The incessant ringing woke me. My eyes shot open, scanning the ceiling. I squirmed lazily on the bed, my legs tangled and glued to the sheets with sweat. My clothes hung on the bottom bed post, a small pool of blood had formed underneath. Seeing it reminded me of yesterday, of the blood, the screams, the horror. . .
The phone rang again, almost more persistently. I threw myself to the bedside table, smashing a fist into the creamy white coloured phone, forcing the receiver to spring up into my grip.
"What?" I grunted, swallowing phlegm.
"Kid, it's Ray."
"You woke me up."
"Oh, sorry your majesty. I forgot princess likes to sleep 'til nine at night on Mondays. Where are my fucking manners?" he replied, angrily. I could almost feel the spittle through the phone.
"What do you want, Ray? Wait, how the fuck did you get this number?"
" "How the fuck did you get this number?" " he mimicked, in a whiny voice. "Kid, you know who I am. You know what contacts I have. You know that I can get my hands on any information I desire. And you know that I don't like shitbirds like you thinking they're better than me! So get to the fucking docks, now! I'll meet you there in half an hour. Come alone, it's important."
The phone went dead. I dropped back down onto the pillow, tossed the receiver at a wall.
I never get a fucking day off.
I climbed out of bed, shaking my legs free from the bedlinen. I shuffled through to the bathroom, supporting myself on the sink. I gazed deep into the mirror, saw a sorry excuse of a man looking back. I spent most of the night replaying all the torment, all the horrible things I'd seen and done. I remembered how my family and I had been set for life and how it was all taken away from me in the blink of a power-mad old bastard's eye. I remembered finding my daughter screaming for her daddy as the house filled with blaze and I could do nothing but scream back. All the times I'd come close to death working for other people. The most haunting image of all was witnessing, in super slow motion, as I dropped Donald Love into the blades of the waiting chopper, and how Asuka and her gang could still only think about work. I gazed into the mirror again, and looked instantly worse.
I splashed cold water onto my face, brushed hair out of my eyes and returned to the sitting room, carpeted with noodle cartons and pizza boxes. I paced towards the bed, picked up a shirt, crispy with dried blood, and looked at it in disgust. I took the pile of clothes and threw them out the window. I checked the closet, and found a gleaming white, brand new shirt and blue jeans hanging in the otherwise bare wardrobe. I threw them on – perfect fit – and stepped into soggy shoes, then made for the door, drawing a .45 from the jeans pocket.
I grinned, and muttered, "Asuka. . ."
I climbed into the Stinger, my other car still tucked away at the casino. Portland docks was quite a drive away, the smell of fresh rain was sickening. I drove slowly, kept to the speed limit, more for my safety than anyone else's. It took me about twenty-five minutes, and when I pulled into the large open docks, I could see Ray was already there, down near the crane.
A storm had picked up since then, the low rumble of thunder added to the intensity of the mood as I stepped out of my car, and walked over to greet him, standing with his hands behind his back.
"Ray. . .", I said, unsteadily, as lightning crackled over in Staunton.
Ray nodded, his eyes darted to his left, the wall, and back again, unsure.
I caught movement where he was looking. I knew what was happening.
I threw myself behind some metal barrels as the first shots were fired.
Thunder exploded overhead, the rain stung my eyes. I drew the gun and fired back, hitting air.
"You bastard, Ray, you fucking set me up!"
"I told ya, kid," he said calmly, "It's a dog eat dog world, and I only work to get paid!"
The figure stepped out from the shadows.
It was him.
The one who killed my family and framed me for murder.
"I'll fucking kill you, both of you!"
I leapt out firing, blinded by rage. I didn't give a fuck any more, I just kept firing at the figures, shadowed by the darkness, until I heard Ray scream, "Oh, fuck! My leg! Dammit, get me the fuck outta here, kid!"
My nemesis ran with Ray off behind the wall, leaving me sodden with rain and nervous sweat and gasping for breath.
Headlights lit up the docks, a car screamed past, spraying fallen rain into my eyes.
Without thinking, I decided to give chase.
I ran back to my car and keyed it, and took off after them, the blinding headlights the only clue as to where they had gone.
The windshield wipers did little more than spread the rainwater across the window, making driving all the more dangerous. Every so often a flash would light up the sky – the only light to be seen, apparently the storm had caused a citywide power outage.
I gunned it, closing the gap between the cars as they turned out of the docks and over the Callahan Bridge. The bridge structure shone brightly against the fire in the sky, casting disturbing shadows on the road.
I started ramming the back of the Patriot, but its massive bulk was too sturdy to move. Car horns rang out into the night, angry citizens of Liberty City always in a rush.
I cleared the blur from the window again. Suddenly the roof of the Patriot came loose, revealing Ray holding an AK. He laughed triumphantly over the howling wind and rain, and let rip.
My windshield exploded into a million fragments, falling like the never ending rain. I yanked on the wheel, forcing the car to the left, into the inside lane, almost losing control on the flooded streets.
I had the speed advantage. I pulled up next to the Patriot, out of range of Ray's shooting. The freezing rain continued to sting my face and eyes, while my hair, weighted with rain, flopped across my vision. I had to screw my face up to see the street ahead.
We kept driving along the bridge. Rain turned to hail, like powerful little bullets bouncing off the car with deafening loudness.
"Oh, fuck!" I yelled. Little orange lights flashed off and on up ahead, indicating a crash. Something the shape of a Sentinel and something with the mass of a van blockaded half the road. I yelled again, and thrust my steering to the right, grinding into the Patriot in a vain attempt to force it over. Sparks singed my flesh, we got closer to the wreck up ahead.
The Patriot was immovable, I took a new split second decision and turned the other way, launching off the sloped divider between the sides of the bridge.
My Stinger took to the skies, rotating from the sketchy take off. With the driver's side now facing the road, I watched out the window I had been thrown against, regretting not wearing a seatbelt. Looking through the driver's side window, I noticed I was a surprising height over the ground, and had jumped over several cars speeding in the opposite direction.
Slowly, after what came to be a heart-stopping eternity, the car touched back down, scraping along the left side of the bridge, my door crumpling as it fought with the ground under it, my ribs bruising and flesh tearing.
I threw myself to the floor of the car with enough force to tip it onto four wheels again, but the Patriot was nowhere to be seen.
"Shit. . .", I muttered, stomping on the throttle again, sending a sudden surge of life through the vehicle.
Topping seventy miles an hour, weaving around angry drivers passing me in the other direction, I came to the conclusion that there would be one place Ray would be likely to go – the airport.
Without hesitation, I pressed on through the busy intersection that welcomed travellers to Staunton, and made a sharp right by the shore; the Shoreside Lift Bridge nearby, a noticeable trail of destruction to keep me on track.
Driving closer, I could see the Patriot on the bridge support above the water, the chiming bells my gift – the perfect opportunity to gain some ground on my betrayer. I gunned it through red lights, taking the pavement to avoid the traffic. The car jerked, a bluesuit rolled across the bonnet, slamming into the back seat. He quickly drew his gun and caught the butt of it smashing into his face. His grip released, awarding me with a new service issue 9mm and a possible dead cop in my back seat.
I made my way onto the coiling bridge.
Chimes sang a hopeful song.
Cars turned off in all directions, trying to avoid the crazy man with the corpse in his car. The cars parted like the Red Sea – all but one. I could hear Ray yelling from half the bridge's length away. I hit the gas. Ray hit the window. Chimes faded, engines roared, both our cars tore up the road, but the sleek little sports car had the upper hand.
The bridge started downhill, I crept to about the width of two cars from the Patriot, saw arms flailing from the inside, Ray hitting the deck, arms over head. I looked ahead. Black Kurumas – FBI cars – lined the turn-off from the bridge, a few of them stood by their doors, fully armed with intent to kill the guy with the dead officer in his back seat. That is, until Ray and his henchman forced their way through, spraying paint chips and sparks all over the place.
I made for the gap as a half dozen sirens started to cry.
A whole new chase was on now.
The Patriot didn't look intent on stopping, it ploughed on, leaping over a mound of grass, crashing down in front of the airport.
Like an idiot I followed, launched my dinky little Banshee off the mini-cliff – bailed out before the whole thing went up in flames. Flaming paintwork rained down on the public. A woman screamed.
I rolled on the landing, got up as Ray ran for the doors. I lined up a shot – too risky. Let him go.
Something clicked. I didn't have to look. I knew it would be him. He was there to finish the job. I had one of those feelings, like when they say you're life flashes before your eyes.
It hurt.
I closed my eyes, tensed – the more I did it, the worse the memories came flooding back. I started to remember it was all because of him. It seemed ironic for him to be the end of the troubles. It wasn't the first time I thought about giving up, as the cold metal caressed the back of my neck.
I swallowed the saliva that was building in my mouth, and heard a voice.
Drop your weapons and get on the ground!
He turned round. I opened my eyes. I remembered life. I didn't remember much else, except that I was running.
I vaulted the candy-cane pole at the airport entrance, took a swift glance back ways to see him shoot it full of holes.
He wasn't too far behind – I hoped it was far enough to hinder his accuracy – and about the same distance behind him came the onslaught of special agents, and the chopper, forcing the strewn litter into a tornado. Each gyration of the blades was a heartbeat, a footstep, a gunshot. Voices called out, becoming less and less distinctive. Sirens wailed a distant tune. The screech of tyres, the falling hail, the clockwork crackle of thunder - it was overwhelming, and he was unrelenting.
I turned around, and kept running.