of Browning High Powers, one to each hand. Stealthily moving up to Oliver, he pressed his left pistol into the small of Oliver's back, and moved the pistol in his right hand against the old man's right ear and cocked it. The resulting series of metallic clicks sounded awfully loud in the silent parking lot.
"What the"
"I've got another gun to your back, Oliver," Nick hissed. "The safety is off. Don't try anything funny."
"What are you"
"The Browning High Power holds thirteen nine times nineteen millimeter bullets. It can also hold another round in its chamber. That means that I have twenty-eight shots. You know what I can do to you with that?"
Privately, he preferred Colts and .45s; they were more reliable, and more powerful, respectively. But, they were too expensive for his limited budget, and he preferred Browning's designs to everything else. Besides, it's not as if Oliver knew jack shit about guns.
"I"
"Shut up, and listen. You're still running the Print Works, no? I want in. Call the elevator. When the door is open, stay still, and I'll join you."
"But"
"Shut up, or you'll end up as a corpse. I don't give a shit either way. Am I clear?"
"Yes," the forger agreed, his voice shaking.
"Go. And if you turn around, I'll put a bullet in your brain."
Oliver walked off, willing his legs to remain steady. Shit…why did Nick have to come back? Nobody in the Mafia cared about anything apart from money and power. Hell, only the old-timers actually bothered about respect and honor…and they had all died out in the '50s.
Right?
Still walking, Oliver made his way past a row of cars. He didn't dare look back; he was too aware of what violence Nick could wreak. Not as if he would see anything before he got shot anyway: Nick was among the best in the business, crippled or no.
Sweat trickled down his cheek and gathered in his palms. His knuckles turned white as he though of the guns trained on him. He was still working only for the money! He hadn't done anything wrong! It was Mike and his men who did all the bad shit; he was just doing some computer work! He didn't deserve to die! He had to support his wife, his children, his aged parents, his mother-in-law…
Walking the last few yards, he whispered a short prayer, trying to remember the exact wordings as taught to him by the Church he had renounced. After a lifetime, he found himself in front of the elevator door. He called it.
Please, God, let me get out of this…
A few seconds passed, then the elevator doors smoothly opened.
That was when he felt cold metal against the back of his head.
"Step inside," Nick hissed.
The two men entered the elevator. Nick kept guard as the doors closed.
"What now?" his captive asked.
"To the control room."
Oliver pressed a button on the control panel. A moment later, the elevator responded, closing the elevator doors. The elevator hummed as it rose.
"Why are you doing this?" Oliver demanded.
Nick kept silent, his pistols by his sides.
"Nick, you were a Made Man. Why are you"
His guns were up in a flash, pointed at Oliver's belly, fingers on the trigger.
"Mike betrayed me," Nick replied simply.
"But…"
"But this is a matter of honor. He's now my enemy, as well as anybody in my way. You cross me, you die. If you cooperate, you get to go home to the wife and kiddies. Anything else you wanna know?"
Oliver wisely kept silent.
"Good."
A minute of silence passed. Then, the doors opened out into a corridor.
"Out," Nick ordered.
Oliver was out in a flash. Nick followed behind. Together, the two of them walked to a door at the far end. Nick stayed clear, remembering the security camera at the end. It was angled such that it could clearly see whomever was at the door, but not in the corridor.
Strangely enough, there wasn't a guard at the door. All the better for Nick: he didn't like wasting bullets. He kept his pistols pointed at Oliver as he walked up to the control room door, and punched in the access code.
Oliver's fingers shook badly as he typed in the code, almost forgetting the access code. As soon as the four numbers were entered, the door opened. Stepping in, he took a deep breath.
He was in the control room. Mike had become paranoid recently, and had upgraded security. There were now two armed suit-clad gangsters overseeing the operation, in addition to the forgers in the room. Oliver turned to the closer of the two.
"Yes?" he asked.
"There's"
Oliver didn't quite finish his statement. As soon as the word left his mouth, Nick swept in, pistols raised and scanning the area, kicking Oliver forward to make room. The gangsters hesitated, one reaching for his pistol.
"Ah-ah!" Nick warned cheerfully. "You draw a gun, you die. Keep your hands where I can see 'em," he added, emphasizing his point by leveling both pistols at the criminals.
"Hey! What's going on?" one of the forgers asked.
"Shut up and sit down," Nick responded. "Oliver, go get the data roll, the one you rely on to make your forgeries."
Oliver scooted off to the metal cabinet holding the data rolls.
Meanwhile, Nick said, "Tell ya what: since I'm feeling generous today, I'll let you take out your guns, with your thumb and forefinger."
"Wha…? We don't have any guns!"
"Don't bullshit me; I can see bulges under your suit jackets. With one hand, take out your guns, with your thumb and forefinger through the trigger guard. Put them on the floor. Do it too fast and I'll shoot," he ordered.
"But"
"No 'buts' or you're a grease spot," Nick warned.
The gangsters reluctantly obeyed, slowly taking their weapons from under their suits. Even more cautiously, they lowered their firearms to the floor, wondering if Nick would shoot them.
He wouldn't. He was too busy examining the guns. One of them was a Beretta M92FS, now called the M9 by the US military. Andy would prefer that. The other gun was a Colt Series 80 Government Model, the same type of gun he had used in the shootout at the Shanghai Inn three years ago.
"Take a few steps back," Nick ordered.
The gangsters complied. Holstering a pistol, Nick picked up both guns from the floor with his left hand, one at a time, and dropped them into his coat pockets.
"Got any spare ammo?" he asked.
The gangsters responded by emptying their pockets, coming up with three mags for the Beretta and two for the Colt. Nick pocketed them too, just as Oliver appeared, a data roll in his hands.
"Pass it to me," Nick ordered.
Oliver did just that. Nick inserted his right arm through the hole in the middle of the roll, and secured it in his armpit.
"Thank you," Nick said. "Don't go after me or you'll get it from me."
"Huh?"
Covering the men with his pistols, Nick walked backwards out of the control room, fingers tensed against the triggers of his Browning High Powers. He knew that reinforcements would be coming; it was just a matter of how long it would take for them to arrive.
Wasting no time, he spun around, coat fluttering with his movement, and sprinted (limped very quickly) back to the elevator as soon as the control room doors slid shut. Calling the elevator, he covered the other door in the corridor, the one leading to the security team.
Half a minute later, the lift doors opened, revealing nobody in the elevator. Nick stepped in, pressing the button to the basement parking lot. As the doors slid closed, the door to the security team burst open, and a group of gangsters stormed out. One of them raised his gun, but was too late. The doors were closed.
Nick knew that they would be waiting for him. There was another security group guarding the main entrance to the Print Works, and the alarm should have been raised by now. Triple-checking his pistols, he ensured that he was ready for a fight. He pulled back the slides on the pistols by a fraction, seeing the brass casing of a bullet nestled in the chambers of both guns. Using his right thumb and left index finger, he checked that the safeties were off. Looking down, he visually confirmed that the weapons were cocked, ready to go.
A few moments later, the elevator car stopped.
The doors opened.
Nick stepped out.
And rolled to his right as best as he could, seeing a waiting gunman behind a Banshee sports car, aiming his gun at him.
Showtime!
Nick landed behind a Sentinel, a loud burst of lead punctuating his movements. Getting up to a crouching position, he used the trunk of the car as cover, keeping as low as possible turning to face the shooter. He was standing, looking for Nick. Nick grinned, aiming the pistols as much as possible before pulling the trigger.
He fired four shots into the gangster's sternum as quickly as possible, the gunshots reverberating throughout the parking lot, brass casings flying from the ejection ports of his weapons. The 9mm rounds punched through him, blowing him straight down to the ground, his MAC 10 clattering to the ground.
Turning right, he saw a pair of gangsters approaching him. Nick's left gun aligned itself over the man on the left, and his right gun appeared over the one of the right. He pulled the triggers, seeing the guy on the right catch a round in his throat and the one on the left take a round to the chest. Blood gushed out of the throat wound, accompanied by a horrifying gurgling issued from the hole. The one with the chest wound remained standing. Nick readjusted his aim, and pumped out two pairs of shots, and the two collapsed.
Getting up, he gimped forward, scanning. A gangster suddenly rolled out from an Infernus in front of him, firing his MAC 10 from the hip...and missing. Nick lowered his pistols, and panic-fired a flurry of shots into him. The mobster screamed as several 9mm rounds slammed into his torso, before the fusillade cracked his head open.
The Brownings' slides locked back, revealing a pair of smoking barrels. The pistols were empty.
Something told him to look around. He did so, spotting the security group rush out at him. There were six of them, armed with a mixture of Uzi and MAC 10 machine pistols.
Biting off a curse, Nick awkwardly rolled, then dived behind a car, just as the gangsters started firing, almost tripping over his duster overcoat. One bullet blew into his left arm, a clean in-and-out wound that really didn't do any real damage. The shock of the impact caused his hand to spasm involuntarily, and the pistol dropped from his left hand.
"Shit!" he cursed, partly from the pain, partly because his discarded pistol had landed in the open, where he could not reach it without receiving a helping of lead…and partly because the bullet had blown a hole in his favorite coat.
Ejecting the magazine from his lone Browning High Power, he found a fresh one in his coat pocket and rammed it home, hearing it click as it engaged. Releasing the slide lock, he scanned the area.
His eyes fell on a cart to his left.
Apart from a stack of sturdy-looking metal containers piled upon it, there was nothing extraordinary about it…except for the fact that the containers were thick enough to be bullet-resistant.
Crouching low, he limped up to it and rolled the cart towards the Banshee he had been hiding behind. The other gunmen were still firing, a withering stream of lead coming his way, shattering the window glass, and blowing in bullet holes in the car body.
Angling the cart such that it now faced the right wall, he took a deep breath, and took a few moments to wonder why the hell he was doing this. Then, he stood up, keeping his torso behind the containers as much as possible. Pressing down hard on the containers with his left hand, he ran out from cover, using the cart and its containers as a mobile shield. He peeked out above the containers, aiming the pistol in his right hand.
Most of the security group had wisely sought cover…except for a fool in the middle of the road. Nick blew him away with four rounds before the mobster realized his error. Turning, he saw an exposed head pop out from behind at car trunk. Nick shot at it, his first round missing but his second blowing the gangster's brains out.
The others shot at Nick. Keeping low, he felt bullets slam into the containers, with one or two even penetrating and passing him by mere inches. He instinctively turned around, spotting a gangster holding what appeared to be an MP5 in his hand, behind the car behind the car he was heading to.
Both gangster and ex-Made Man raised their weapons.
Nick was faster. Firing a triplet of rounds, Nick saw the gangster catch a shot to the gut, then chest, and fall over, releasing his weapon.
Returning to the battle in front of him, he spotted a pair of gangsters trying to break cover, both running out to a car. Nick alternated his fire as he ran, firing one bullet at a target before moving on to the next. He drilled six shots at the two, and they both collapsed, bleeding profusely, with two bullets in one body and three in the other.
Reaching his destination, Nick rolled away and landed on his stomach behind a Washington. The last two gangsters opened up on him with automatic weapons; sounded like M16s. He needed the extra firepower the MP5 afforded him.
Keeping as low as possible, he headed for the gangster he had shot earlier, behind the car he was using for cover. As it turned out, he was still alive, moaning softly as a blood bubble formed on his lips. Nick placed the barrel of his Browning to the man's forehead and pulled the trigger, seeing a storm of blood erupt from the man's head, before turning to his weapon.
The man wasn't using an MP5. It was a HK53 assault rifle, resembling a MP5 with an elongated handguard and smaller barrel. This rifle was the 5.56x45mm NATO variant of the venerable G3 assault rifle produced by Heckler und Koch…and as reliable and accurate as all hell.
Pocketing his Browning, Nick snatched up the HK53. He checked it, finding a more or less full magazine and a round in the chamber. Searching the dead man, Nick found a pair of magazines for the HK53, and eight hundred dollars in cash, all of which he pocketed. He checked the safety.
It was set to 'S'. Stupid idiot. Nick flicked the fire selection switch past 'S', to 'E', and then to 'F', remembering that the letters were the first letters for the German words for 'Safe', 'Single Fire', and 'Automatic' respectively…or something like that.
Peeking around his cover, he saw the remaining two gangsters, one moving towards him and the other behind another Sentinel. Raising his new (and somewhat unfamiliar) weapon, Nick aimed carefully, ignoring his burning left arm, and fired a burst into the moving gangster. The bullets tore into him, fragmenting, yawing and tumbling to create massive wounds inside him before blowing out the other side. The shooter fell forward on his face.
The other mobster saw that he was alone, then thought what the hell, and charged towards Nick, firing his rifle off his hip. The weapon emptied itself after half a minute, and all thirty shots in the magazine did nothing more than blow holes in the wall and force Nick behind cover temporarily.
The gangster stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he realized that his weapon was empty. Nick sprang up, aimed, and fired another burst into him, seeing him jerk with every impact, blood spurting out of his wounds.
When the last gangster collapsed, Nick turned around, coat swaying with his motion.
Gripping his new weapon with his left hand, Nick reached into his coat, removing a matchbox. Flicking it open with his right hand, he extracted a matchstick and shut the box by pressing it against his middle finger and palm.
Nick placed the match stick in his mouth, tasting fresh wood.
He headed for the ramp leading up and out of the Print Works' underground parking lot. He didn't get very far before he heard the sound of an approaching motorcycle, a Faggio by the sound of it.
Nick rolled behind a car, covering the ramp with his rifle. Presently, the Faggio rolled into view, carrying a black-helmeted rider dressed in a brown leather jacket and white trousers.
The rider stopped the vehicle. Something told Nick not to shoot.
The motorcyclist spotted Nick, and removed his helmet.
"Nick," Andy called.
"Andy," Nick replied, standing up.
The two men stared at each other, then broke into wide grins.
Walking up to Andy, Nick extended his right hand, removed the data roll from his arm, and held it in his damaged left hand, holding it out to him.
Andy took the roll.
Author's Note: Once again, I have modified the original scene from the movie due to legal and game-connected reasons. Among other things, Nick's character didn't pick up any weapons in the gunfight, and didn't make any headshots. Due to circumstances (a combination of exams, buggy Internet connection, homework, my parents, and a lack of free time), I'll be updating very sporadically, but THIS STORY IS NOT DEAD. I'll finish it soon…hopefully by the end of December. I think.