Church of the Sacrament
Darkness fell across the city…just the plain darkness that comes with the absence of light, not the absence of good, like so many other days in VC. The night sky was brighter, lighter somehow. Nick didn't notice, however, and Andy wrote it off to the extremely bright lights the hotels in VC use.
The small church, a chapel, really, was empty. Save for Andy and Nick, it showed no signs of life. The church's four-by-eight set of pews, used only a few hours ago, were old and battered, but free of any deliberate damage. The pulpit, still stood proudly, taking centre stage, its age not a bane, but a boon. Behind it was the rood screen, also called a jube, its tarnished brass bars starting to fell rough to the touch.
Neither Andy nor Nick cared. They were watching the only entrance to the church…and waiting. Andy stood by the pulpit; he had a clear line of sight to the front door. He kept his hands in the pockets of his brown coat: in the right pocket was his Beretta, in the left were three spare magazines. His hair had started to go gray, emphasizing the deep-set lines in his face. On any other day, in any other place, he would be smoking…but something told him that it wouldn't be proper, not here.
Nick stood in the shadows next to the door, shifting his weight on his bad leg. He wore a blank expression on his face, neither happy nor sad, angry or bitter…just nothing. Over his green overalls was his duster, the only other piece of clothing he had left. He grasped the HK53 tightly in his right hand, waiting for the chance to use it. He leaned against the wall, his breathing falling into a slow, gentle, rhythm, as regular as a metronome.
All was calm, as calm as the second before a violent storm. Time seemed to slow down, sluggishly moving through the space-time continuum, like a man attempting to run while submerged in water. The men stood.
Watching.
Waiting.
"Nick…" Andy said suddenly.
"Yeah?" the ex-mechanic replied.
"Do you believe in God?"
"Yeah, I do," he wearily answered. "I am a god. Anybody with the power to change anything is a god."
He sighed.
"But even a god can't protect himself," he ominously concluded.
"Christine knows the truth behind this affair; I passed the data roll to her," Nick changed tack.
"Good. There're still some honest cops in the VCPD…they'll tie up that loose end for us."
"Hopefully…"
No, not hopefully. Tony would. He would see to that. After all, his sworn mission in life was to protect and serve the people of Vice City, which means going after criminals of all stripes.
Outside the church, a car pulled up to the pavement. Both ex-Made Men heard the doors open, then slam shut. A few seconds later, the door opened, revealing Mike DeFrantz and his four bodyguards. Mike held a plain black briefcase in his left hand; his bodyguards kept their pistols in their coat pockets.
There would be no swap, Andy knew. As soon as the Mafia goons got their hands on the data roll, Andy and Nick would be as good as dead: the modern-day Mafia had forgotten the meaning of a word called honor.
Which was why neither Andy nor Nick played fair today.
They entered the church, oblivious to Nick's presence…or the fact that he was creeping up behind them.
"Don't move," Nick whispered, stepping forward and raising his weapon to Mike's head.
Mike froze in shock, inhaling sharply. His brain took control, and released the pressure in his chest.
His men whipped around, reaching for their pieces—
"Don't!" Mike hissed. "Don't do anything, boys."
"But, Boss—" one of them protested.
"Don't."
"Okay."
Nick took a step backwards, then limped around in front of the Mafia men, covering them with his gun. Mike and his bodyguards stood, helpless before a one-man firing squad. They heard the rumors, how Nick had personally cut down a gang of criminals in a botched extortion…and those goons had their guns out, not in their pockets.
The fact that Nick had shot the gangsters while they were drawing their weapons was lost to the world…not that he minded, of course.
Nick gimped up to Mike, placing the muzzle of his HK53 at Mike's throat. The gangster stiffened as Nick frisked him with one hand. Nick pulled out Mike's Beretta M9 from his shoulder holster, as easily as taking candy from a baby, and aimed both guns at him.
"The money?" Nick demanded.
Mike held out his briefcase. Andy took it with his left hand, keeping his gun hand free.
"The data roll?" Mike asked.
"With the police."
Mike's eyes bulged in shock. Andy allowed himself a quiet, internal smile, savoring that moment of triumph, when you know that your enemy knows that you have bested him…and that he has no hope of redemption.
Andy drew his pistol, covering the gangsters. Nick picked up the heavy briefcase, setting in on the pulpit. He set his hands on the briefcase, preparing to open it.
"Wait!" Mike shouted.
Nick looked up.
"There's a bomb inside the briefcase."
Nick hesitated, keeping his hands where they were. What could he do now? Mike could be bluffing; he wasn't above using such dirty tricks. But then, he could be deadly serious: the briefcase was too heavy to be holding just money. If he opened it…if he opened it…
"You're that cowardly?" Mike taunted. "How can you challenge me?"
Nick hesitated. He could open it…he could leave it…and that was all he could do. Last year, Mike had killed a rival by delivering a bomb to his home, disguised as a bouquet of flowers. Mike could also be bluffing…
"You idiot!" Mike yelled. "If there were a bomb in the briefcase, it'll kill us all if it explodes!"
Well, what the hell: an explosion at this range would probably kill Mike, so if there really was a bomb in the briefcase, then at least, the two of them would go to hell together, Nick decided.
Slowly, hesitatingly, he unclasped the locks on the briefcase, and opened it.
Inside the briefcase were rows and rows of green dollar bills, United States currency, all old, used and unmarked. Only this, and nothing more.
Nick inwardly heaved a mental sigh of relief.
"I told you so!" Mike called, smiling, relishing the moment.
A strange expression overcame Nick's face, an amalgam of fury, hatred, bitterness, relief, battle-joy, and death. He walked up to Mike—
Andy muttered, "Nick, what are you—"
Nick threw a swift right roundhouse punch, landing it on Mike's cheek, knocking him to the floor with a surprised cry.
Meanwhile, at Hyman Condos…
Chia inspected the remains of Peter Baldacci. It was not a pretty sight, but death never was.
The domestic staff had called the police twenty minutes ago, reporting that a man had barged into the apartment he was in, and shot Baldacci twice. They said that he was wearing green overalls, a black duster, and dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. Crime Scene Investigation had secured the body, and was now looking for evidence.
Chia sighed and stood up. Around him were six members of the VCPD CSI, all dressed in civilian clothes and carrying briefcases full of equipment. All were furiously combing the area with magnifying glasses and white rubber gloves. Chia stepped aside, leaving the scene of the crime and ducking under the police tape he had thrown up.
The staff was being interviewed by the responding detective after him. They were sitting down on some chairs moved in from the dining room, waiting for their turn to speak. Chia approached them, removing a notebook from his pocket, containing the photographs of known contract killers and gangsters in VC.
He flipped open to a random criminal, showed it to the staff, and asked, "Is this the shooter?"
"No," they said, each with his or her variation on the response.
"His face is rounder," one suggested.
Chia flipped to another page, and repeated the question. Of course, he received a negative reply. This charade continued, confirming that they hadn't been ordered to select the first poor idiot they saw from the book.
Finally, Chia showed them Nicholas Caruso's picture.
"That's him! That's the one!" one of them affirmed.
The others agreed.
"Thank you," Chia responded. "Will you testify?"
"Yes."
Later…
Nick and Andy drove Mike to the docks in a stolen car, his bodyguards trailing behind in Mike's white limousine. Not a word was exchanged between hostage and captors in the journey, the tense silence a grim prologue of what to come next.
Both parties stopped just outside the docks. Andy got out first, keeping his Beretta's muzzle at Mike's throat as he forced the mob boss out of the car. Andy faced the bodyguards, using Mike as a human shield of sorts. Nick grabbed his stolen HK53, shut the door, and whispered, "Mike, you move, Andy will blow your brains out…and then I'll cut you in half."
Mike nodded.
"Let's go," Andy urged, prodding the barrel of his pistol into Mike's back.
The seven men cautiously made their way to the jetty at the far side of the docks. Nick led the way with his HK53, probing the darkness for any sign of life. Andy walked backwards, occasionally looking over his shoulder at his partner-in-crime, no, comrade, now restraining Mike in a chokehold. The bodyguards followed them, of course, weapons drawn. Not a word was said; none was needed.
Suddenly, Nick caught movement in the dark, just behind a crate.
He pointed his carbine at the crate, finger moving to the trigger, disengaging the safety.
A man suddenly popped up, a pistol in his hands—
Nick fired, a conical-cylindrical stream of fire erupting from the muzzle of the HK53. The gangster collapsed with a strangled scream.
All around them, more gangsters appeared, weapons drawn, and looking for a fight, somewhere in the shadows of the docks.
"SHIT! MOVE!" Nick screamed, running for cover.
"You set us up!" Andy snarled at Mike, moving as fast as he could, still holding on to Mike.
"You were going to do the same to us! I have sources in the VCPD, you know!" Mike retorted.
Andy saw somebody move, from the corner of his eye. He pointed his pistol at the person's general direction and fired four times. Another mobster revealed himself from behind a forklift next to a pile of crates, a few meters to Andy's front, his Uzi cutting a wild burst. Andy drilled him twice in the centre of mass, and the gangster went down.
Nick vaulted over a crate, now just a few yards from the jetty where their getaway boat was, just a few more yards to the end. He peeked over the wooden crate, seeing Andy and Mike move too freaking slowly for his taste.
"MOVE, DAMMIT!" he screamed, standing up and bringing his HK53 to his shoulder. He fired at the closest muzzle flash he saw, then the next, and then another, and another, empty cartridge casings flying from the ejection port in a golden spray. He didn't really track the men's progress, he was just shooting anything that moved and fired.
An eternity later, Andy and Mike lay next to Nick, who was still shooting.
He crouched to reload, and saw the two men.
"Go to the boat first!" Andy shouted.
"Aren't you going?" Nick demanded.
"No! I've business to attend to here. I'll contact you! GO!" he urged.
"All right. Goodbye, then."
Nick went prone, and crawled towards the boat. Andy stood up, jerking his hostage to his feet.
Meanwhile, at the entrance of the docks…
Tony paid the taxi driver, and stepped out of the car. As soon as the cab left, the area exploded into gunfire.
SHIT!
Drawing his service pistol, he ran into the dock. He forgot his training, though. After taking a few steps into the dock, a man stuck his foot out from the shadows, tripping the inspector. He went tumbling forward, landing flat on his face, his Colt clattering away somewhere.
As he picked himself up, a cold voice whispered, "You're coming with me, cop."
"What the—"
The gangster behind him grabbed the policeman by the collar of his jacket and forced him to his feet. Tony swore, and raised his hands. He felt cold, hard hands pat him down, efficiently frisking him, and throwing his spare magazines away. A sharp pain to his kidneys encouraged him to move.
A few moments later…
"STOP SHOOTING AT ME, IDIOTS!" Mike desperately roared, bullets whizzing past his ear. Andy was still using him as a human shield, engaging all the gangsters he could see.
The gunfire stopped. Just as well; Andy only had two bullets left in the magazine.
"Bring him here!" someone ordered.
A couple of shadows appeared. The one in front stumbled forwards, into a lamppost's area of influence. Andy saw the person's face—
What the hell!
Tony looked up, standing under the light.
"What the hell!" he muttered.
"He's your brother, isn't he?" an unseen voice asked, the question aimed at Andy.
He didn't reply, his silence enough of an answer.
"Let's have a little swap, shall we? You let the boss go, and we'll return your brother to you," whoever the hell it was offered.
"Damn you!" Tony shouted.
"Well, Andrew?" the Voice insisted.
"Damn you," he whispered, forcing Mike away from what little cover the crate afforded.
"Shit…" Tony sighed, seeing Andy drag Mike towards a patch of open ground, right where anyone could shoot him.
"Go, damn you," Andy hissed, kicking Mike forward.
The mob boss regained his composure after a moment. Standing up, tall and proud, he walked towards his men. Tony was given a rough shove forward. Keeping his hands up, he walked towards Andy.
Both criminal and cop met, after a few moments of silence.
Then, Mike stopped.
So did Tony.
Andy kept his Beretta pointed at the mobsters.
The unseen gangsters trained their weapons on Tony and Andy.
Standoff.
A moment passed.
A lifetime ticked by.
Then, Mike moved.
"NOW!" he shouted, diving to his right.
"Shit!" Andy cursed, diving to his left, towards another pile of crates and boxes.
"Damn!" Tony muttered, lunging towards his brother.
A hail of gunfire followed, rounds screaming above the men's heads, just barely missing them. Tony crawled and writhed towards the nearest cover he could find. So did his brother. Mike picked himself up as soon as he hit the ground, and ran towards his men, vaulting past a makeshift barricade of crates and vehicles, and landing next to his men.
"You okay, boss?" one of them asked.
"Yeah," he replied, not even looking at him. "Give me a gun."
"Here!"
A firearm appeared out of nowhere, arcing through the air. Mike caught it cleanly and confidently, immediately recognizing it as a Skorpion machine pistol. Standing up, he pointed the weapon at the brothers, and unleashed a burst.
"What the hell!" Tony exclaimed, seeing Andy next to him.
"No time for pleasantries. Let's go!" his criminal brother commanded.
"I don't have a gun!" Tony pointed out, bullets ricocheting off the metal containers next to the crate. He belatedly realized that the crate they were using for cover was made of wood; bullets would be able to tear through t very easily…and had: he saw a couple of holes in the crate.
Andy reached under his jacket, extracting an S & W Model 18 revolver, and tossed it to Tony. As soon as the inspector caught it, Andy passed a couple of speedloaders to him, devices designed to store six bullets to allow rapid reloading of revolvers.
"Let's rock!" Andy cried.
Author's Note: In the original movie, I think Tony was allowed to keep his gun, which is somewhat stupid. Also, there was no Voice in the movie: Mike handled the negotiations. Here, due to legal and plot reasons, I can't do that. Finally, it is hard to say what the crates were made of in the movie; it was too dark. Now, my exams are over, and there's one more chapter to go. It should be done by the end of the week.