I walked out of Frank's hospital room – I always did like the Vice City public hospitals; they never seemed to ask questions as to why you were in some horrible, awful condition, so long as you tided them over with a bit of cash. Frank was going to be alright, but he needed rest for a couple of days, since he had apparently lost a good bit of blood. I set three men guarding the room – in case the Cubans decided to return – and paid off Frank's doctor to make sure that his medical chart and whereabouts weren't released to the Vice City Police Department, and then headed for the exit. By now, the sun was rising, and the air was humid, and a warm with the feeling of a new day.

I took the van and, deciding I had time before I needed to meet Jimmy, drove it off to a chop-shop and let them scrap it for money. Hell, the van needed to be disposed of, and I could use the extra five grand it brought in. From there, I found an unlocked car sitting in the middle of nowhere, and wired it pretty easily, driving off towards my hotel. When I got there, my Phoenix was sitting in the parking-lot; I'd asked one of the three of our guys I'd let go to head over to the Ocean Drive hotel and put it back in front of my hotel for me, since I needed a change of clothes badly.

Within half-an-hour I'd changed into an over-shirt, buttoned up to the last two buttons, which exposed my chest and golden cross necklace. Hey, Catholicism, what're you gonna' do, you know? I had a decent meal across the street, and moved back over to my car, getting in and heading towards the Ocean Drive hotel. When I got there and went inside the always open doors, I looked around and found that Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, I pulled out my cellular phone, and dialed his number – I heard a ringing upstairs.

As Jimmy picked up his phone with a nervous, "Y-yeah?" I casually asked, "Where ya' at, Jimmy?" He didn't answer for a second, but by now I was already in front of his room door. "I'm in the hotel, where are you?" I inquired again. "I'm –" he began, as he opened the door to his room, but stopped and dropped his phone out of surprise. I hung mine up and put it into my pocket again. It was then I realized there had been no van parked outside.

"Where're the drugs, Jimmy?" I asked, now getting rather angry. Without being invited, I walked into his room slowly, and he backed up, almost as if he was afraid. "Okay, l-look Connor, I mean I, I didn't mean to –" he said, now sitting on his bed with his hands out in front of him, as if to stop me from moving any further. "You didn't mean to what, Jimmy?" I asked.

"Look C-Conner, the fucking Cubans ambushed me on the way over here!" When he finished, I suddenly found myself filled with murderous rage. "WHAT?" I shouted at him. "TELL ME YOU DIDN'T LOSE THE GOD DAMN DRUGS – THE GOD DAMN DRUGS, JIMMY, THAT WE ALL NEARLY DIED FOR – THAT YOUR BROTHER DID DIE FOR!" I had him by the collar now, and he was shaking with fear. With a scowl, I shoved him back onto the bed, and made my way to the door.

"Wh-Where're you goin', Connor?" he asked, and I said, without turning around, "I'm going to go fucking kill some Cubans." With that, I left, slamming his door behind me so hard that it bounced back open as I made my way down the hall. When I got out to the lobby, a few people were staring at me, but when I noticed, they quickly turned back to their conversations, or whatever else they were doing.

I fumbled with my keys lightly at the door to the Phoenix, until I got it unlocked, and stepped in. "God damn Cubans . . . going to fucking kill th –" suddenly, my fuming speech was stopped by steel pressing against the back of my neck. "Keep driving . . ." the man said. He had an Italian accent, but not the same as Vercetti's boys – more like a 'hood – a Shark.

So, as he instructed, I kept driving. He told me to pull over into an alleyway, and I did, parking the car where no one could see us. He told me to get out – so I did, with my hands up. When we got a few paces away from the car, I turned around to look at the Shark. Just as I suspected; a greasy-haired little teenager with a denim jacket on, and a Colt pointed at my stomach.

"Gonna' shoot me?" I asked him. He laughed, but didn't respond. Suddenly, my phone rang in the alleyway. He told me to answer it, and I did. A voice I didn't quite recognize met my ears, but I could tell it was one of us.

"Jesus Christ, Connor! Th-the Cubans are here, the Cubans and those Sharks! Holy fuck, they're going to kill us, holy fuck Con –" the phone suddenly hit the floor, and I heard a loud scream. I smiled at the Shark, who was slightly taken back by it. "So you guys are working with the Cubans?" I asked. He clearly didn't care how I knew this, but either way, I told him I had to put my phone away.

I slowly put it back into my pocket, but as I was bring my hand back up, it found my SIG P288, and I hurled myself to the floor. A bullet was fired from the boy's gun, and would've hit me, had I still be in the same place. But instead, four shots rapidly came out of my gun, and all of them hit him in the stomach. He dropped his gun, but stood there, clutching his pouring-blood stomach and staring at me.

I stood up calmly, and frowned at him. He looked so young. "The world's cold, kid. Sorry you had to find out like this." With that said, I put my gun to his head, and fired one last shot through his brain. He flew backwards and slammed into the hood of my Phoenix, slipping off and leaving a large trail of blood as he did so. I put my gun away, and quickly dialed a number on my cell phone.

"Yeah, it's Connor – Frank's in trouble, meet me at the Ammu-Nation in five, and bring a van and a few guys." With that, I turned my cell phone away again, and headed for my car. As I started it up, and roared off for the Ammu-Nation, one thing bothered me: I had paid the doctors and nurses, and no one had tailed us to the hospital. How did the Cubans and Sharks find out where Frank had been?

I smelled a rat . . .