Hello and welcome back to another chapter! Sorry for the delay, the holidays were crazy! This chapter serves as the climax of the story as a rescue mission is (finally) underway, but there's still a couple chapters left coming out soon. As always, enjoy!

"Rise and shine!" were the only three words that he heard before a bucket of icy water was dumped over his head, soaking him from miserable head to toe.

Michael immediately shot awake, spluttering and cursing, and blindly thrashed around for a moment before coming back to his senses. He sat there stock still, water that was pink with his blood running down his body and wet strands of hair falling forwards into his face, and shivered from the rivulets. Through his good eye, he could see Devin standing there with a smirk on his face and an empty bucket held loosely in his hand.

He sighed briefly. Another day in hell. It had been...what now? A day? Or was it two? He'd lost track; the days kinda melded into one another when one was in a constant state of either being beaten or being unconscious. Either way, it was a new day judging by the sunlight streaming in through the singular window of the warehouse.

Isn't someone missing me? he wondered sadly. Amanda, the kids...they had to know something was wrong, didn't they? Were they looking for him? Did they give up? Did Devin get them, too? The possibilities that ran through his mind were endless and none of them were happy. Franklin was probably tired of saving his ass so many times by this point, and Trevor would probably come to finish the job himself if he could, the dick.

Too lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice Devin getting another bucket of water until he was standing back in front of him and getting ready for another round. "I'm awake," Michael muttered with more energy and urgency than he'd had in days. "Sadly…"

"Oh, good," Devin said happily, setting the bucket back down. "Was getting worried you'd finally died on us."

"Ah, you're not that lucky," Michael said, spitting out the bloody water that had ran into his mouth. He wearily glanced around the warehouse, noting the amount of Merryweather agents that were around, a stark contrast to the one or two of the last couple days.

"Just in case those friends of yours show up," Devin explained. "I don't know why they would, though; that kid really seems annoyed with you and that psycho Trevor."

"Yeah, tell me somethin' I don't know," Michael said under his breath.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, but even that slightest movement sent pain coursing through every fiber of his being and elicited a pathetic whimper from his mouth. He curled his uninjured fingers into his palm (his broken ones just twitched uselessly) and tried to distract himself from the agony, but he couldn't. His shirt clung to his gaunt frame, stuck there from the blood and water.

He wouldn't make it much longer, he knew that. The stab wounds on his back had finally just stopped bleeding along with the gash on his head, and his sides made him feel like screaming whenever he so much as breathed. If they didn't shoot him first, he was bound to bleed out.

Devin laughed at his weak struggles. "You're losing your strength, Slick," he said before turning to one of the mercenaries and whispering something in his ear. The lackey nodded before heading off to do whatever bullshit errand he'd been assigned to.

"And you're still an annoying ass, Devin," Michael spat out. "But I guess some things don't change, huh?"

The other man shrugged. "I guess. Just like you leaving this place in a body bag won't," Devin said. "And I'm beginning to think today's that day…"

That shut him up. It wasn't as if he didn't know his time was running out-he was acutely aware of that-but he couldn't stop thinking about it. Sure, it wasn't his first time being tortured to death in a warehouse, but it was his first time that he actually had anything to give a shit about while being tortured in said warehouse.

Last time, he didn't care. He thought he deserved all the bruises, all the cuts and scars. He thought he deserved to die because no one would miss him, anyway. This time, at the hands of Devin, no less? He had more regrets than he could count. His family...he'd never see them again. Would never get to hold or kiss Amanda again. Wouldn't get to argue with Tracey about her stupid antics or get to play that dumb video game with Jimmy again. Hell, he wouldn't even get to apologize to Trevor…

"Fuck…" he growled, voice catching in his throat, and thrashed halfheartedly against the handcuffs. They rattled against the armchairs uselessly, only echoing the futility of his situation.

Devin smiled cruelly at him, about to say some smug comment before the mercenary reappeared, dragging something behind him. "Ah, perfect," he said, clapping his hands together in sheer joy. "Hope you can hold your breath for a while."

Before Michael could ask or wonder what that meant, the mercenary stepped in front of him, revealing the barrel filled to the brim with water. He quickly put two and two together and began to panic, slamming himself against the handcuffs fearfully.

"Wait a second-" he shakily started, but his head was thrust under the water before he could finish.

The coldness, that was the first thing he felt. It seeped into his very pores and eerily reminded him of North Yankton's frozen rivers that he'd had the misfortune of falling into once during a job. He instinctively tried to gasp for air, but was quickly rewarded with a mouthful of water. Agonizing moments that felt like hours passed, and soon enough, fear overpowered any other sense. His lungs felt like they were being crushed as if they knew they needed air now more than ever.

Just when his already-shitty vision had started to go black, he was jerked up out of the water like a fish being reeled in. He immediately started coughing out the water, watching the pink-tinted liquid splash to the floor. Michael rested his head against the rim of the barrel, gasping, and tried to regain what composure he had left. "A little cold for my taste…" he managed to wisecrack.

"Oh, you'll get used to it," Devin said dismissively. He glanced between Michael and the mercenary before laughing a little. "Do it again."

This time, Michael held his breath.

She poured herself another drink. It was her third or fourth at this point; she'd lost track. She'd already burned through her wine, so she'd moved onto Michael's whiskey in an attempt to feel anything. Anything but the paralyzing worry and fear of the last two days or the emptiness that awaited her in bed or the ghost of her husband in her head.

Amanda took a long pull on the whiskey. She had always hated the drink, but it reminded her of Michael. Where are you? she asked herself as she twisted her wedding ring around her finger. It was a part of the constant mantra in her head ever since that night. Ever since she'd seen that damn picture that she saw every time she shut her eyes of her tortured and helpless husband.

Another drink. At this point, she'd probably wind up sick or with a nasty hangover. She had just been starting to shakily pour the rest of the amber liquid into the glass when her daughter walked in, scoffing disapprovingly.

"Seriously? Now?" Tracey asked, shaking her head in disappointment. "Shouldn't you...I don't know, be out helping look for Dad and not getting shitfaced?"

"And shouldn't you be keeping your mouth shut?" Amanda snapped, cursing to herself when she noticed the slur of her voice. Her shoulders slumped at that. "Sorry, Trace...I just...can't. I don't know anything about where he'd be or how to help. This is how I try to fucking cope with all this craziness, okay? By getting shitfaced drunk and trying to forget that he might be dead or dying or tortured…" Her voice cracked on the second part of the sentence and she felt the familiar tears sting at the corners of her eyes.

"Fuck, Mom...I'm sorry," Tracey whispered, sitting down next to her. She reached over and gripped her hand reassuringly. "We'll find him. Dad's tough, he'll be okay. He'll be okay…" she repeated, as if she was trying to convince herself more than Amanda.

Amanda barely had time to reflect on the nice moment with her daughter before her phone started vibrating next to her. She lifted it almost hesitantly, as if expecting to see another picture of Michael in even worse condition, but saw that Trevor was calling her instead. Sighing in dread, she answered it.

"Heyy, Trevor…" she mumbled, words starting to melt into one another.

"The hell?" Trevor said gruffly in way of greeting. "Are you drunk?"

"No…" she said innocently, clutching the whiskey bottle in a death grip. "I am getting drunk!"

She could almost see him roll his eyes on the other end of the line. "Uh, now might not be the best time for your not-so-secret alcoholism, Mandy," Trevor said sarcastically, earning an eye roll from her. "If you were here instead of getting drunk like your fat snake of a husband would, you'd know that we finally have a fucking lead-"

Trevor's insult was quickly cut off by struggling on the other end of the phone followed by a couple curses before she heard Franklin's voice. "Uh, sorry about him, Mrs. De Santa," the young man said almost sheepishly. "But Lester thinks he found Michael's ass, so y'all better get over here."

For the first time in two days, a small feeling of hope rose in her. "Shit...okay!" she said, trying not to get too excited. There had been plenty of dead ends so far and this lead might not have been any different. "Just text me the address of wherever you guys are at."

"Alright. We'll see y'all soon," Franklin said before hanging up. About a minute later, her phone buzzed again with the text.

"Well?" Tracey anxiously asked her the second she put the phone down. "What's up?"

Amanda set the bottle down, smiling faintly. "They think they found your father," she said, ignoring her own advice to herself as she broke out in a grin. "So we better get going, that idiot isn't gonna save himself…"

Tracey practically jumped out of her chair in excitement. Her eyes, reminding Amanda so much of Michael's, lit up with determination and happiness. "Fuck, yeah! Let's go!" she said, immediately jumping out of the chair.

"Okay…" Amanda said, reaching over for her car keys, but her daughter stole them before she could grab them. "What the fuck?" she asked, irritated.

"I'm not adding drunk driving to the list of crimes our family's done," Tracey said, smirking and tauntingly holding the car keys. "Now, go get my dear brother and we can go."

"Alright, shit...when did you become so demanding?" Amanda said under her breath as she got up to go upstairs.

"Since Dad got kidnapped by a psycho billionaire and you started drinking even more," Tracey shot back almost instantly, one eyebrow raised as if begging for more challenges.

"Fair enough," Amanda said. Ugh, maybe she's too much like Michael and I, she thought with a soft laugh.

Without another word, she went upstairs to retrieve her son, who she'd barely talked to in all of the chaos. He'd kept himself locked in his room, shut off from the harsh reality of the outside world, and had barely said a word to her or Tracey. No matter how distant he was with his father, what happened had shaken him to his very core and it affected him more than he liked to admit.

She knocked first. "Jimmy, honey?" she asked gently. "Can I come in?"

It took him a long moment before he responded. "Yeah, sure, Mom…" he said, voice muffled through the door.

The sight that met her when she opened the door almost broke her heart. His room somehow managed to be even messier than usual, as if a tornado of takeout boxes and junk food had torn through it, and he sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

She quickly walked over to him and sat next to him. "Hey…" she said softly. "How are you holding up?"

"How do you think?" Jimmy asked bitterly, still not looking up at her. "I was such a dick to him, Mom, all the time...and now he might be dead…"

"We all were dicks to him," she admitted. "But he loves you and he knows you love him. We're going to get him back and you're going to get to make it up to him, okay?"

"Okay…" he said shakily. "Thanks, Mom…"

"Anytime. Now, come on," she said, gesturing for him to get up. "Trevor and Franklin think they've found him so we better get going."

"Really?" he asked, gazing up at her with wide, hopeful eyes.

"Yeah, really," she said, holding the door open for him. "Your sister's waiting for us in the car."

Finally, a couple minutes later, all three of them were in her car with Tracey behind the wheel, much to Amanda's dismay.

"Just don't crash my car, please," Amanda said, resting her head against the window as they pulled out of the driveway. "I get nervous enough when your father drives it."

"Relax," Tracey said, a mischievous look in her eyes. "I'm an awesome driver."

"Yeah, one that failed the driving test two times," Jimmy laughed from the backseat.

"Uh, at least I got a car," Tracey shot back smugly, earning a frustrated sigh from her brother.

Amanda cut in before they devolved into their usual screaming arguments. "As nice as it is to hear you two arguing again, I think you should stop before we wind up crashing or something," she said, sternly enough to make them both shut up. "Good," she muttered, closing her eyes briefly and trying to chase away the alcohol-induced headache that was forming.

"So, where are Franklin and Uncle Trevor even at?" Tracey asked, interrupting her mother's daze.

"They mentioned to me yesterday they were at some warehouse-turned-safehouse. I'll pull up the GPS. Told me something about your father needing to lay low for a while after they get him," Amanda said with a shrug. "They have a doctor there for him too, just in case…"

"Yeah, just in case…" Tracey echoed nervously, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter and glancing over to the GPS on Amanda's phone. "South Los Santos, huh? A little on the sketchy side…"

"We'll be fine," Amanda said. "If anything goes wrong, we have Franklin and that maniac Trevor to help us and...oh, great, now I'm nervous."

"Hey, if anyone kidnaps you, Trace, they're bound to return you, anyway," Jimmy laughed, making Tracey roll her eyes.

"Like they wouldn't return you either," Tracey scoffed. "And quit being an ass, we're almost there."

"Thank God for that," Amanda mumbled, going back to shutting her eyes. Ugh, what the hell had she been thinking with the day drinking? She wasn't so much drunk as she was still hungover from the previous night (combined with her lack of sleep), and was certainly paying the price for it.

She kept her eyes shut, silently suffering her consequences, and didn't open them until Tracey shook her shoulder and said, "We're here."

Amanda opened her eyes hesitantly, sighing. "Fantastic," she drawled out sarcastically. She got out, took a deep breath, and hesitantly stepped inside the warehouse.

The place was nice enough, she noticed. It was clean and somewhat tidy, which already made it far better than some of the places they'd used back in the day. The hospital bed and the sheer amount of medical supplies (no doubt stolen from some oblivious nurse) and the doctor organizing them did make her heart thump a little faster. He'll be fine, he won't need all of this, she stubbornly told herself.

Trevor was the first one to turn around and see them. "Ah, Amanda! So glad you decided to finally show up." he said, but his face brightened when he saw the kids. "Hey there, kids. Today's the day! We're gonna go kill those bastards and get your dear old Dad back!"

"Uh, thanks, Uncle T…" Tracey said nervously, taken aback by his blood lust.

Amanda walked over to Lester's computer, where the three men were huddled around, gazing at a map of the city and that picture of Michael that still made her feel sick. While everyone else had freaked out when she'd been sent it, Lester had been the one to analyze every pixel for any clues to his location. Looks like it paid off.

"So, how'd you end up finding him?" she asked, still trying to not look at the photo. She looked over at the map, with one location in the eastern part of the city circled. It wasn't too far, thankfully.

Franklin groaned next to her. "Oh, please don't get him started on his 'boundless intelligence' or however the fuck he puts it," he said desperately.

Lester grinned maniacally. "Too late. You see, while you were getting drunk and these two were nagging at me, I was going through Devin Weston's financial records. Needless to say, with him being a rich, privileged asshole, it took a while. But I did find end up finding something: a warehouse in East Los Santos he bought a year ago, which is what the logo in the background of the picture matches up with," he said, pointing it out in the picture. "I get the feeling that's where he takes anyone he ends up not liking or not needing. And guess who else has been spotted there?"

"Merryweather," everyone else said in unison.

"Bingo. Now that you guys are here, Trevor and Franklin, you get going. Amanda, take this," Lester said, handing off a Bluetooth headset to her. "It's one of Michael's. He'll be a lot calmer if he hears you and knows you're okay when they pick him up."

"Okay…" she said, putting the earpiece on. She watched as Franklin and Trevor readied their guns, that same look in their eyes that Michael always got before a job. "Just...bring him back in one piece, okay? And thanks. To both of you."

"Oh, we will. Don't you worry that pretty little head, Mandy," Trevor said without a care in the world.

"We'll bring him back, Mrs. De Santa," Franklin said, smiling at her confidently before turning to Trevor and patting him on the shoulder. "Let's go, T."

They left, beginning the most nerve wracking experience of her life. Amanda sat down next to the kids and looked almost helplessly to Lester. "Now what?" she asked.

He sighed. "Now we wait."

Light. Air. Finally. Michael had never appreciated the two things more in his life than he had today, in between periods of being held underwater and barely allowed to catch his breath before going back under. He was practically collapsed against the barrel, coughing up water and wheezing, and was on the verge of begging for them to just get it over with.

The past couple days, he'd been tortured in so many ways. Stabbed, punched, hit by a baseball bat, hell, they'd even toyed with electrocution via car battery yesterday. Drowning seemed to be the flavor of the day. So far, it was by far the worst. First, the coldness started at him when his head was thrust under for the first few seconds. Then, the fear came, the knowledge that he was about to die.

And then, the memories that flashed before his eyes and tortured him about all of his mistakes. Some of them weren't so bad, like kissing Amanda at every opportunity on their wedding night or the nights when the kids were born. Or celebrating with Trevor after a perfect job when they were both young and dumb or the summers he spent as a kid sneaking his father's whiskey and watching old Western and noir movies, wishing he could be half as cool as the main characters.

Others, though, tortured him. He saw the black eyes his father gave him after lost football games, saw him looming above him with a belt in one hand and a bottle in the other. Saw the broken look on Amanda's face the night he'd cheated on her, saw his kids slowly start to lose their respect for him as neglectful years wore on.

Every time he saw the latter, he screamed under the water, not because he was in pain (though that was definitely part of it), but because of how fucking stupid he'd been in those years. He'd almost welcomed the blackened vision that slowly crept in because it saved him from reliving those fateful nights. But then, he was pulled above water, barely breathing but alive, and was brought back to harsh reality. And then the cycle would repeat all over again.

Michael barely had the energy to glance up at Devin, who was glancing at his watch and looking almost bored. "What? Lose your taste for this sorta thing?" he spat out, words dripping with hate.

"Oh, believe me, I haven't," Devin said. "It's just kinda boring at this point. Kind of pathetic, too, because it's pretty obvious that kid and that psycho aren't coming."

"So...what? You're finally gonna kill me?" Michael asked, finally managing to sit upright and glare at him.

Devin thought about that for a moment, a contemplative look crossing his face, before he nodded. "Actually, yeah, that sounds good. I do have a dinner party to get ready for tonight, so…" He turned around to face the mercenaries. "Get this taken care of. I don't care how you do it as long as you get rid of the body and clean the place up. And as for you, Slick? It's been a pleasure, but I always win. Remember that before these guys take care of you. Buh-bye!"

Michael watched in disbelief as Devin casually grabbed his car keys from the table and left without another word, followed by a couple of Merryweather agents. He didn't even bother insulting his captor or screaming at him as the double doors slammed shut with a big thud.

The second they were gone, the remaining mercenaries turned around and looked at him as if he were a feast. Hungrily, predatory, and just waiting to strike.

He began to listen to them argue on how to kill him. Shooting him was too fast. Beating him, too slow. Burning, too messy. Strangling, not messy enough. He almost wanted to jump in on the discussion to just get it over with faster.

Finally, one of them glanced over to the barrel of water and suggested the bright idea of drowning him. By some miracle (or disaster, depending on how he looked at it), they all agreed and, before he knew it, one of them grabbed him by the hair and forced him underwater. This time, though, he knew he wouldn't be coming back up.

The familiar steps started. Cold. It was so cold. And so dark, save for the shattered light that reached through the murkiness. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even tell which way was up or down.

His lungs felt like they were being crushed and ran over repeatedly by a semi, and his heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest. His entire body felt numb, his limbs heavy and useless against the restraints. This is it, he thought, hearing his own slowing heartbeat thump in his ears. A few more pulses and he'd be done and dead.

The vision at the edges of his eyes flashed, and the blackness slowly covered what vision he had left. And now, the final part of the cycle and the final part of his life: the memories. They felt a little more real this time. Hell, he could practically hear the gunshots instead of just imagining them.

But this time, he ignored them and focused on the best part of his vision that his oxygen deprived brain tortured him with: his wife's face. Michael swore he could see her bright blue eyes, could feel her soft dark hair, could hear her voice. He could practically see her hand reaching out for him, about to touch his face-

The hand slackening its grip on his head interrupted his reverie. The hell? he hazily wondered, but was too far gone to care anymore. If this was how he died, he felt a little more okay with it. Just as quickly as the hand let go, though, it was back, but pulled him up this time.

A bright light assaulted him as he was pulled up out of the water, more confused than ever. For a moment, he wondered if he'd made it into heaven by some mistake, but when the coughing and wheezing started, he knew that wasn't the case. And, judging by the gunshots that were still ringing out and the voices of his friends, he wasn't entirely imagining everything.

Trevor was the first one that he saw. Michael instinctively tensed up in between coughing fits, as if he was expecting Trevor to finish the job. "Mike! You okay?" Trevor said, almost concerned, much to Michael's shock. They hadn't exactly been on the best terms when he'd gotten kidnapped and he wondered why he showed up at all.

But instead of slitting his throat or something, his psychotic best friend stepped in front of him and expertly picked the locks to the handcuffs, freeing him from the chair he'd been trapped in for days.

"I'm fine…" Michael insisted, but he practically fell out of the chair and onto his knees, violently coughing out the water that remained in him. He could only hope the blood in it was from his mouth and not his lungs. Looking up, he could see Franklin fighting off Merryweather, and smiled slightly. At least the kid hadn't given up (and Trevor, which he was still confused about). Finally, he managed to find the energy-or the adrenaline, he couldn't quite tell-to stand up and face Trevor.

"Give me a gun," Michael mumbled, spitting out the rest of the water in his mouth. He stood there, soaking wet, beaten, and shivering, but stood as straight as he could.

Trevor glanced up and down from Michael's face to his right hand, where three of his five fingers were very obviously broken. It made him wonder what the rest of him looked like. "You know, I would but your hand's kinda fucked up, Mikey-"

"Well, it's a good thing I have two," Michael said, grabbing the pistol out of Trevor's hand. He immediately started running towards Franklin and the rest of the mercenaries, and the blood red haze descended upon him as he shot at them. Even though he was a worse shot with his left hand, he still managed to take a couple down. "Yeah, not so fuckin' helpless now, am I?" he taunted them hoarsely.

"Good to see you, man!" Franklin called out from behind his cover. "We was worried about you!"

"We?" Michael asked. Quickly, he sat down behind some cover, wincing as he heard gunshots whiz by his ears. He pressed his hand against his side, trying to bite back a groan of pain from his injuries.

"Yeah... me, your family, shit, even Trevor and Lester in some weird way," Franklin said with a laugh.

"My family...how are they? Are they okay?" Michael said, leaning heavily against the wall. It took everything in him to not pass out from sheer exhaustion, pain, or blood loss at this point. You're almost done, he told himself. Just gotta make it outta here..

"They're fine," Trevor said, finishing off a few mercenaries. "Your little lady is the one who dragged us into this mess, actually."

Michael managed a small laugh, but even the slightest chuckle made him wheeze in pain. "Heh, sounds like her…"

"Ooh, speaking of that," Trevor said before tossing him a headset. "Here. Just in case you get ambushed and kidnapped again."

He barely managed to catch it before it shattered on the floor. "Uh, thanks, T," Michael said, putting it on. Through the gunfire that he was still hiding away from like a goddamn coward, he could barely hear a single thing, but one voice stood out amongst the rest.

"Franklin? Trevor?! Did you get him?! Ugh, I wish one of you would answer me..." Amanda muttered angrily over the headset, but he knew all too well that behind her frustration was all fear.

Michael smiled weakly at the sound of her voice. I missed her, he thought fondly. He dragged himself further behind cover, making sure he was out of sight of what little mercenaries remained, and leaned against the wall. "Hey there, darlin'..." he whispered into the headset.

"Oh my God...you're alive!" she exclaimed. He heard her sniffle a little bit, and could almost see the tears of joy forming in her eyes. "I'm so glad you're okay!"

"I dunno if 'okay' is the right word, but I'm still alive," he laughed hoarsely. "I really missed you, 'Mand…"

"I missed you too, darling," she said softly. "We'll see you soon, okay?"

"Thank God for that," he said, standing back up with a few strained grunts of pain. "I'm gonna get the hell outta here. I love you…"

"I love you too-" Amanda started, but Trevor's' voice soon joined in and cut her off.

"Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds, but we kinda need to get out of here before more show up, M," he said, though his tone implied he was anything but sorry.

"Yeah, yeah, I get the fuckin' point…" Michael muttered. He started limping towards the exit. Trevor and Franklin had already made it outside, but had at least cleared out the rest of Merryweather for him. "I'll be there in a sec-"

A knife being thrust hilt-deep into his side cut his sentence short. What the fuck? He wondered hazily, looking down to see a hand twisting the knife deeper into his body. It felt disjointed, as if he was watching it happen to himself, but there wasn't any pain or anything he could do about it.

It wasn't until a few moments later that he looked up to see the Merryweather goon holding it, a smug grin on his face. "Think you could escape? I got you now, you dick…" he laughed. In one swift motion, he pulled out the knife, glimmering red with Michael's blood.

The second Michael laid eyes on the bloody knife was when the shock wore off. He collapsed onto the floor, his headset and only way of getting help falling off and shattering on the ground. His hands desperately clutched at his side, and when he looked back at them, they were soaked in sticky, warm blood.

"S-shit…" he whimpered. Hot, all-consuming pain ran through every vein of his body and he was powerless to do anything besides watch the blood gush from his side.

So this was how it'd end. Not with him being shot or beaten or drowned, but by being stabbed only seconds away from freedom. He'd tried so hard, but he wouldn't make it. He looked up at the mercenary, who was leaning down to finish the job.

"Fuck...fuck y-you…" Michael said, voice rattling, and watched as the knife inched closer to his throat. He shut his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.

It never came. Instead, the double doors leading outside burst open, a single gunshot following it. He didn't open his eyes until he heard the knife clatter to the floor and footsteps ext to him. The mercenary lay dead, a single bullet hole between his eyes, and Trevor was standing above him. His eyes widened once he saw the damage, and that was how bad Michael knew it was.

"What the fuck happened?" Trevor barked out. He was practically vibrating with rage as he started to lift Michael up, struggling under his weight.

"Got...got ambushed," Michael mumbled, managing a weak, bitter laugh when he thought back to Trevor's earlier words to him. Trevor was still trying to get him up over his shoulder, making him scream in pain. "Just...just go. Jus' fuckin' go. I'm dyin', T..."

"I ain't leaving you, Mikey Not this time," Trevor said, hefting him over his shoulder as if he weighed no more than a feather.

Michael stared down at the ground, watching a trail of blood form behind them. "T...if I don't…" he coughed out.

"Shut up," Trevor said angrily.

Michael ignored him and kept on babbling, becoming more desperate with the more blood that escaped him. "Tell Amanda and the kids that I-"

"I said shut up! You're not gonna die, and if you do, I swear I'll fucking kill you!" Trevor yelled, annoyed. "You're gonna be fine, you stubborn fucking bastard."

"I dunno…" Michael muttered. He pressed his hand against his side, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it was no use. The blood flowed right between his fingers, dripping onto the floor.

Finally, they made it outside to where Franklin was waiting in his car. "T, dude, what happened to him?" he immediately asked.

"Got stabbed by some Merryweather pussy on the way out," Trevor said, opening the back door and laying Michael down in the backseat. "Get us the hell out of here now."

Ding-ding-ding, the car beeped, signalling Trevor opening the passenger door and quickly jumping in. The engine soon roared to life as the younger man obliged, speeding off away from the warehouse. Franklin was a good driver, at least, but the speed only made Michael feel worse as he was tossed around like a ragdoll in the backseat. "Fuck…" he moaned in pain.

Franklin glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, a concerned look on his face. "Shit, sorry, man. You doing okay back there?"

"Fine," Michael said through gritted teeth. "Just fuckin' fine…" The seats were slick with his blood now and his eyes were starting to droop shut, but he knew complaining wouldn't help.

"We're almost there. Just hang on, man," Franklin said.

Michael nodded. He stared up at the roof of the Bravado Buffalo. Wondered if it'd be the last thing he'd ever see. Wondered if the last thing he'd ever hear was the rap music playing on Franklin's radio and the hushed whispers of his friends discussing the fact that he was fading fast.

Was he gonna give up and die here, on his back in his own blood, staring at leather upholstery? No fucking way. Biting back a scream of pain, he sat up and managed to lean against the window. He stared out at the cityscape, watching cars and buildings fly past him in a blur. He let out a long, rattling sigh. If that was the last thing he'd see, the city he loved despite all of the awfulness that happened in it, it wasn't so bad.

The car abruptly slammed to a stop, throwing him against the front seat and almost adding a broken nose to his list of injuries. "We're here," Trevor said, getting out and opening the back door. "Let's get you fixed up…"

Franklin and Trevor grabbed one of his arms each, slinging them over their shoulders and holding them up as they walked towards Lester's warehouse. Each step was agony, sending a new, horrible pain through him. The whole world was spinning, rocking up and down and side to side. It hurt to even breathe, but he kept hobbling on. The door to the warehouse swung open, revealing Amanda and the kids rushing outside to him.

It was about then that he passed out.