The room was quiet, dark, silent. A small beam of blue colored light was illuminated through the blinds early this rainy morning. Greg kept his eye out the window, his body shaking.

Gabe walked up behind them, "Greg," he whispered, "I got you on a flight to San Fierro."

"What?" he responded, worry in his voice, "Where will I stay? I don't know anybody there." Gabe shuffled around in his pockets and pulled out an abnormal amount of cash. He grabbed Greg's hand and put the cash upon his palm.

"It's from me and CJ. A little over eight grand, I'll keep in touch man."

"What if-that, that cop still follows me?"

"He won't, look in the closet for a new set of clothes, your plane doesn't leave until one o'clock. That gives you four hours to get haircut, supplies, and maybe some food. Take my old Vincent, parked around the side the house, kay?"

And just like that, Greg was gone.

Bone County, San Andreas's wasteland. The remote desert where random bodies and bones can be found spread out amongst the deserts canyons and sand dunes. Today, the sand was dark, still damp with rain, like mud but still till hot with the heat from the intensifying midday sun. Heat could be seen rising off in the distance.

Four cars, four sets of people, all heading to the same place. Pierce, the driver of the Nebula, was speeding along the empty desert roads. He had the car doing eighty-ninety mph along the straight, slightly curved roads. He cautiously watched passing signs, buildings, the environment, and just as he expected, a cop was posted along one of the roads. As they passed the car speeding, they expected him to give chase. No chase was given, the cop was dead, murdered with a firearm, just another corrupt bastard who got what he deserved.

The orange Kuruma smoothly headed out of Venturas, slowly passing by various vehicles and pedestrians. Keeping low Max stayed four cars back at all times, in the grey Sentinel that was also loaded up into the AT-300 cargo plane. The traffic was unreal to this time of day, they slowly made their way north in Venturas along the Julius Thru Way West, towards Pilson Intersection where they took a right onto the ramp, gliding over a building below, heading into the heat-struck desert in which no clouds were protecting it from the sun.

A single zap of pan spread through Max's upper body, originating from the puncture wound. He gasped, grabbing his injured shoulder. He felt drowsy. What was this doing to him? He popped a few more pills in his mouth, and by the time they crossed over the train tracks, the pain was almost gone. His bones ached, the wound stinging. But he had to go on, he had to survive, at least another hour to get the job done. Can he last that long? Only time will tell.

One car ahead of Max, the unsuspecting group of Liberty Mercenaries, Tommy, Claude, Phil, Mario, and Ken, sped along the worsening roads, keeping sight on the orange Kuruma, which they had seen Toni get in before they dispatched from the airport. Behind the drivers seat in Tommy's car, Phil was examining one of the Russian Kalashnikov rifles they had. Tommy glanced in the rear view mirror.

"For Christ's sake Phil, quit waving that thing around." He moved the mirror over a bit. He caught himself glancing into a grey Sentinels driver seat, someone with a bloody left arm driving alone, his face blackened out by shadows. Suspicious. But nothing to worry about at the moment.

The roads became bumpy, making the ride un-enjoyable. Across one bump someone cried, "Ouch!" Claude looked around, only Mario and Ken in his car, they both didn't scream, suspicious. Then Claude spotted a bloody driver alone in a grey Sentinel, wearing a bloody white shirt, and a torn up black tie. Also suspicious.

Two minutes later the three cars tailing the Kuruma were above a cliff, an aircraft graveyard below. The Kuruma took a dirt road down towards an abandoned building. The three followers waited before they continued down the path, and with that action, Claude and Tommy knew that the bloody driver of the grey Sentinel was following Toni.

Max realized that the two cars were also following Connor, so he took a different route, driving south along a road, instead of continuing along a dirt road directly towards the graveyard, endangering himself.

Max grabbed his phone.

The Nebula picked up speed, heading north.

"Hello?"

"Pierce,"

"Max."

"They are heading to an abandoned airstrip, just north of Area 69."

"Okay Max, I'm on my way. Don't do anything stupid now."

The car sped past the twenty year old Octane Springs oil drills. Taking a left at an old motel, the empty road would lead them right past Area 69 and directly to the abandoned airstrip, where the expected conflict would happen.

At the airstrip itself, Max had parked along the southern end, keeping behind a beat up pile of plane parts, here he waited for Pierce to arrive, keeping an eye on the situation.

At the end of the sandy strip near the hanger and control room, three black Huntley SUV's were parked, along with the Kuruma. Mafia soldiers dressed in black accounted for the vehicles, 12 of them, plus Toni, Connor, Kingpin, and Stephen.

Max watched curiously as the soldiers opened the back of a Huntley, unloading a large truck. They opened it to show Connor it's contents. Max couldn't tell what it was.

"Damn it Pierce, hurry up." He whispered to himself.

Tommy had stationed his men in strategic locations among the brush and behind the small hangers opposite of Max. They would be ready to attack on queue.

Still watching, Max clenched his injury. The bleeding stopped but the pain persisted, something was wrong. Still feeling drowsy, he took a breath. Stupid bolt. Don't be weak Max. You can do this.

A minute or two later, there still was no sign of Pierce. The deal was almost over. "No." Max whispered yet again. Who were those guys following Connor? Will they attack?

As if on queue, Max spotted a one armed man upon a small hanger across the strip, with a large weapon in hand. A beam of light erected from the barrel of his weapon. One of the mafias soldiers heads practically burst, throwing blood and brain into the air, splattering amongst a two meter radius. As if time stopped, the shot echoed in the silent air. The man finally fell to the ground, his blood leaking out of a newly made hole in his forehead.

With one single shot, it started a war. From here shot rang out of all types, shotgun, submachine gun, machine gun, sniper, grenades, etc. The shots were in a pattern, returning fire after every set of shots between two sides. Where the hell is Pierce?