Quick a/n: this chapter won't make a lot of sense if you haven't played The Trouble with Clones. If you haven't, you should! It's good!
Chapter 11
The traffic had taken far too long to clear.
It had been the gridlock to end all gridlocks. Really, anything could have caused it; the slow traffic around the Arapice bridges, the increase of powerful but slow military vehicles on the road in the wake of the Saints' various conflicts, or simple bad luck. But it had cleared just as Kinzie got a view of the helicopter formation returning to the Saints' headquarters. She saw the enormous shape of Oleg in the cargo hold of one, and immediately knew the worst had happened.
Instead, she instinctively raced to Burns Hill, just in case there was someone who had avoided Viola's onslaught that she could rally with. She drove even faster before, knowing that the police were too afraid to pull over either side of the Saints' civil war. It was a shame the two sides were fighting, really; their power far outweighed that of the SPD, and they could virtually take the city over if they applied themselves to it.
When she arrived at the power plant, it was in a scene of chaos. The last of the True Saints who did not surrender had turned the courtyard into the scene of their last stand against the Saints. There was a mass of purple, both light and dark, and she didn't come any closer for fear of being caught in the crossfire. Worse, the SPD had finally decided to pluck up the courage to stop the violent bloodbath taking place within their city. A Lockdown had pulled up, and around twenty SWAT members with riot shields were edging their way into the fray. It was a scene of absolute chaos, and what was more, the rebels were clearly losing.
The most shocking scene was, however, just outside of the compound gates. On a small knoll, two figures were watching the action in confusion, a man and a youth. Kinzie initially wrote them off as suburban looky-loos come to gawp at the urban battlefield that had been set up in their town. But one of the figures suddenly struck her as familiar, and as she approached them, she felt faint with the growing certainty of it.
It was him. Definitely him.
The Corsicans had treated the boss and Jamal like royalty after the Fox's sources returned. The Saints had, indeed, killed Loren (well, a gigantic steel ball, but still) and that made them heroes. More importantly, the deed had warranted a favour of the type not usually asked. While Jamal had quietly suggested a gigantic yacht and a share in the heroin trade, the boss had only one request in mind. He wanted ironclad documentation for both of them so that they could return to Steelport, and the use of a private plane to do it in. A commercial airline would have done in terms of comfort, but there was always the chance they would be spotted as fugitives by security or even a fellow passenger. Their host had been more than happy to oblige.
"I must admit," he said as their flight was being readied, "I didn't have much in the way of respect for associations such as yours. I was aware the Belgian pig had a sizeable operation in America, but I didn't dream anyone would have the, how you say, clout to destroy it."
The plane they were being loaded into was a Snipes 57. It was a few years old, but it served the Corsicans as a private plane well. They were driven to a small airfield in the countryside surrounding Boulogne, where the pilot, a small Sardinian with a pencil thin moustache greeted them.
"Travel time is just over nine hours, gentlemen," he said in perfect English. "Don't you worry, I ain't never crashed no plane yet."
The boss nodded and threw his suitcase in the back of the plane. The Corsicans had given the two of them changes of clothes to minimise their appearance as convicts. They soared over the country, the farms, chateaus and small towns becoming ever more distant. By the time they reached the Atlantic, the brilliant blue was only barely visible under the cover of the clouds. As they made the Atlantic trip, they entertained themselves by playing cards, bantering about football (despite his eye-opening experiences, Jamal was still an incessant chatterer) and catching the in-flight film, which was In the Loop. The boss pointed out that Peter Capaldi was the only man that could get away with saying the word cunt more than him, and this made Jamal laugh. They hit the US a few hours later, and the pilot pointed to Liberty City below them, followed by miles and miles of country as upstate New York moulded into the Midwest. After just under nine hours, they were flying over Steelport.
"Home sweet home for you, innit?" said Jamal, conversationally. He was astonished to see the boss wipe a single tear from his eye as he gazed down on the city from the window. He didn't speak, but merely nodded.
"Been a while, huh," continued Jamal.
"Yep," he replied. "Been a while."
"America looks amazin' man, I ain't never going back to England, I-"
"Shut the fuck up," the boss interrupted. "Ruinin' the moment."
They parachuted out of the plane. Jamal had been keen to land somewhere and save his tired limbs, but the boss had explained that this was the best way to avoid detection. Their new identification would serve them well if they ran into any trouble, but it was best to avoid any suspicion.
As they parachuted down into the night sky, the boss saw an impressive fireworks display at the Burns Hill reactor on the horizon. He had been kept out of the loop since Pierce returned to Steelport, but he immediately reasoned that a fight was taking place. He pointed towards the buildings and leaned backwards to slow his drop and carry him further. Jamal did the same. They landed on a low store roof in Burns Hill, around a mile away. They climbed down the fire escape and stowed their parachutes in a dumpster. By now, it was the dead of night, and the street was virtually empty.
"We need to steal a car," said the boss, impassively.
"I dunno how to pick a car's lock," said Jamal. "Do you?"
"Nope." The boss walked towards a Churchill that was parked on the sidewalk. He took a rock from the ground in front of someone's yard and smashed the driver's door in. Within a few seconds, he had connected the necessary wires to hotwire the vehicle, and they drove it towards the reactor. As they watched the fight progress, dumbfounded, the boss heard a voice behind them.
"It is you!" said Kinzie, in shock. "I can't believe it!"
"K-Kinzie?" he replied, also in a state of shock. They ran to each other and hugged, eager to see each other. After a minute, the boss drew back.
"Wait a minute," he said, pointing a finger. "Pierce tol' me you've become all matey with Viola. You're a traitor!"
"Not anymore," said Kinzie, breathlessly. "We need to move. We're in danger, here."
They headed down the hill into a patch of woods near the suburban strips. She told him what had happened from Viola's side of the pond, ending on what Viola had demanded she do before she left. The boss's impassive poker face broke and he opened his mouth in surprise.
"Jesus," he said, softly. "You did the right thing, Kinz." Turning to his apprentice, he said, "this is Jamal, by the way. He helped me break out of Belmarsh."
"Whassup?" said Jamal, politely.
"Uh, hey," said Kinzie. Turning her attention back to the boss, she demanded, "what the hell happened to you?"
He told her, in turn, everything from when McGraw came to Steelport to the rendezvous with the Corsican mafia. She listened, open mouthed, and clearly impressed.
"I've heard all about that Fox guy," said Kinzie. "Something of an urban legend."
"He's an alright geezer," said Jamal. "Nice dude."
"Anyway," said the boss, indicating over to the melee going on over the hill. "What happened here?"
"Shaundi and the gang took the reactor. As the guns have stopped firing, I'd say Viola just retook it."
"What about the others?"
"Viola took them," she said, stressed. "I was driving over here to warn them and I saw Viola flying them away. They'll be at the headquarters by now."
"Shit, we need a plan," he said. "We need to bust in to the HQ and rescue the others. Was there anyone in the True Saints out of the reactor at the time? Anyone gathering reinforcements?"
"I wouldn't think so. We…I mean the Saints…threw everything at them as soon as the bridges were opened. They would have needed to keep everyone behind to defend the base." She strained her ears briefly. "And the guns have stopped firing, which means they've lost . We won't find any help in there."
"I have an idea," said the boss. "But you might not like it."
They got in Kinzie's car and drove further south, avoiding the increasing numbers of riot police that were heading towards the plant for a more brutal confrontation with Viola's Saints. They headed into Salander, where Kinzie's warehouse used to be, and drove on train tracks towards the train yard.
True to form, the Luchadores were sparring at the train yard when the three approached. They seemed to have lost their fighting spirit; the bouts were vicious, almost primal, but the wrestlers were going through the motions. The only people that had more to fear from Viola than the True Saints were the Luchadores; she would always remember them as the gang whose leader murdered her sister. If she did not have the True Saints to direct her fury, it was probable she would have devoted her energy to committing near genocide on Luchadores. Even now, their existence was a fragile one, and their numbers had massively shrunk.
Indicating for the others to stay back, the boss got out of the car and approached them. El Santo Diablo, (the Devil's Saint, real name Ritchie Weyland) was sparring with a newer member. He was a powerful lieutenant who, in the gang's better times, had served just under Killbane. The boss guessed that, following Viola's pogroms, he was now more or less in charge.
"Motherfucker," said Weyland by way of surprise. Both he and his sparring partner stopped fighting briefly to gawk at the man approaching them. At the sight of a Saint, all of the gang squared up, ready to tear this intruder to their meeting limb from limb.
"You're supposed to be dead!" said another Luchador, pointing in terror. "They said you vanished into thin air!"
"Rumours of my death 'ave been greatly exaggerated," said the boss. Seeing blank expressions on the faces of the thugs, he shrugged. "Mark Twain? No? Ah, yah fuckin' plebs."
"So, you're alive," said Weyland, getting in his face. "What the fuck do you want? Coming here with…are they are your backup?" he demanded, pointing at Jamal and Kinzie further back.
"I came 'ere for your help," said the boss flatly, without raising his voice or pausing even slightly.
Weyland laughed, and the Luchadores joined him. "Our help? Why the fuck should we help you?" he demanded.
"Your worst enemy sent me into exile and took the crew over," said the boss, starting to pace. "It was a coup-de-fucking-tat, and a good one at that. Now I'm back, and I want what's mine. Plus, I want my mates back, and Viola's holding them prisoner. Now, as for why you should help me." He tutted, shaking his head in disgust. "Look at you. You're the Luchadores, for fuck's sake. I remember a time you was cock of the walk. Of course, you lost to me and mine a lot, because we're better, but you at least had a pair of bollocks between you. Now look at you! You're hiding out! The only reason you're here is because Viola doesn't know you lot spar here. I only knew because me an' my boys cleared you out of here, d'you remember? 'Course you fucking do. Anyway. If you help us rescue the rest of the Saints…the True Saints, that is…you can get your bollocks back. It'll be peace between the two of us. Lasting as long as you want. Or, if peace ain't on the agenda, war. But an honourable war, one where you get to claw your balls back. Your call."
There was a long pause. Weyland spoke up first. "I guess that makes sense. Whaddaya need us to do?"
The boss slapped a hand on his shoulder. "Good man. We're going to attack Viola's HQ head on. Anyone who resists will be shot down. We take out Viola and seize the penthouse."
Weyland turned to face his gang. "Luchadores! You heard all 'a that! That sound like a plan to you?"
There was nodded agreement, followed by lone cheers. Then, a group of wrestlers near the back began to roar with a shared anger. It caught on to the front, and the gang was united in roaring their collective rage. All together, it was one hell of a war cry. The boss smiled with genuine glee. The troops were ready.
"We got our trucks near the back," said Weyland, giving out a single battle roar along with his men. He went to his own car and fished out several AR-40 assault rifles, handing them to the boss and the others. "We can roll out whenever you're ready!"
"Leave it about half an hour," said the boss. "There's just one more stop I have to make."
He, Kinzie and Jamal drove southwards, to where a small row of suburban houses looked over the vast expanse of Lake Michigan. It was a pleasant neighbourhood; if you sat on your back porch on a warm afternoon, you could almost see the mainland in the distance. But the boss wasn't interested in the neighbourhood, only one house. The house nearest the end.
Jimmy Torbitson took a few moments to answer the door. As it was night, he was dressed in ludicrous tartan pyjamas, and looked groggy. When he saw the boss, he immediately perked up.
"Oh my god! H-hello!" he said, stuttering with star struck amazement. The boss had never meditated too deeply on why a middle class, potential Nobel Prize winner like Jimmy would idolise the lower class gangsters who had turned his city into a warzone. He would have thought Jimmy's heroes would include Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking or Luke Skywalker, but he had made his choice over his fanatical devotion. The boss didn't understand it, but if he said he didn't enjoy it, he would be lying.
"Ello, Jimmy. Hope it ain't too late, son."
"It's never too late!" Jimmy replied. "Come on! Can I make you guys some coffee, or?"
"Not really a social call, mate. This is Kinzie and Jamal. We need…we need to borrow Johnny."
"Oh, okay," he said, and ushered them in. When the door was shut, he spoke louder. "What happened to you? They said you vanished out of thin air! And the only guy I know in the gang apart from you is Pierce. He told me what was going on, but he told me to stay away! He said it was too dangerous for me!"
"He was right," said the boss. "I've been away, Jim. Thanks to Viola. If me and the others survive the night, I'll tell you all about it."
"Cool!" said Jimmy, barely able to contain his excitement. "Johnny's in here." They crossed into the front room and Kinzie and Jamal both drew back at the sight that greeted them. Pressing his gigantic frame into a small armchair, he was devouring a Freckle Bitch's jumbo bucket. In the darkness, he looked even more terrifying than usual.
"What da fuck is that?" hissed Jamal in a terrified voice. He and Kinzie were virtually cowering behind the boss and Jimmy.
"Hi, Johnny," said the boss.
"Heyyy…playahhh…." Johnny Tag grunted monosyllabically, smiling stupidly at the sight of the boss.
"I've been teaching him," said Jimmy, proudly. "He'll never be like the old Johnny, but I've tried to tell him all about his history. In a few months, he'll think he's Johnny Gat."
"Wait a minute," said Jamal. "I remember Johnny Gat. That's the geezer you ran the Saints with, innit? I thought you told me he died?"
"He did," said the boss. "Meet Johnny's biggest fan. He cloned his hero from the random shit he left around the place."
"You did?" said Jamal, staring at Jimmy. "That's amazin'!"
"Thanks," said Jimmy, virtually blushing. "Johnny's all yours. What do you need him for?"
"We're getting ready for the final battle," said the boss, solemnly. "I like to think with me there, we might get some people going back to the winning team. With Johnny there, we might get even more."
"Wow," said Jimmy. "Can, uh, can I come with you? Can I help?"
The boss surveyed him for a moment. "Pierce was right. It is far too dangerous for you. If you're brown bread, human cloning skips a few decades and I won't have a spare 'me' to nick a liver off of when the drinking gets me."
"And if I'm not…brown bread…I'll have done something that I can look back on proudly for the rest of my life. Please, can I come? Please?"
"Let the man come," said Kinzie.
"Okay," said the boss. "But it's going to be dangerous. Go upstairs, get changed and meet us out here."
He was out in less than five minutes, wearing a purple Saints sweatshirt and a baseball cap. If it wasn't for his glasses, he would look like the quintessential Saint homie. The boss handed him one of the spare AR-40s and Johnny Tag jumped on the back of his pickup. The two cars followed each other out of the street and towards the Saints' headquarters. The final battle was about to begin.