What happens when you combine a batch of hitmen, criminals, and all around lunatics with a hunt for a briefcase full of money and dump it into a peaceful town? You get a chaotic, no-holds barred bloodbath that Sandy Shores will never forget! But who will prevail? To find out, we'll be comparing their weapons and skills to determine the answer to the ultimate question:
WHO...IS...DEADLIEST???
The Situation[]
A heist goes horribly wrong, and the surviving member of the crew manages to hide the stolen loot in a small town far from their initial location before dying of their wounds. The knowledge of that kind of money being ripe for the taking brings a variety of criminals, all acting out of a variety of interests, down on the town for a plague of violence they'll never forget.
- Kill, or outlive, all other combatants.
- Find the money and escape.
The Location[]
The go-to store for all of your weapons and ammunition needs, Ammu-Nation has even set up shop in Sandy Shores, profiting heavily from a shady clientele. Wealthier participants in this fight will be able to purchase weapons from here if they feel their current loadout is not enough, though only if their money is good.
The loadout of weaponry available for purchase can be seen here.
The Combatants[]
| “ | The moment you catch feelings... is the moment you catch a bullet.
— Bats
|
” |
An impulsive, but effective, member of Doc's heist team, Bats is a violent criminal introduced during Baby (Doc's #1 getaway driver and debtor) last heist. Baby immediately clashes with Bats, whose tendency to leave civilian casualties and collateral damage nearly compromises the job. After the final heist, Baby is reluctantly blackmailed into another job with Bats, alongside couple Buddy and Darling, who also dislike Bats.
As set-up for the final heist, the crew is required to pick up weapons from an arms dealer known as the Butcher, but Bats realizes the Butcher's men are cops and shoots him, leading to a shootout that destroys the weaponry and leaves the crew as the only survivors. On the way back, Bats forces Baby to stop for food, and Baby has to pretend not to recognize their waitress, who is his girlfriend Debra, but Bats notices Baby's affection for her when he stops Bats from killing her to get out of paying the check. Returning to Doc's warehouse to explain what happened, Bats's suspicions are confirmed, only for Doc to explain they were cops on his payroll. When Baby tries to sneak out of the warehouse to flee the city with Debra, Bats knocks him out and discovers his mixtapes, which Baby plays to convince the crew he's not a mole.
On the day of the heist, the initial plan goes smoothly until Bats kills a security guard and angrily demands Baby start driving. Baby, fed-up with both Bats and the criminal lifestyle, drives the car directly into a truck carrying rebar, which impales Bats and kills him instantly.
Starting Weapon:
- Smith & Wesson 5906: A semi-automatic handgun with 10 rounds per clip and Bats's weapon of choice during shootouts.
Funds:
- Medium. Bats is well paid from his work with Doc's crew, and he's shown to be fairly stingy with his money, implying he's got a decent amount of wealth tucked away for use.
X-Factors:
- Experience: 80. While we only see him on a few jobs, it's very clear that Bats has a fairly long track record even when he's not working with Doc, from long-form heists to robberies to shootouts with the police and rival criminals.
- Training: 40. We never really get a peek into Bats's upbringing, suggesting he's simply an average criminal, albeit a very good one.
- Intelligence: 55. Bats initially seems like dumb muscle, which is backed up by his short-sighted tendency to kill any possible witnesses during jobs, but he gets a slight boost here because he's unusually perceptive. Him recognizing one of the Butcher's men as a cop enables him to realize that the buy might be a sting, and he's the only member of the crew that suspects that Baby might have ulterior motives. So things balance out a bit here.
- Cool Under Fire: 35. While he's a solid gunfighter and can handle himself in a shootout, Bats has a poor temper, often killing people for the slightest grievances and his "no witnesses" mentality leaves piles of bodies behind on jobs, making him a liability for missions that require stealth.
- Hand-to-Hand Skill: 55. We never see Bats engaging in hand-to-hand stuff, but his criminal history would imply he knows how to handle himself in a fight.
| “ | I am the outlaw, and this is my world. And my world has a high cost of living.
— Boyd Crowder
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” |
A career criminal from Harlan, Kentucky, Boyd Crowder was the eldest son of crime boss Bo Crowder and the latest in a long line of militia members and criminals. As a young adult, he befriended Raylan Givens, and later saved his life while they worked in the coal mines. When Raylan's aunt Helen gave him the money to leave the state, Boyd joined the military and served a tour in Kuwait. Upon returning from the war, Boyd was imprisoned for refusing to pay taxes, and became affiliated with several Neo-Nazi gangs. After his release, Boyd used his ties to start his own gang, and he and his men began robbing banks.
Shortly after Raylan, now a US marshal, is sent back to Kentucky, Boyd's brother Bowman is murdered by his abused wife Ava, and Boyd resolves to take her for his own. Setting up an ambush to distract the other Marshals, Boyd holds Ava at gunpoint in her home as Raylan arrives, and the two have a brief talk before Ava distracts Boyd long enough for Raylan to shoot him in the chest, though he misses Boyd's heart out of respect for their friendship.
Starting Weapon:
- Beretta 92FS: A semi-automatic pistol with a range of 50 meters and 10 rounds per clip.
Funds:
- High. Boyd has a profitable criminal business in Harlan County, meaning he's never worried about being low on money for costly jobs such as this.
X-Factors:
- Experience: 85. Boyd has not only served in the military, but he's spent time training militias and building up a criminal empire, slowly working his way to become of the most feared men in Kentucky, largely through his own intelligence and manipulation.
- Training: 75. Boyd was not only raised from an early age to embrace a criminal lifestyle, but he also picked up experience with explosives as a miner and learned tactics and combat skills from the army, giving him a noted advantage over the less skilled criminals of Harlan County.
- Intelligence: 85. Boyd isn't quite book smart, but he makes up for it with both his tactical brilliance and expert manipulation skills. Boyd is immensely skilled at playing factions against each other for his own benefit, such as when he played the Bennets against both law enforcement and his old crew to force a conflict that leaves him as the undisputed kingpin of Harlan County.
- Cool Under Fire: 85. Working as a miner has made Boyd unflappable in life or death situations, and he's very skilled at talking his way out of situations where he's often outnumbered and outgunned.
- Hand-to-Hand Skill: 45. Boyd is a strategist and good in a gunfight, but he's not good muscle, often relying on back-up or his wits to make it out of more physical scraps.
| “ | And yeah, you can sit there and ask what gives me the right to make that judgement, but that's just your defense. Your alibi for not doing anything. Because the world is shit right now and we all know it.
— Dylan Cross
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” |
Dylan Cross is a depressed grad student with a history of family illness and hopelessly in love with his best friend, Kira. Unable to act on these feelings as she is dating his roommate, Dylan finds himself diving deeper into cynicism and self-loathing, seeing himself as a product of a world that's becoming increasingly material and crass. After beginning a secret affair with Kira, Dylan overhears admitting that she pities him more than anything else, and resolves to kill himself. Throwing himself off the roof of the building, Dylan panics as he is falling and somehow survives.
Trying to sleep off his injuries, Dylan awakens to find a shadowy demon standing over his bed. The demon explains that it saved Dylan, and as repayment, Dylan must murder one person a month. Dismissing it as a hallucination at first, Dylan begins to believe in the demon's power when he falls seriously ill, and resolves to hunt down and kill a man who knows molested a childhood friend of his until he killed himself. Killing the man, Dylan recovers from his illness the next day, and resolves to focus on killing the scum of society, from mobsters to corrupt businessmen, while trying to keep the police off his trail.
Starting Weapon:
- Remington 870: Dylan wields a sawed-off version of a Remington 870, a pump-action shotgun with 8 rounds per clip and a shortened range due to the shorter size of the gun.
Funds:
- Low. C'mon, he's a college student. Do you expect him to have money?
X-Factors:
- Experience: 65. Dylan hasn't been a vigilante for a massively long amount of time, around six months, and he's fought primarily against Russian mobsters alongside ocassional battles with police or private security officers.
- Training: 25. Outside of a boxing class, Dylan has no training. He's basically a dude that learned on the job.
- Intelligence: 80. Dylan is a surprisingly crafty planner, enabling him to stay one step ahead of the mob and the authorities that want him dead and using his investigative skills to effectively tear apart an entire criminal organization in the space of a couple of weeks. His planning is most evident during his time in a mental hospital, where he worked out a plan to murder an orderly that was abusing patients so he could appease the demon.
- Cool Under Fire: 70. During his earlier days, Dylan tended to panic when confronted with organized resistance, but he slowly became better at adapting to unfortunate circumstances and improvising his way out of a tough situation.
- Hand-to-Hand Skill: 65. Dylan has some training in boxing, which proved crucial to overpowering hitmen sent by the Russians to kill him at the hospital when he was unarmed and effectively defenseless.
| “ | If she's there, I'll get her back.
— Joe.
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” |
A mentally disturbed veteran of both the Army and the FBI, Joe works in New York City as a hitman and bounty hunter who specializes in rescuing girls from traffickers. His time in the underworld has made him paranoid, and Joe stops doing business with partners if he suspects they could give up where he lives, a small home in the city with his mother. One day, Joe is offered an immensely lucrative job working for State Senator Albert Votto, who begs him to rescue his daughter, Nina, from a high-class brothel frequented by wealthy clients.
Tracking the address Votto sent to him, Joe storms the brothel, killing the guards and several patrons, before rescuing Nina and bringing her to a nearby hotel to wait for Votto. Seeing a news report confirming Votto killed himself earlier that night, Joe is given little time to react before two police officers arrive, take Nina, and try to murder Joe, but he manages to overpower one of the cops and escape.
On the run, Joe discovers that agents working for the traffickers have killed all of his contacts in an attempt to get to him, and he races home to find two men have broken in and killed his mother. In a fit of rage and grief, he kills one man and mortally wounds the other, who explains that the Governor is behind the trafficking, and Nina was "his favorite". Contemplating suicide after burying his mother, Joe resolves to rescue Nina instead. Joe sneaks into the Governor's mansion, killing the guards, but arrives in time to see that Nina has killed the Governor herself, and the two go on the run, resolving to live a better life than the one New York has given them.
Starting Weapon:
- Hammer: A standard claw hammer, Joe prefers it over guns because of it's stealth capability and killing power.
Funds:
- Low. On account of it being a cross-country trip, Joe will be supplied with a small amount of money to purchase things such as food or lodging, but not enough to afford new weapons (not that he enjoys buying things outside of his hammer.)
X-Factors:
- Experience: 85. Joe has served both in the military and the FBI before working as a hitman, and his personality and thinking showcases skills that one picks up over time, from his aloofness to his skill with interrogation of subjects.
- Training: 85. Joe has both military training and work in the FBI's anti-trafficking division under his belt, giving him a decided edge over most of his opponents in this category.
- Intelligence: 80. Joe is a skilled investigator and tracker, owing to both his training and his natural perceptiveness. With little evidence, he was able to piece together the details of the trafficking ring, and he planned out several ambushes and assaults that enabled him to tear through armed and trained guards with very little difficulty or personal harm.
- Cool Under Fire: 50. Joe is a man perpetually on the edge of a nervous breakdown, largely due to his untreated PTSD from his abusive childhood and his time in the Army and FBI, and he's shown to be largely uncomfortable when operating in actual day to day life, like commuting through the city or interacting with people that he hasn't met before. In the actual action of jobs, he's at ease, but a lifetime of violence has made it harder for him to blend in normally.
- Hand to Hand Skill: 75. While he doesn't appear to have a specific fighting style, Joe is a brute in close combat, using his considerable strength and emphasis on stealth to surprise and overpower opponents before savagely beating them with his hammer or just his bare hands.
| “ | I was a sinner. But I've been born again. And now I'm with the people who will inherit the earth.
— John Pilgrim
|
” |
A former member of the Aryan Brotherhood, Robert was a violent, short-tempered criminal who seemingly found God when he fell in with the Schultz family, the billionaire owners of Testament Industries, who bailed him out of jail and hired him as their personal hitman. Taking the name "John Pilgrim", Robert became a preacher and fell in love with a woman named Rebecca, starting a family with her while continuing to work jobs for the Schultzes on the side.
John's faith was tested when Rebecca fell ill and lapsed into a coma, and he was forced to leave her and his sons in the care of the Schultzes as he hunted down Amy Bendix, a teenager and criminal who uncovered evidence of Senator David Schultz engaging in a homosexual affair. Pilgrim captured Amy's contact in the Russian mafia, torturing him for information and luring her into a trap that was narrowly foiled by the intervention of Frank Castle, who killed Pilgrim's men and helped Amy escape.
Pursuing Castle and Amy across several states, Pilgrim eventually tracked them back to New York City, where he placed a bounty on their heads while eliminating the Russians aware of David's affair. This bounty brought him back into contact with his old gang, who he was forced to kill after a vicious fight mere hours before learning that Rebecca had died. Reeling from the loss, Pilgrim tried to return home, but was informed by the Schultzes that retreat wasn't an option, with them heavily implying they would kill his sons if he failed them. Pilgrim ramped up his hunt, eventually managing to capture Amy, but he was forced to trade her for David, who Castle captured as an insurance policy.
Letting Amy escape, Pilgrim fought Castle in a brutal fight to find David in which Frank narrowly prevailed, but hesitated in delivering the killing blow when Pilgrim begged Frank to protect his sons. Empathizing with his loss, Castle spared Pilgrim and had him tell the Schultzes that Frank was dead, but Amy was gone, as a cover while the trio worked together to track the Schultzes to their mansion before killing them. His sons safe, Pilgrim renounced his criminal lifestyle and thanked Frank before departing to start a new life.
Starting Weapon:
- SIG-Sauer P320: A semi-automatic handgun with 17 rounds per clip and a range of 50 meters, Pilgrim carried a variant equipped with a silencer, enabling him to quietly eliminate targets without risk of being detected.
Funds:
- High. Pilgrim will be working with the limitless resources of the Schultz family, meaning he'll be able to buy whatever he needs to accomplish the mission.
X-Factors:
- Experience: 85. John has a criminal career spanning several years, if not a decade or two, and he's regarded as one of the most consummate professionals in the underworld because of his extensive experience in a variety of jobs from simpler hits to clean-up jobs for the Schultzes to his time with the Aryan Brotherhood.
- Training: 40. John doesn't appear to have any traditional training, having likely picked up his skills through the years rather than through any specific teachings or service.
- Intelligence: 85. Pilgrim's most fearsome trait outside of his combat skill is his tactical cunning. He was able to track down Castle and Amy across several states by following the carnage of their initial escape before launching an assault on a police station that would've killed Frank had it not been for the intervention of Agent Dinah Madani, while his thorough investigative skills enabled him to wipe out the Russian gangsters who were aware of David's affair, leaving no witnesses save for Amy, and his use of criminal connections kept the duo from being able to stay in hiding for too long.
- Cool Under Fire: 90. While it's clear he has some deep-seated anger issues, John operates with an almost unsettling sense of calm during his missions. No matter what failure comes his way, he adjusts and improvises a new plan, and it took the repeated stymying of his plans by Castle and the death of his wife to get him to crack, and he still nearly succeeded in killing Amy regardless.
- Hand-to-Hand Skill: 85. John is a brutal, seemingly unstoppable opponent up-close, capable of taking on an entire gang of armed neo-nazis up-close and killing them despite being savagely beaten, and was later able to fight Frank Castle to a standstill in a brawl that left both men completely winded. His biggest strength in close-combat seems to be his inability to register pain, which unnerves opponents and has even sent some running in the past.
| “ | Choose a job you love, and you'll never have to work a day in your life.
— Jordi Chin
|
” |
One of the most renowned Fixers in the Chicago underworld, Jordi Chin was hired by Aiden Pearce to assist in track down the people that murdered his niece. Despite his loose morals, Jordi appeared to have some respect for Pearce, and regularly worked as support during Aiden's more dangerous missions in return for Aiden owing him favors. Despite the initial respect, Jordi would ultimately turn on Aiden, trying to collect on the sizable contract for Aiden, but failed. Later, Chin would make it clear it was just business, and offer up the location of Maurice, the man that killed Aiden's niece.
After lying low for a while, Jordi returned to help Marcus Holloway eliminate the Russian bratva operating in San Francisco.
Starting Weapon:
- Beretta Px4 Storm: A semi-automatic handgun with a range of 50 meters and 10 bullets per clip.
Funds: High. Jordi pretty much always knows a guy, meaning it'll be easy for him to get whatever he needs for a job well in advance.
X-Factors:
- Experience: 85. It's made clear throughout the Watch_Dogs games that Jordi has pretty much seen it all. From rival fixers to members of the various criminal gangs that occupied Chicago, Jordi has faced off with a wide variety of targets in his time as a criminal.
- Training: 40. Very little is known about Jordi's personal history, but it can be assumed he's picked up his skills through experience rather than any formal training.
- Intelligence: 80. Jordi is one of the most renowned Fixers in Chicago because of his excellent deductive skills and tactical thinking. He's regularly been able to cover up extensive crimes, and he proved himself a vital asset in Aiden's war against those who killed his niece, providing the hacker with information and resources.
- Cool Under Fire: 85. Jordi is a skilled, witty operator, always ready with a quip in the heat of the action, no matter how chaotic things get.
- Hand-to-Hand Skill: 75. While it's unclear if he knows any specific martial arts, Jordi is a quick fighter up-close. He was able to overpower and nearly kill Marcus Holloway in a quick fight, and later effortlessly disarmed and beat mobster Anton Bogdanov up-close when he stormed his yacht.
| “ | You think we are who we are? Or do you think people can change?
— Lucas Hood
|
” |
His real name unknown, the master thief that would become Lucas Hood began a life of crime at a young age, when he murdered his abusive father before fleeing to join the army. His fiery temper continued to get him in trouble, culminating with him assaulting an officer and being court-martialed, only to be saved from prison by a man named Dalton, who gave the man a position in a high-risk black ops unit as a chance of freedom. "Hood" would prove to be an effective soldier and killer, but on his final mission, he struck up a friendship with the target: a hacker named Job who exposed him to a profitable criminal lifestyle.
The two went rogue, becoming a criminal duo that eventually began working for the Ukranian gangster Rabbit, where "Hood" fell in love with Rabbit's daughter Anastasiya, with the two making plans to run away together after stealing a massive shipment of diamonds. The shipment was, in reality, a trap set up by Rabbit, and "Hood" sacrificed his freedom to ensure Anastasiya escaped, ultimately spending fifteen years in prison.
Upon his release, "Hood", with Job's help, tracked down Anastasiya, now going by the name Carrie, to a small town in Pennsylvania called Banshee, but discovered that she had a husband and two kids. Saddened, "Hood" made plans to leave town when two criminals attempted to rob the bar he was drinking at. Before he could step in, the real Lucas Hood, the town's new sheriff who had just arrived, intervened and was subsequently killed in the fight. Sensing an opportunity to keep an eye on the love of his life, the thief assumed the identity of the sheriff, aided in his ruse by the bar owner and Job, who helped set up a fake identity.
Starting Weapon:
- Glock 17: A semi-automatic pistol with a range of 50 meters and a capacity of 17 rounds per clip.
Funds: Low. Despite having what should be a decently paying job, Hood never seems to have more than enough to live comfortably, living rent-free in the building behind the bar he stopped at on his first night and never making lavish purchases.
X-Factors:
- Experience: 90. Lucas has a long, extensive history, from time in the military to working for Rabbit to dealing with the various criminal elements of Banshee, and he's faced off with a sizable rogues gallery as well. From gangsters to Native American terrorists to actual US military forces to shadowy private security goons, Hood's fought it all.
- Training: 90. Lucas was trained in elite special operations and mentored by both Job and Rabbit, who taught him an even more extensive set of skills, turning him into what is effectively, a one man army capable of tearing through trained and skilled assassins like tissue paper.
- Intelligence: 70. Hood's not exactly a moron. He's an expert thief and a crafty enough thinker to bullshit his way into becoming one of Banshee's most respected authority figures, but his biggest weakness is his own shortsightedness, often stumbling headfirst into traps or being caught unprepared because of factors he didn't account for. He's survived this far largely because of support from Job or Carrie and access to the resources of the police department.
- Cool Under Fire: 70. While he's normally collected during fights, Hood suffers from severe PTSD due to his time in prison, and the idea that he may be caught and have to go back can send him into genuine panic attacks that take several minutes to recover from if he doesn't have emotional support to back him up.
- Hand-to-Hand Skill: 85. Thanks to both his training and immense tolerance for pain, Lucas is an absolutely vicious fighter, with a style best recognized as boxing but with a heavier emphasis on dirty fighting such as biting, headbutts, and inflicting maximum pain in as little time as possible. Using these skills, Hood is regularly able to defeat groups of opponents at once and fight foes much larger and stronger than him, such as when systematically crippled MMA fighter Damien Sanchez in a fight by exploiting his arrogance.
| “ | Listen kid, I'm not gonna bullshit you, all right? I don't give a good fuck what you know, or don't know, but I'm gonna torture you anyway, regardless. Not to get information. It's amusing, to me, to torture a cop. You can say anything you want cause I've heard it all before. All you can do is pray for a quick death, which you ain't gonna get.
— Mr. Blonde
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” |
His real name Vic Vega, Mr. Blonde was a close friend and loyal associate of the Cabot crime family, to the point where he served 4 years in prison rather than turn on them. After his release, Vega was recruited by the Cabots for their latest heist, a diamond heist with five other men, all operating on codenames so they couldn't sell each other out. On the day of the heist, Blonde ordered the hostages not to ring the alarm, and began executing them when one did. In the chaos of the ensuing shootout with the police, the crew split up, and Blonde escaped by taking a cop hostage.
Bringing the cop, a man named Marvin Nash, to the warehouse where the crew was supposed to meet up, Blonde clashed with Mr. White and Mr. Pink, who accused him of compromising the heist with his behavior, though they also suspect someone on the crew is a cop, as the police arrived too soon to have been responding to the alarm. When Nice Guy Eddie Cabot arrived, he denied it being a set-up, then left Blonde alone with Nash and the heavily wounded Mr. Orange. Out of boredom, Blonde began torturing Nash, slicing his ear off then dousing him in gasoline, but was repeatedly shot by Orange, an undercover cop, before he could throw the match on him.
Starting Weapon:
- Smith & Wesson 659: A semi-automatic pistol with 14 rounds per clip and a range of around 50 meters.
Funds:
- Medium: Blonde's work for the Cabots seems to keep him well-paid, and it can be assumed they would give him money for a job such as this one.
X-Factors:
- Experience: 75. Blonde has a decent criminal record, but he's let down by his lack of major gunfights or encounters. From what we can tell, he's mostly a runner and gunman for the Cabots, albeit one who knows how to handle himself in a fight.
- Training: 35. Blonde presumably has no real training beyond his time as a criminal.
- Intelligence: 60. While Blonde's not really an idiot, clearly acting out of a logic that makes sense to him and no one else, he's brought down by his own psychotic impulses, which led to the crew getting forced into a shootout with the police rather than a hostage situation and his own death at the hands of Mr. Orange.
- Calm Under Fire: 70. Orange is calm and collected during the aftermath of the heist, but it's clear his actual behavior during it leaves much to be desired, as his decision to start executing hostages was one made on the fly and his lack of impulse control forced Orange to break his cover to save Nash by killing him.
- Hand-to-Hand Skill: 55. We never see Blonde engaging in actual unarmed fighting, but it can be assumed by his size that he's at least got brute strength to rely on in a fight.
| “ | I'll swing by and sign the contracts, all right? Just ignore the bodies!
— Trevor Phillips
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” |
A crazed arms and drug dealer living in Los Santos, Trevor Phillips was formerly training to be a member of the Canadian Air Force, only to be discharged before completing his training due to his violent, insubordinate attitude. Taking to petty crimes, Trevor eventually befriended Micheal Townley and Brad Snider and the trio began committing larger scale robberies. This friendship began to grow rocky after Micheal got married and had two kids, causing Trevor to see him as "going soft" and began planning to cut him out and begin working solely with Brad. Worried for the safety of his family, Micheal struck a deal with the FIB and led the crew into a set-up heist that left Brad dead, Micheal "arrested", and Trevor forced to flee.
9 years later, Trevor has set up shop in Sandy Shores and founded the criminal organization "Trevor Phillips Enterprises", which sells guns and drugs to numerous organizations. When Micheal and his new protege Franklin Clinton rob a diamond store to pay off a debt, Trevor realizes his old friend is alive, and resolves to find him to catch up on old times.
Starting Weapons:
- Taurus PT92AF: A semi-automatic pistol with a range of 50 meters and 12 rounds per clip.
Funds:
- High. Trevor has not only his money from Trevor Phillips Industries, but his saved money from heists and the legitimate funds from businesses he owns like the Vanilla Unicorn make him a millionaire.
X-Factors:
- Experience: 90. Trevor has not only twenty years of criminal experience, but he's spent it building a small criminal empire while battling cartels, private military companies, law enforcement, and rival gangs, alongside planning heists with members of the Los Santos crew.
- Training: 45. Beyond his brief time in the Air Force, Trevor has no "real" training.
- Intelligence: 80. Despite his temper and appearance as a redneck, Trevor is in reality surprisingly adept at planning and heists. It was this mindset that enabled him to build a successful criminal enterprise on his own, alongside planning successful jobs that raked in millions of dollars for him and his allies.
- Calm Under Fire: 35. Trevor has a famously terrible temper, and his tendency to snap at even the slightest of insults has gotten him in trouble with a variety of people in the past.
- Hand-to-Hand Skill: 80. While he lacks a real discipline, a mixture of brute strength and fiery rage makes Trevor a terrifying force even when he's unarmed, and he's been able to overpower and stomp a man to death and defeat an entire squad of cops completely unarmed without really straining himself.
Notes[]
- Voting closes March 30th.
- Voting is relatively simple: you rank warriors in what order you think they'll be eliminated (by death, fleeing, or arrest), and I'll allocate points accordingly.
- To get the most obvious question out of the way, Lucas will be able to work with the Sandy Shores police, but it won't get him out of trouble if he's caught clearly committing a crime, like killing someone unprovoked or trying to steal the money.
The Battle[]
Prologue[]
As the "Welcome to Sandy Shores" sign, lit with an ugly, dim neon, greeted him, Felix struggled to keep his eyes open, with only the pain of the bullet dug into his stomach keeping him awake. It was supposed to be an easy job. Get in, grab the money, get out. Of course, it would've been easy if it hadn't been for Larsen.
Fucking Larsen.
Felix hadn't trusted him from the start, but Dock had overruled him. "Have some faith, brother," he had told him, and like an idiot, Felix had trusted him. On the day of the job, Larsen panicked, blasted one of the hostages, and sent everyone scrambling. Idiot got cut down as soon as the cops showed up, and before they split up, Dock drawing the police with a mixture of gunfire and obscenities, they agreed to resort to Plan B.
"Drive to Sandy Shores, dump it where I told you, and then lay low til I get there. Got it?"
Dock's instructions rang in Felix's head. Of course, there's a decent chance the cops got Dock and Felix would spend the rest of his days waiting for a signal that never comes up, but Dock was smart. If anyone could get away, it'd be his brother.
He drove through Sandy Shores, trying to find the meetup point. Dock chose it specifically so it would never stand out to anyone, but the downside was it'd be hard to remember when you were bleeding out all over the seat of your car. Finally, he saw it. Burger Shot, Dock's favorite fast food joint. Pulling the car around the alley behind the restaurant (though calling it that was charity), Felix lurched out of the car, stopping to grab the briefcase containing the money, and walked to the dumpster. Gritting his teeth, he crouched down and slid the case underneath it, remembering Dock's explanation as he did so.
"They won't move the damned thing til Sunday, which gives us three, four, days to get it in case this all goes to shit. You feeling me?"
His job done, Felix climbed back into the car and drove off. If he could cover the wound well enough, he could check it into a motel and wait for this to blow over.
As he neared the Yellow Jack Inn, the only motel apparently still open, Felix's heart leapt into his throat as he saw red and blue lights flash behind him. What the hell could he have done to set off the cops? This was the exact last thing he needed: he couldn't run because he didn't know where to go, he wasn't in any shape for a gunfight, and he likely couldn't talk his way out of this one.
With a defeated sigh, Felix pulled over, the cop pulling up behind him, and reached for his gun, tucked into a holster on the inside of his coat, as he forced a smile, gritting his teeth through the pain.
The cop stepped up to the window, and Felix took a deep breath as he rolled it down. If he fucked this up, it was fight or flight.
"Evening, officer. Is, uh, is something the matter?"
The cop stared coldly back at Felix. If he noticed anything odd, he wasn't saying so.
"Sir, are you aware you have a busted taillight?"
Of course. That fucking taillight that Larsen busted when he tried to back out. Fucking Larsen screws him over one last time.
"Why, no, I wasn't, officer. You know, I loaned a friend this thing yesterday and he musta dented and just decided not to te-"
The cop held up a hand, silencing him. If Felix didn't know any better, he'd suspect he was looking him over. The cop gave an almost imperceptible head tilt and Felix saw in the rearview mirror that the man's partner was getting out of the car. Fuck.
After an almost painfully long minute, the cop finally replied, "Sir, I'm gonna need you to step out of your car."
Well, it had been worth a shot. With an almost apologetic look, Felix drew his gun and opened fire, the rounds tearing into the officer's stomach and sending him sprawling into the street. As he put his foot to the gas, shots rang out, glass shattered, and Felix could hear the other officer yelling something. A round pierced his neck, spraying blood all over the dashboard, and Felix's arm jerked, sending the car directly into a lamppost. With a gurgled groan, Felix stumbled out of his car and fired on the second cop, the shots throwing the man back against the wall just feet away from the body of his partner.
His gun empty, Felix collapsed, holding his neck as blood poured from it. As the last of his life drained from him, the last thought that went through his head was one of spite.
Fucking Larsen.
To say the least, Marion Moseby had had a terrible week. Firstly, he had a mishap at the laundromat that had left most of his favorite suits positively ruined. Second, he had to fire two of his most charming employees because of their poor work performance. And thirdly, he now had to hire more staff on account of the robbery that left most of his employees dead and the bank suffering a loss of almost twenty million dollars. Worst of all, most of that money was stolen from accounts belonging to some of the most vicious and short-tempered crime bosses in the country, but Moseby had dealt with worse. As a plus, the assistant manager, a simpleton by the name of Jeffrey, had been in charge that day, and while it was unfortunate to lose him in the crossfire, Moseby was glad it hadn't been himself with his brains all over the counter.
As he straightened his tie in the mirror of his office, preparing for the group call, he pondered whether quitting the hotel business had been the right decision. Sure, it wasn't much, but it had it's perks. He got to meet new people, manage exciting events, and earn praise for his hard work. Sure, he had to deal with his fair share of hooligans, but he had respect.
The familiar chime of his desk phone sent a chill down his spine. It was time for the call to begin, as four callers furiously demanded to know how he was going to get their money back, a question he simply could not answer. Poking his head out of his office door, Moseby smiled politely at his assistant and said,"Erin, please inform everyone I am not to be disturbed for the next half hour."
Erin, without looking up from her computer, replied, "Yes, Mr. Moseby."
Sitting down on his desk, Moseby saw that he now had four calls waiting. All of the clients had assembled, so it was time for the meeting. As soon as he hit the green answer button, he was bombarded with questions and insults, and he had to clear his throat to earn a moment of silence. Folding his hands, he took a deep breath, an exercise taught to him by a former employee, and inquired, "Gentleman, may I ask who is on the line?"
"Moseby, you cocksucker, you damn well know the fuck this is is."
Moseby nodded. That would be Joe Cabot.
"Time...is money, Marion. And these formalities are wasting what little time I have."
The raspy Irish accent meant that Lucky Quinn was attending to this call personally, rather than one of his subordinates.
"You know my rules about giving last names over the phone. I represent some powerful clients, one of whom is currently the 45th-"
"Yes, yes, I understand the arrangement, Mr. C."
Moseby rolled his eyes at the nickname, then waited for the last caller to answer.
"This is Anderson. How are you?"
Moseby smiled warmly. Finally, someone reasonable.
"I'm doing fine, outside of recent...let's go with complications."
Cabot scoffed.
"Yeah, you could say my fucking money getting stolen from a bank I was told I was safe is a fucking complication. Now, where exactly is it?"
Cabot's outburst earned murmurs of agreement from the other three, and "Mr. C" chimed in,"While I don't agree with the language, Joe is correct. My client chose to bank with you because he had heard you were reliable, both for holding and moving funds to our other arrangements. So, it would be in their best interests for us to be reimbursed for the loss, at the very least?"
Moseby took another deep breath, possibly the deepest he'd taken since before he told his old boss he was quitting, and answered, almost in a squeak, "We don't know."
There was a long pause, before all four callers replied, almost in unison, "What?"
Moseby paused for a moment, trying to formulate a decent explanation that wouldn't put a target on his back, then continued.
"Unfortunately, two of the thieves were killed by the police shortly after the robbery, and the third is in custody."
Anderson scoffed, "So, there's a living witness who knows where the money is? Have the authorities spoken to him on this?"
Moseby cringed, then added,"He's in custody, but he's...comatose. You see, he sustained wounds to the..."
Moseby heard glass shattering on Cabot's end, then snapped, "I don't care if they shot his dick off and turned him into a fucking eunuch! This piece of shit robbed me and he's the only link to my five million, so you'd best hope he wakes up before Vic gets down there to sort this shit out!"
The mention of Vic Vega sent sweat down Moseby's brow. He'd heard stories of what Vic got up to in service of the Cabots, and he'd like to keep his body unharmed and unmolested, thank you very much. He stammered, trying to think of something, anything to appease his clients, before finally remembering the one notable fact police shared with him.
"W-Well, now that you do mention it, we believe the thief carrying the money was the one killed in Shady Shores. If you desire, you could send Vic to investigate there? I could send the add-"
Quinn cut him off.
"I believe, Marion, that all of us will be sending operators into the area to investigate whether your mistake is one that is salvageable or not. For your sake, I hope that it is the former."
Quinn's line went dead first, followed by Cabot (who added one last "cocksucking pink suit wearing fuckup" as he hung up), then Anderson, then finally Mr. C, who felt the need to remind Marion of the importance of confidentiality.
As he stared at his phone, Moseby put his head in his hands and sighed, finally exhaling. He had chosen a truly terrible time to be sober.
Later that night...
Nina Romina worked over the script for that night's 11 PM broadcast with relative boredom. While it was nice to be able to get the first details on the robbery that the police have been willing to leak out, it was unfortunate they couldn't get better footage of the shootout. Lou had his excuses, something about a now former employee getting stuck in traffic, but Nina was used to him making it up to her later with this kind of stuff. She handed the script over to Pat, then went to the production studio. They had a half-hour left before they needed to make what was basically, "Hey, some people died, and the money is gone." good.
The broadcast goes up largely eventfully, but what sticks out is the end of the segment on the bank robbery, when Pat finishes with, "Despite the third's suspect's death in the town of Sandy Shores, the whereabouts of the money are unknown at this time."
The combination of the location of a relatively backwater town and the money being missing makes nationwide news. Jokes are cracked about would-be treasure hunters, internet speculation intensifies, and some men decide to get up and do something about it when they see the chyrons splash across their televisions.
It might've been the weed talking, or the fact that it was 11 PM on a Thursday night, but the words "STOLEN MONEY STILL MISSING AT THIS TIME, LOCATED WITHIN SHADY SHORES" made Dylan Cross feel like he had dozed off with Kira on the couch and was currently in the middle of a wild dream.
He crunched the numbers in his head. Sure, a flight to Los Santos, especially a last minute one, would royally fuck over his wallet, but suppose he found that money and kept the demon at bay by wasting any scumbags that were also trying to get the money. It was the kind of win-win scenario he'd been searching for ever since the night he took a plunge off the apartment roof. As a smile began to creep across his face, Kira's hand tapping his shoulder snapped him out of the plan rapidly being put together in his head.
"Hey, Dylan, still with us? You look like you're in another world."
Dylan blinked a few times and chuckled as Kira sat up and stretched, trying to stifle a yawn.
"Yeah, I guess I was. Or, at least, I'd like to be. Somewhere else, I mean."
Kira looked at him oddly, then shrugged before standing up and heading over to the door to the apartment. Dylan followed her, trying to block her path.
"You sure you want to go out there in your condition? At this time of night? At least let me walk you home."
Kira laughed and gently moved Dylan aside. Throwing her coat over her shoulder, she looked Dylan over, with his bloodshot eyes and messed up hair, and couldn't help but smile.
"Dylan, I'd love to stay but I've got a paper to work on. Plus, I bet You Know Who would love it if he came home from work and found me curled up in your arms. Besides, I slept off the high, so let's be honest, I'd probably end up babysitting you."
He grinned sheepishly and ran a hand through his hair. Maybe she had a point.
"Alright, well, be careful, okay? Lotta crazies out this time of night."
She tapped the mace in her purse.
"Look, I'm prepped if that weirdo in the red mask decides he's got a thing for girls with blue hair."
They both laughed, Dylan's laugh more forced, then shared one last kiss before Kira slipped out the door and down the hall. As soon as she headed down the stairs, Dylan went over to his laptop, booted it up, and googled "Los Santos plane tickets". After cringing at the prices, Dylan squinted to see the demon in the reflection of the laptop, watching quietly as he worked. With any luck, Dylan would be able to get this asshole off his back for a few months. Now, he just had to think of a reason to go to California in the middle of the semester...
Just outside the Sandy Shores county limits, the Lone Star diner sits quietly on its own. In its desolate parking garage, a black Corvette pulls slickly into an empty spot. The car swerves in far too quickly, however, and slams into the trunk of a silver Passat. The driver gives no concern, however, as the engine hums to a stop.
Sunglasses adorned on his face, Vic Vega takes the last sip of his soda and chucks it behind him. His suit jacket fit him like a second skin, while his tie hung loosely at his chest. Vega inspected the damage, noted the lack of damage to his own car, and strolled away.
Walking into the diner, he removed his glasses and looked around. An old TV sat in a corner above the restroom, playing reruns of an old Western. The cowboy looked directly at Vega it seemed, before sniffing back a tear before pulling the hammer of his Colt and jumping back into the action.
"What can I get for you darling?"
Vega nodded his head at two passing gentlemen before sitting at one of the stools. The waitress, a pretty little thing not older than twenty, flashed a smiled at him notepad in hand.
"I'll let you know when I take you out to dinner later tonight."
She giggled, more out of discomfort than flattery, at the bulky man in sunglasses in front of her. "I meant to eat, mister. Don't be getting no funny ideas until then."
Vega flashed her a smile, corner of his lips turning up as he revealed his slightly crooked, dangerous teeth. "Ain't nothing funny bout it, little lady."
She smiled less sincerely this, time, causing Vic to just laugh. That was the scariest thing he'd done so far, the waitress letting out a noticeable shiver. It was cynical, empty, but somehow filled with anarchist anger as well.
"I'll take the Hawaiian burger, plus some fries. Can I get..."
A bell shakes in excitement as the two men who had just walked out barraged back in. The one in front, a man in his forties wearing a trucker hat and green flannel, shoved Vic Vega off his chair.
"Hey, is that your car behind mine? You're gonna pay for that."
Vega brushed himself off as he straightened himself. He put his hands behind his back, letting out an audible crack. "That was your free hit."
"You count that as a hit? I'm gonna show you what a real punch feels like now."
The man pulled his fist back, only to be interrupted by a loud blast. He glanced down, and then at the smoking barrel of the silver Smith and Wesson in Vega's hand. Vic's previously devilish smile was replaced with a cold, calculated frown.
Everyone else in the diner looked in shock as Vega fired two more rounds, one in the chest and the second in the face. His friend started to back out, only for Vega to shoot him in leg. The man fell, howling, before Vega walked over and finished him off.
Vic Vega looked around and sighed in frustration at the ten other people in the diner.
"I'm sorry about all this folks. Won't happen again."
The screams of the diner patrons almost drowned out the gunshots as Mr. Blonde got to work. He started with the woman immediately to his left, putting one her skull before moving to the smoothie drinking teenage couple beside her. Blonde then went by the door, shooting the cook trying to escape out the back and the old man sitting in the corner. Blonde moved through the dinner with precision, wiping out witnesses left and right. He kicked down the bathroom door, placing his last bullet into the chest of the man on the throne, before walking outside to observe his work.
Noticing only 13 bodies, he peered behind the counter to see the waitress. She cowered in the corner, causing him to laugh as he slid in another magazine.
"Now, where were we?"
An hour later, the television miraculously remained intact. The cowboy from before was on an all-white dance floor, now wearing a white suit jacket and four girls in sweatshirts beside him. The music kicked up as he started to dance, followed by a final gunshot.
Standing by the elevator in Doc's warehouse, Bats sighed as he waited for Griff to get his bag out of the trunk of the getaway car. Their job had gone smoothly, outside of Bats having to cap some good samaritan who felt the need to come inside the bank to check on things. The getaway driver, Bats hadn't bother to learn her name, shifted between feet, looking nervously between Bats and Griff as they entered the elevator.
As the music hummed quietly in the background, Griff, without looking away from the counter, started to grumble at Bats. "Listen, buddy-"
"My name's not Buddy. You're thinking of someone else."
"Fuck you. You ever fuck us up on a job like that again, I'll kill you myself."
Bats scoffed and turned to look at Griff, standing face to face with the shorter man, who was scowling as he looked up to him. The driver tried to take another step back, but couldn't move any further.
"Sure thing, man. And while you're at it, maybe you can tell Doc why one of his best players got-"
The elevator dinged and the doors opened to show Doc waiting patiently at the blackboard, watching the news for updates on the search for the robbers. He turned, eyebrow raised, and Bats and Griff both stepped away from each other and out into the operation room. The driver breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out last. Smiling slightly as the money was placed on the table, Doc opened his each bag and took his cut.
"You're in luck, gentleman. The hunt for the money from that botched job in Los Santos has filled the airwaves for the day, meaning your little debacle has mostly gone uncovered. Although, in the future, I'd recommend against shooting bystanders."
Griff smirked at Bats, who shot him a dirty look, then reached for his bag.
"All set, Doc."
Doc nodded, not looking up from his money as he counted it.
"Of course, Griff. I'll call you when you're needed next."
All three members of the crew took their bags and headed back for the elevator, the driver hanging back so she wouldn't have to ride with them again. As the door closed, Griff's posture softened slightly, and he eyed Bats's bag.
"So, what're you using your money for? Me, I'm gonna buy myself a good week out on the town. Good hookers, good blow, shit like that."
Bats rolled his eyes at the small talk and he switched the bag from his right hand to his left hand, further away from Griff.
"Haven't decided yet. Probably gonna buy a plane ticket to Los Santos, try and grab that money for myself."
Griff chuckled as the elevator dinged and the doors opened, and he took a few steps outside. Pushing his coat back slightly, Bats rested his hand on his pistol, tucked into the front of his pants.
"Of course, haven't quite figured out what I'm doing with your cut yet."
This confused Griff, but before he could ask what Doc meant, Bats drew his pistol and fired four rounds into his chest, bringing him to the ground. Bleeding out, Griff could only mumble and spit out a swear or two as Bats walked over and crouched so that he was standing over his former teammate. With a smirk of his own, Bats picked up Griff's bag and put it by his own, Griff weakly trying to stop him, only to get pushed back.
"Here's a friendly tip: don't tell your partner you're thinkin' about his killin' his ass when he's still got a gun."
Before Griff could respond, Bats put his pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. Satisfied, Bats stood and went to pick up his bags when the elevator dinged again, and he drew his pistol and turned to see the driver standing there, hands up and eyes wide with fright. Bats shrugged apologetically, then shot her.
"Should've waited a couple more minutes, beautiful."
He went to grab her bag, then groaned when he realized Doc would get pissed at him if he found the bodies. With a sigh, he picked up the driver's body and went to throw it in the trunk of the getaway car, making a mental note to drive safe. Hey, Doc wanted the car disposed of, he just never said who needed to do it.
Tap, tap, tap.
Joe drummed his fingers on his stomach in time with the clock in John's office as he stared at the ceiling, a blank expression on his face, John's attempts at small talk drowned out into background noise. It was quiet. Too quiet, and the room had felt almost suffocating from the moment he stepped foot into it. Perhaps it was the one singular window, or the lack of sound beyond the clock and John speaking, but Joe never really liked meeting John in his office.
Tap, tap, tap.
It had been a while since he'd worked a job. The Hell's Kitchen job had been good work, or well-paying work, at least, but he didn't like the way the client spoke to him, or the cold look he had in his eyes as he talked about art or old stories. It reminded Joe too much of himself. He'd asked John for a break and taken Mom to Coney Island. It was fun, for a while, but he needed the money.
Tap, tap-
"Joe."
Joe stopped drumming his fingers and looked over at John, who was holding the file impatiently. He tapped his desk to make sure Joe was paying attention before giving him a nervous smile.
"Still with me?"
Joe nodded, not looking away from him, and John continued, flipping through the folder and reading the info contained within.
"Yeah, it's another out-of-state job, Los Santos this time. Hope you like the beach. I tried to get somebody else on this one because I know you hate leaving your mom alone, but "Mr.C" was very insistent on it being you. Apparently, all these mogul types are scared shitless of you, lord knows why."
His reading done, he slid the folder to the edge of the desk, and Joe reluctantly took it, reading the details he missed. He had to fly to Los Santos, drive to Sandy Shores, get the money, and come right back. He could do that in a day or two, so he wouldn't have to leave Mom alone too long. He closed the file and set it by him on the couch.
"Can you watch her? While I'm away? I won't be long."
The tinny sounds of his radio jolted Trevor awake in his trailer with a shout, hyperventilating as he realized he had been dreaming. It had been terrifying, a dream where he was abducted by his father. Or was it aliens? Or both, maybe? He wasn't sure, but what he did know was that it was the last time he mixed ATV fuel with tequila. At least for now. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, Trevor stood up from the couch and stepped over the unconscious (hopefully) body of Wade to turn the radio down.
Rooting through his fridge, Trevor settled on a relatively fresh burger and a bottle of Pißwasser before sitting back down on the couch and turning on the TV to see the 7 AM news. Nothing but bad shit as usual, but before he changed the channel the words "MISSING MONEY" made him pause and turn the volume up. The reporter, some blonde nobody with a nice pair, was talking and standing in front of what appeared to be the scene of a shooting.
"It has been three days since police either apprehended or killed the suspects of the daring Los Santos heist, and there are still no leads on the location of the nearly twenty million dollars stolen. In an official statement, Sandy Shores Sheriff Ray Velcoro has assured us that the department is working overtime to locate the money to return it to it's rightful owners."
The TV cut to another newswoman at a desk, who shuffled her papers and smiled before continuing, "Thanks, Sandy. Coming up after the break, we take a look at the ongoing RegalView strike, and how the company is-"
Trevor shut the TV off and staggered to his feet, excitement curing his hangover. Twenty million dollars was one ten minute drive away, and here he was passed out on the couch for the last two days. Grabbing his pistol, wallet, and the keys to his pick-up off the table, Trevor walked outside, shielding his eyes from the sun, and stopped when he heard a scream. Confused, he turned to see one of his neighbors and her daughter standing in their front yard, staring at him in shock. He waved and forced a smile.
"Morning, folks. How are ya?"
Shielding her eyes as she did so, the woman brought her daughter inside and Trevor looked down to realize why she had screamed. It'd be probably be best if he put clothes on before heading out.
"So you mind running me through this plan one more time?"
Lucas smiled as he exited the terminal, using one hand to hold his cellphone and the other to shield his eyes from the California sun. Within five minutes of stepping off the plane, Job was already worrying about him.
"Thought you said you didn't care about my business anymore, Job?"
He heard an audible groan of frustration from Job and smirked.
"I don't care about your business, idiot. I do care about one of my best clients and, sure, let's call your dumb ass a friend, going off to California on a wild goose chase and getting his aforementioned dumb ass killed, especially when he's supposed to be the sheriff on the other side of the country."
Stepping into the rental car Job had arranged for him, Lucas threw his backpack into the backseat and set the phone onto a mobile station.
"Relax. This isn't exactly my first cross-country job, and as far as the rest of the station is concerned, I'm at my grandmother's funeral. Died very suddenly, quite sad."
"And they bought that?"
"Well, Brock seemed suspicious, but he's always suspicious."
"Sure. And you really think you can handle this one alone?"
"Well, I can't exactly bring Carrie on this one, can I? Probably a bit too suspicious."
He could practically hear Job roll his eyes from the other side of the conversation.
"Half the town already thinks you two are fucking. May as well make it official."
Another chime on his phone cut off whatever witty response Lucas had planned as he pulled onto the interstate.
"Yeah, I'm gonna have to let you go on that note. I think that's the cop I've been talking to, wouldn't want to leave him hanging."
Job "mhmmed", then added,"Sure. Just come home safe, cause I fucking hate funerals."
"Love you too."
Lucas hung up, then answered the second call and immediately heard sounds of sirens and murmurs of conversation and, if he listened closely, people retching in the background. After a few seconds of silence, a more gruff voice spoke up.
"Sheriff Hood?"
"Yeah, it's-"
"Great. This is Sheriff Velcoro, we talked over the phone before your plane took off. Listen, I know I told ya we were meeting at the station but there's been a...change of plans on that. You mind meeting me at the Lone Star diner? May as well hit this investigation running."
Briefly taking his eyes off the road to punch the name into the GPS, Lucas nodded.
"Sure, you mind telling me what happened?"
Velcoro hesitated, and Hood could hear him murmur something to another officer before he responded, "You should pick up pretty quick. Hope you've got a strong stomach for this."
And with that response, he hung up, leaving a confused Lucas to watch the GPS as it informed him he was 45 minutes away. Maybe this Los Santos job wouldn't be so easy after all.
Waking up from a good night's sleep, Boyd turned over and smiled to see Ava still nuzzled up next to him, resting her head under his shoulder. Planting a delicate kiss on her forehead, he laid back against the pillow and watched the sunlight pour in through the bedroom window and gently illuminate her face. After a few minutes, Ava began to wake up and smiled back at Boyd when she saw him watching her.
"Thought you had a plane to catch."
He chuckled and reached for a pack of cigarettes next to the bed.
"Nah, darlin, I ain't leavin til tonight. 'Sides, I got Devil running business for today. He's worked hard, figured he could use a lil promotion."
Lighting the cigarette, he stared at the sunlight as it now settled on the mirror and refracting across the room. Ava watched him smoke for a moment, then stood up and began to get dressed.
"What are you thinking about?"
Blowing a puff of smoke, Boyd grinned, then snuffed out the cigarette in the ash tray.
"Where I'm gonna take you for vacation when I get that money."
She laughed and he climbed out of bed to get dressed as well, grinning as he held her in his arms and kissed her again.
"What's so funny, darlin'? You don't think your man can get his hands on twenty million. This ain't the first time Boyd Crowder has swiped a sizable amount of cash."
She rested her head on his shoulder and grinned.
"There you go, talkin' about yourself in third-person again. That's when I know you're gonna get up to trouble. Now, let's make breakfast and get you all packed for your trip."
After what felt like an eternity, the car came to a stop and Jordi smiled awkwardly at the goons on either side of him. He could think of better ways he had wanted to spend his Saturday but when the Chicago South Club tells you to get in the car, you take the advice. It helps that they stuck a gun in his side, of course.
The goons still close behind him, Jordi stepped out of the car to find himself in an abandoned lot. It was dark, save for the headlights of the few cars in the lot, but Jordi could make out the form of Lucky Quinn anywhere. The old gangster, hands on his cane, was flanked by at least a half dozen men on either side, all well-armed. One of the men shoved a gun into Jordi's side and pushed him forward, and he shot the man a dirty look before putting on his best million-wat smile.
"Lucky, how ya been, pal?"
Lucky didn't respond, simply watching Jordi as the men led him to an acceptable distance before stopping him in his tracks. Resting his hands in his pockets, Jordi eyed the various men around him. The men's faces, save for Quinn's, were covered, so that means this isn't an execution. That's good. Just in case, he gently rested his hand on his switchblade. Finally, Lucky cleared his throat and leaned forward, the light illuminating his face and making him infinitely creepier.
Quinn smiled and finally spoke, rasping out, "Hello, Mr. Chin. It's been a while."
Jordi nodded.
"Yeah, yeah. So, there a reason for this little social call? Because I'm pretty sure you have my contact info."
One of the goons bristled at the joke and jammed his gun into Jordi's side again, pulling the hammer back for good measure and growling, "Watch your mouth around Mr. Quinn." Taking an opportunity, Jordi headbutted the man, sending him to the ground, and drew his knife and put it to the throat of the second goon. Quinn's men raised their guns but he simply shook his head.
"Relax, Mr. Chin. I simply have a business proposition for you. And rest assured, that man-"
He pointed at the man still rolling on the ground, moaning about how his nose had been broken.
"-will be punished for his inability to hold his tongue."
After a few moments of silence, Jordi released the second man and shoved him towards Quinn's men, and he shot Jordi a look of scorn before stumbling to his feet and checking on his friend. Putting the knife away, Jordi gestured for Quinn to continue.
"Are you aware of the failed heist that occurred in Los Santos?"
Jordi nodded.
"Of course. Total rookie job, no nuance to it. I woulda been in and out of there in thirty minutes and no one would've known a damned thing."
Quinn smiled and replied, "That's exactly what I wanted to hear. Well, as you know, the money has gone missing in a little town as Sandy Shores. And I was curious to know if you would be...interested in reclaiming it for me?"
Jordi thought it over. He'd been to Los Santos for a few jobs before, but he'd made a point to avoid Sandy Shores if he didn't have to go there. Of course, a cut of twenty million would be nothing to sneeze it. Quinn gave him the creeps, but he'd put that aside in the past.
"Well, as much as I'd love to go to sunny California on a whim, how much am I going to get out of this little "recovery" job?"
Quinn grinned, a wolfish snarl that didn't ease Jordi's nerves at all, and tapped his fingers on the top of his cane.
"Straight to business, Mr. Chin. That's what I like about you. How does a ten percent cut sound to you?"
"Two million? I suppose we could make some form of deal."
Quinn smiled, satisfied.
"Excellent to hear, Mr. Chin. I'll have my men send you the full details shortly."
Two of his guards stepped towards Jordi to escort him back to the vehicle, but Quinn stopped them when Jordi reached for his knife again.
"I believe Mr. Chin would like to walk."
Jordi nodded and walked away from the lot, fishing his cellphone out of his coat pocket and calling his car guy. First, he'd need to get the hell out of wherever he was, and then he'd need to arrange a car to wait for him when he got to Los Santos.
Anderson Schultz quietly entered the church amid a mixture of quiet murmurs and mumbling. It was a packed house, so Schultz quietly stood by the door. John had been doing well for himself in his sermons. And the man himself, John Pilgrim, paced across the stage, speaking calmly, the audience hanging on his every word.
"And so, when we trust in God, when we know God is behind us in all we do and all we believe, that makes us mighty. It makes us strong. It lets us live a life without sin, without doubt. It lets us fight on, against all hardship, knowing that God. Is. with us. Amen."
The crowd responded with an "Amen." and began to disperse, leaving the church while some gave Schultz curious looks. He nodded curtly at them and smiled at John, who moved through the crowd, shaking hands and saying hello before finally reaching Anderson and giving him a passionate hug.
"How are you, my friend?"
After everyone cleared out, John and Anderson walked around the premises, touring and catching up before finally talking business.
"I'm afraid I must require your services once more, John."
John stopped in his tracks, stopping to watch the leaves fall off the trees as Schultz stood behind him. His fingers twitched and he hung his head for a moment before finally turning to face his old friend.
"What is the job, Anderson?"
Schultz smiled sadly before explaining.
"I'm afraid a lot of money belonging to us, earned by us, was stolen by...undesirables. And now it's gone missing, lost in a town of sinners. Do you understand?"
"So you want me to get it back for you, as payment for all you've done for me and my family?"
Schultz put a reassuring hand on John's shoulder and smiled again.
"See, you understand. We need you to leave as soon as possible. Say your goodbyes to your family and meet me back at the mansion, understood?"
Staring blankly ahead for a few moments, John simply replied, "Okay.", then walked back to the church, leaving Schultz standing by the trees.
Day 1[]
Lucas pulled up to the Lone Star diner, and after a few minutes of trying to maneuver between cop cars and ambulances, simply parked by the road and trudged up to the yellow tape, where a cop stopped him.
"I'm sorry sir, but this is an active crime scene. I'm gonna need you to-"
With a sigh, Lucas unclipped his badge and held it up to the cop, who hesitated, then called out for "Sheriff." After a minute, a shorter man with slicked-back black hair and a graying moustache gestured for the officer to let him through, and the officer complied, holding up the tape for Lucas to step under. Lucas offered his hand and the man shook it, a grim smile across his face.
"Lucas Hood."
"Ray Velcoro. Apologies about this, but I've been here since goddamned noon and didn't want you stranded in Shady Shores while I was figuring this out. Now, tell me: you got a strong stomach? Cause it's a fucking mess in there."
Lucas tilted his head quizzically, then nodded, taking a moment to scan the scene as officers and paramedics loaded bodies into vehicles while others looked immensely shaken. Lucas even noticed vomit on the ground.
"Yeah, I, uh, I fought in Iraq. I think I can handle it."
Lighting a cigarette, Velcoro nodded in approval and gestured for Lucas to follow him, and they stepped into the diner so Lucas could get an eye on the carnage. Shell casings littered the floor, windows were shattered, and entire diner stunk of blood and burnt food. He counted at least 13 tape outlines throughout the building, and a quick glance over the counter confirmed 14 in total. Resting his hand where his gun should have been, Lucas turned to Velcoro and asked, "What the hell happened here?"
Velcoro took another drag of his cigarette, seemingly pondering the question in his head, before replying, "I haven't the faintest goddamned clue. From what I can tell, we've got one shooter because these-"
He bent down and picked up a shell to show it to Lucas, who took it and looked it over.
"-are all of the same model. And the placement of the bodies makes me think that whoever did this started there-"
He pointed at a stool, helpfully marked with a black X.
"-before working his way through the whole patrons. Oldest victim is 61, youngest is...youngest is 16."
Setting the bullet down on the counter, Lucas thought the information over. It was too organized to be a spree, but the victims were too different for this to have been pre-meditated. After looking the scene over one more time, Velcoro stood up and leaned against the counter to take another drag before turning to look at Lucas, his eyes betraying his sense of frustration.
"Now I know you're here on official Banshee business, but something tells me this has something to do with this money coming into town, so I can technically rope you in as a "consultant". I had a suspect in mind, but he doesn't fuck with kids, so this has gotta be an out of town type of deal."
Before Lucas could respond, with reassurance that it was okay or a question as to who this suspect was, a scream from outside stopped them both cold, and they swiftly exited the diner to see people clustering around one of the ambulances while a deputy, wiping blood from his eyes, stumbled away from the crowd. Velcoro grabbed the stammering man by the shoulder and tried to shake some sense into him, with a shout of,"Hey, what the fuck happened? Hey!"
The deputy simply mumbled back, "She ain't dead, sheriff!" then stumbled away to vomit, surprisingly close to where the first vomit pile was. Shocked, Velcoro pushed through the crowd to see the paramedics trying to restrain a struggling woman with a notable wound in her forehead as she struggled out of a bodybag. Velcoro dropped his cigarette in shock.
"Jesus christ, that's the fuckin' waitress."
Taking a deep breath, Lucas smirked.
"Well, looks like we got a witness."
As the radio blared on about the massacre at the diner, Dylan smirked and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He could practically feel the demon's breath on his neck as he pulled into the gas station on the outskirts of Sandy Shores. Between the sunny weather and the fact that it was crime-ridden cesspit, he could tell Los Santos was just what he needed to keep the monster satisfied, at least for a few months while he got his act at school together and figured out what exactly his and Kira's deal was. Plus, finding a cool $20 million wouldn't be too bad either, even if that was largely a longshot.
Steering the rental to a stop, Dylan stepped out and stretched, yawning before walking towards the station to grab a bite to eat. Maybe he shouldn't have driven all day and actually stopped to see the sights, but he'd have plenty of time to do that once he'd finished up here.
Entering the station, Dylan looked over at the clerk, who was absentmindedly playing on her phone, giving zero indication as to whether she'd seen him or not. He briefly walked the aisles before settling on a packet of doughnuts, some sour patch kids, and one of those instant milkshakes and took a moment to try and listen to the music as it played over straining speakers before walking to the counter. The girl, with pink hair and nails to match, didn't look up from her phone, prompting Dylan to knock on the desk, and she sighed and set her phone aside to scan the items while giving obligatory small talk.
"How's it going?"
"Oh, you know, just traveling, little tired. You know?"
"...Sure."
She looked him over and she either took him for an out of towner or simply didn't care enough to comment. As she bagged the items and handed them to him, Dylan smiled awkwardly.
"I like your hair."
This got a smile out of her, albeit a small one, and she simply replied, "Thanks. Have a good night."
Graciously taking the bag, Dylan walked towards the exit and quickly stepped aside as a black man with a shaved head and red jacket entered the store, confidently pushing the doors open and nearly knocking him over. They shot each other a look, and Dylan quickly lowered his head and stepped past Bats as he scanned the store. Just a clerk on her phone and some kid heading back to his car. Probably didn't even need to bring the wallet in here. Strolling the aisles, Bats casually took several items and stuffed them into his pockets, until his attempt to steal some crackers accidentally knocked a bag of chips loose and sent them falling to the floor with a thud, drawing the girl's attention just as Bats tried to stuff the crackers into his jacket. She sighed.
"Sir, you need to pay for those."
Forcing a smile, Bats turned and slowly moved his hand towards his back holster, where he kept his gun.
"Look, babydoll, it's 11 at night and it's just you and me. How about you let this slide? I can make it worth your while."
The girl practically snorted in response, and Bats smile quickly vanished.
"Yeah, they all say that. Look, just put the stuff back and I won't call-"
Bats drew his gun and fired, the shot striking her square in the chest and sending her flying into the lottery tickets, which fell off the counter with an audible crash. Waiting for a response, Bats walked up and looked over the counter to see her holding her chest and rolling on the ground in pain. After climbing over and rooting through the register for money, Bats tsk-tsked and aimed his gun at her forehead, and she tried to mumble a response.
"Should've just kept your mouth shut, honey."
If Dylan hadn't heard the first gunshot, he definitely heard the second one. This seriously wasn't gonna be that easy, was it? Setting his snacks in the driver's seat, Dylan cracked open the trunk of the rental and reached for his suitcase, rooting for it to find his mask and his shotgun, which had been a pain in the ass to smuggle past TSA. Slipping on the mask, he loaded the shotgun and waited by the door for the man to exit.
As Bats exited the store, his eyes widened in shock and he quickly ducked back inside to avoid a shot from some asshole in a red hood. The blast shattered the doors, which were now stuck on emitting a friendly chime that punctuated Bats drawing his own pistol and returning fire through the hole blasted in it, forcing his attacker to duck behind their car until he ran dry and was forced to dig through his pockets to find his backup clip. When he stood back up, the figure was gone, and the slide of the doors was the only warning Bats got before they entered the store and fired again, forcing him to scramble away from the doors and into the aisles.
Dylan nervously patrolled the aisles with his shotgun at the ready, waiting for this guy to pop up so he could blast him. A crunch of a chip bag behind him alerted him, and Dylan turned around and fired just as the man took cover again. Pumping the gun, Dylan advanced and fired again, the shot missing but destroying the loaves of bread on that end of the shelf. Following the footsteps as the man ran, Dylan aimed and fired through the shelf, nearly knocking it over and eliciting a swear from the other side.
Hiding behind the end of the aisle, Bats touched his leg and winced. It hadn't hit, but the shrapnel had definitely cut it a bit. He'd have to deal with it later, because he was dead meat if he couldn't figure out how to deal with whoever the fuck this kid was. Scanning the shelf for something, anything to use, Bats smiled as his hand came to rest on a can of Chef Boyardee. Cautiously, he peeked around the edge of the aisle to see the gunman waiting with his gun drawn, and hurled the can as far as he could, grinning in satisfaction as it clattered across the floor.
Hearing the crash, Dylan turned on instinct and fired, pausing in confusion as the shot simply hit the drinks and nothing else. Before he could investigate, four rounds pierced his stomach and chest and he fell against the aisle, bringing a variety of gummy snacks down with him as he collapsed. Victorious, Bats emerged from behind the other side of the aisle, stepping over the shells and bread, and fired another shot cleanly into his attacker's head, the hood helpfully hiding the blood, before he could lift his gun.
Stopping to catch his breath, Bats tucked his gun into his waistband, then spit on the hooded man's body before exiting the store with a limp. 11 PM or not, somebody had to have heard those shots.
As Bats exited the store, Dylan blinked a few times, trying to clear the blood out of his eyes as it trickled down. As his vision faded, all he could see was the demon watching him, unblinking and unfeeling.
The bell on top of the door dinged helpfully as Lucas and Velcoro entered the Yellow Jack Inn. After a long day of attempting to pull answers out of a witness with literally half a brain, Velcoro decided that he needed a drink at "the only halfway decent bar in town." Lucas looked over the place with bemusement, taking note of the stuffed warthog with a bra hanging out of it's mouth. It certainly wasn't Sugar's, but he'd been to seedier places before.
Taking a seat at the bar, Velcoro held up two fingers and said, "The usual." to an older-looking woman, who nodded and slid two Dusche Golds towards them. Lucas sipped it and winced, earning a chuckle from Velcoro, who drank his in larger gulps.
"Yeah, trust me. Beer here ain't worth sippin'. It's cheap, at least."
As they drank, Lucas looked around the bar to see it's denizens, who had been jovially chatting and playing, all nervously eyeing Velcoro, who subtly raised his drink in response. The only one who didn't react was a bearded man sitting at the edge of the bar, holding a drink and simply staring blankly ahead. Making a mental note of him, Lucas took another sip of his drink and nudged Velcoro.
"I take it you're a popular figure around here."
Velcoro chuckled again.
"Something like that. Let's just say I've spent the last 4 years laying down the law on these shitheads."
Lucas nearly spit his drink. Velcoro had only been here 4 years, but he seemed thoroughly embittered. Lucas had met guys like him in the army, with the same bitter stares and dry humor, who had been at this stuff for decades. The older sheriff seemed to notice his shock and took another gulp of his drink.
"Yeah, I ain't always been the sheriff of this shithole. Used to be a detective up in Vinci."
"What happened there?"
Velcoro grimly took another gulp before setting the drink down.
"Let's just say I stuck my nose where it didn't belong and they bit it clean off. How about you? How'd you end up sheriff?"
Lucas mulled the question over in his head. Something tells me Velcoro wouldn't take kindly to the answer of "The first one died in front of me so I took his name and job." After a few seconds, he replied, "Well, old guy retired so they called me in. Been at it about two years now."
This answer seemed to satisfy Velcoro, and he raised his beer so Lucas could do the same. They clinked bottles and took a drink. Emptying his, Velcoro pushed the bottle aside and shook his head when the bartender tried to give him another one.
"So tell me, Hood, you ain't been sheriff for long, but you ever seen anything like the shit we saw at the diner? Because I've only been in that kinda shit once and it's part of how I ended up here. Well, we got old Trevor, but he ain't never done shit like that."
Lucas's mind flashed back to the shootouts with Rabbit, or the hostage situation at the school, or finding Yawners's body in that parking lot, and all he could do was nod and reply, "Nothing like...that."
Velcoro rubbed his eyes wearily as he tried to force the images of the bodies out of his head.
"It's just...the goddamnedest thing. I got a fucking kid and I gotta bring him up in a world like this, where that kinda shit just happens, you know? I don't know what the fuck to think of it."
After a few more minutes of quiet drinking, Lucas finally finished his beer and declined a second, and the two got up to leave. Velcoro left money on the table and they headed for the door, thinking the diner over in their heads.
"We got our best guys working on the description the waitress gave, so we should get something more out of it than "nice suit" and "sunglasses" by tomorrow. Despite what the local populace may have you believe, that ain't exactly a unique description."
Just as he said that, a well-dressed man, albeit with no sunglasses, entered the bar and warmly nodded at the two. They briefly looked him over, but from the way he looked, jovial and with a widow's peak rather than slicked-back hair, he didn't match the description.
"Evenin', officers."
"Sir."
They pushed past him and exited the Inn, and Boyd watched them with interest before sitting down at the bar. The bartender walked up, still polishing a glass, and asked, "What can I get ya?"
Looking the menu over, Boyd frowned.
"Listen, darlin'. I'm new in town, so I don't suppose ya got any Kentucky Bourbon."
The bartender shook her head and gestured towards the Mount Whiskey. Boyd shrugged. It'll have to do. All the more reason to get this job done and get back to Harlan. Tipping his drink to the man at the end of the bar, who didn't seem to notice, he knocked the shot back and gestured for another.
Day 2[]
Go upstairs and hide, sweetie. Go upstairs and-
Joe awoke with a start in his motel room, warm towel still draped across his face as he laid at the edge of the bed. Rubbing his eyes, Joe looked over to check the clock, which said, in bright green letters, 3:32 AM. He had hoped the bar would've been able to calm his nerves, but all it did was make him sluggish as he walked back to the motel. With a groan, he got up and stretched, then picked up his hammer and clipped it to his belt. The streets were empty, relatively speaking, which should give him time to look for the money.
Joe stepped out of his room and walked outside, giving a nod to a woman smoking a cigarette over the railing. Ascending the stairs, Joe looked quizzically at a black car as it pulled up to the hotel and a man, a priest no less, stepped out of the car and entered the manager's office. After watching the priest for a few moments, Joe walked out of the motel parking lot, heading towards the location of the Yellow Jack Inn. He had been there earlier for a drink, and John's file had said the robber died there, so it wouldn't be a bad place to start looking.
Pilgrim entered the motel manager's office and was immediately greeted with the stench of cigarettes and the low, dull buzzing of the lights overhead. The manager, flicking through a magazine, barely gave him a glance at first, but put the magazine down in his surprise when he saw that a priest was standing in his office. Chuckling, the manager leaned forward in his chair and pulled out his booking list.
"This ain't really a place for a priest, father."
Pilgrim nodded. This town reeked of sin, and he'd give anything to be home with Rebecca and the boys, but he had a job to do.
"God works in mysterious ways."
The manager nodded, not really caring, and clicked a pen.
"Well, Lord mighta let you stay for free but I gotta keep this shithole runnin', so it's 75 a night and 200 for three. You know how long you're stayin'?"
Pilgrim pulled the envelope of money Howard had given him out of his pocket and placed $500 on the table, causing the manager to drop his pen in surprise.
"As long as I need."
Collecting himself, the manager reached under the deck and handed Pilgrim a key before taking the money. Writing down "Priest - Room 237", the manager stopped to flick through the bundle of money. It was all real, and he didn't ask questions. Not in this town.
As the radio blasted in his car, the headlight still cracked from his little collision, Vega smirked. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, and best of all, he had money to burn. In his passenger seat sat an envelope labelled "Rainy Day Fund - Eddie", and goddamnit, he was gonna buy himself a nice gun, maybe a change of clothes, given the...unfortunate amount of blood on an otherwise perfect suit.
The car came to a stop in front of the Ammu-Nation and Vega stepped out, tucking the envelope into his suit pocket. He slicked his hair back and entered the store, chuckling as he heard the same song on the radio playing over the store's speaker. The clerk, a pudgy man with a red goatee and a nametag labelled "Melvin", straightened up and turned to look at Vega with a greeting of, "Well, something tells me you're not from around here."
Looking over a hunting jacket, Vega nodded.
"Yeah, I'm just passing through on...business. Figured I'd see what a hardworking gun-owner could pick up around here."
Melvin grinned, clearly flattered, and waved Vega over, briefly taking a mental note of the blood stains on his sleeves. When Vega strolled over, Melvin reached onto the wall and pulled a bullpup rifle from the wall, then two boxes of ammunition from under the counter.
"I take it a gentleman like you could use a little firepower, and this here is the cream of the crop. Limited edition, got 'em out of Israel from a buddy of mine who worked for Merryweather. Only got six or so left. Since I like the look of ya, I'll throw in a scope for free."
Taking the gun out of Melvin's hands, Vega looked it over, whistling. Cabot's guys never had this kind of firepower, so it'd be a nice little souvenir when it was all said and done. Fishing the envelope out of his front pocket, Vega handed over $4,000 with a grin and replied, "Keep the change."
Rifle over his shoulder and rounds tucked under his waist, Vega walked out of the store, whistling a tune to himself. As the car pulled away, Melvin noticed the busted light, and he remembered something (vaguely) about the suspect in that shooting having a busted light. And a suit. And a slicked back hairstyle.
His eyes wavered over his cellphone. Normally, he'd be against selling out a gun owning, red-blooded American to the authorities, but all he could think of was those kids killed in the diner. Better safe than sorry, he supposed.
"Man, remember how I told you I had a rule about stickin' my dick in crazy? Well, this girl makes me think I broke it."
Leaning against his car, Deputy Martin Jones nodded and sipped his drink as his partner, Larry, ranted, pulling out his phone to show Martin pictures of his latest fling.
"So, she sent me a pic last night, right? Which, cool, love that shit. But the problem is, I'm eating fucking dinner with my wife right next to me. So I gotta excuse myself and tell her not to do that shit, y'know?"
Martin takes a sip and nods.
"And she says, "Oh, baby, I just need you right now. I need your-"
A message over the scanner interrupts him, as dispatch calls from the station and Martin leans in to hear it.
"All officers stay alert, we've got a witness who has identified the diner suspect exiting the Ammu-Nation by Algonquin Boulevard. Suspect may be armed, over."
With a sigh and a mumble about never getting to finish his stories, Larry reached into the car and pulled the transceiver, responding, "This is car 206. We're in the vicinity so we'll keep an eye out, over."
Putting the transceiver down, Larry turned to finish his story only for, as if by fate, a car, matching the suspect's down to the broken tail light, to speed by, going fifteen over as it passed through a stop sign. Larry groaned and got in the car, missing Martin's bemused smirk as he sat down in the passenger seat. Flicking on the lights, the car followed the suspect as he got the message and quickly pulled over, and Larry got out first, followed closely by Martin, who kept his distance.
As the suspect rolled his window down and flashed a ten-watt smile, Larry felt a chill down his spine. This was the guy. He nodded, ever so slightly, for Martin to call it in, then crouched down to get a better look at him.
"Afternoon, officer. Something wrong?"
Keeping his cool, Larry looked over the car. He definitely had something in the backseat under a blanket, which was almost certainly a gun, but he couldn't see the gun he had used in the diner shooting.
"You have any idea how fast you were going?"
The man shrugged, the sunglasses hiding the fact that he noticed the second cop placing a call over the radio. Vic couldn't read lips very well, but he could see him saying, "One star." well enough. His hands tensed on the steering wheel.
"'fraid not. I was taking a call."
Larry nodded and gently rested his hand on his gun.
"Gonna need to see your license and registration."
Vic nodded. So that's how it was gonna be. He leaned over and popped open the glovebox, and instead of grabbing his information, grabbed his gun. In one quick motion, Vic turned and fired, the round tearing through Larry's head and sending him sprawling onto the pavement. Smashing the gas pedal, Vic pulled out, grinning at the crunch of the car going over the cop's body, and ducked as his partner fired, the bullets hitting the back of the car with a worrying clunk.
Watching the car peel away and round the corner, Martin gave one look at Larry's broken body and activated the radio to simply, calmly say, "We got a three star. Suspect is southbound on Mountain View in a black Corvette. We got an officer down, officer down, over."
Standing in the entrance of the gas station, Hood watched as coroners loaded the two bodies from last night's shootout into their car. He had come to this town for a quick job and now he was doing police work. Maybe Job had a point. Velcoro, for his part, sighed as he flicked through his notebook, keeping tabs on the info.
"Well, the girl behind the counter is a Maya Ronan, lives about thirty minutes out, and the second gunman, judging from his ID, is some kid outta New York named Dylan Cross. The hell was some college kid doing over here in the middle of the school year?"
Lucas ran his hand through his hair nervously. Bodies were piling up, and the last thing he needed was more police crawling all over. Velcoro didn't seem to notice as he reflected to himself.
"Weirdest shit is that the kid is dressed like that vigilante up in New York. Y'know, one with the red mask."
Lucas chuckled at that.
"Gonna have to be more specific. New York's got at least three vigilantes that match that description."
"Fuck if I know which one, Hood. We've got enough of those pricks in tights on this side of the country. I'm more worried about everyone deciding my town is open fuckin' season. Second shooting in two days? Christ."
Their conversation was interrupted by the frantic conversation they saw their fellow officer start having as info blared in from the radio, and one jogged up to Velcoro, eyes wide in surprise.
"Chief, Jones and Gross got the diner shooter but he fired on them. Gross is down and Jones is in pursuit. Last I heard they were on Mountain View."
Velcoro gestured for everyone to get to their cars, and Lucas followed him as he headed for his. Lights went off and sirens blared as the cars quickly pulled away from the gas station, leaving the broken windows and various evidence lying where they were.
Vic laughed as he ducked and weaved through foot traffic, multiple police cars in pursuit. This was a hell of a vacation Eddie had sent him on. Out of nowhere, a car smashed him into, sending his corvette hurtling into a telephone pole. He turned to see two cops drawing their guns and he raised his first, emptying the full clip through the front window. Cursing to himself, he loaded his last clip and stepped out of the car. The damned thing was totaled anyway. Dodging shots from cops, he pulled his new toy, the AR, out of the backseat and returned fire, practically vaporizing the poor saps who had gone out of cover to flank him.
As the remaining officers furiously called for back-up, Vic smashed down the door of one of the many abandoned buildings in this shithole, sweeping the room for any squatters. Satisfied when he saw none, he lowered the rifle and climbed the stairs. Aiming the rifle out the window of the building, Vic fired again, blowing the head clean off another cop. People were screaming now, fleeing their cars and the sidewalk to get to safety.
Vic was fine with that. Less people to waste ammo on, as tempting as it was to pop a few as they ran. If he couldn't run out of this one, he'd blast his way out.
Jordi cursed to himself as he surveyed the Sandy Shores police station with binoculars. His gameplan had been simple: Sneak in, steal any info they had on the money so far, and then work out the location from there. Problem was: the station was crawling with cops who clearly didn't have anything better to do, and it was small. Not a lot of places to sneak around. He couldn't even get someone to hack it either, because this station still kept things analog for some reason. A shame, really, because Aiden still owed him a favor.
As if God himself had answered Jordi's prayers for a solution, there was a motion of activity, as all the officers suddenly ran out of the station, got in their cars, and took off for parts unknown. Setting his binoculars down in disbelief, Jordi gave a cautious glance either way, then climbed down from his hiding spot and walked over to the police station, whistling a merry tune. Going around the back, he made sure to cut the power, just in case they had any cameras, then walked right in.
Why can't all jobs be this easy?
Lucas felt like he had been pulled back into a warzone when Velcoro's car pulled up to the scene of the shooting. He counted at least six bodies, and the remaining officers largely flinched by their cars at the cracks of gunfire. Drawing his gun, he turned to Velcoro and ordered, "Stay low. Keep your head away from anything that this asshole could see through." Loading his own pistol, Velcoro nodded, and the two kept to a crouch as they exited the car and crept over to Deputy Jones, the only officer who seemed to really be keeping his cool.
"The fuck happened?"
Popping out of cover to fire a few shots, Jones calmly explained, "Well, we caught the suspect speeding right after the call went out, and Larry went to ID the suspect before they ended up shooting him. Now, he's hiding out up here, and appears to have purchased himself a fully automatic rifle. We're pretty much pinned, Sheriff."
Velcoro cursed and Lucas gave a passing glance over the top of the car, where he saw an officer clutching his side and crying in paint. Looking over, he saw two officers, both riddled with bullets, mere inches away from him. The fucker was using wounded as bait.
The shooting picked back up and Lucas lowered his head back down to speak to Velcoro and Jones.
"What's the layout of the building? How many entrances, exits?"
Velcoro shook his head.
"You can't go in there on your own, Hood. It's a goddamned death trap. We're at five star, we just gotta wait for the tanks to get here and flush this fucker out."
Lucas gestured towards the wounded officer, who cried out for help as his fellow officers were too pinned down to even come close, and practically snarled, "Does it look like we can fucking wait for backup on this one? Now, how can I get it without this guy spotting me?"
Velcoro weighed it over in his head for a few seconds before finally answering, "Places like this usually got a backdoor. We used to raid these houses all the time to try and flush tweakers out. We'll lay down cover fire and you can head through there. And you better move quick cause we're outgunned on this one."
Jones and Velcoro popped out of cover and opened fire on the window, alongside the other officers, and Lucas stayed low, walking along the line of cars to stay out of the shooter's sight before going down the alley behind the building. Seeing a back porch, he gently stepped up the wooden steps, avoiding any loud creaks, and tried to open the back door, only for the lock to refuse to turn. Reaching for his back pocket, he pulled out his lockpick and went to work as he heard automatic fire pick back up. After a few seconds, the lock clicked into place and Lucas entered the house.
It had clearly been a squatting den for addicts at one point, but any users living here had long abandoned it. Redrawing his gun, Lucas slowly ascended the stairs, the sounds of gunfire getting louder and louder. His palms began to sweat, his heart began to beat faster. He felt like he was back in the field. As he reached the top of the stairs, he saw that it was clearly a bedroom, with nothing but a dingy matrress in the center of the room, while the shooter, well-dressed but covered in blood, still had his back to him. Lucas fired two rounds into his back and the man let out a cry of pain, dropping his gun and turning to see his attacker.
Clutching his chest as blood pooled out of it, Blonde chuckled.
"Good sneaking. Didn't even hear ya come in, pig."
Lucas kept his gun trained on him barking out an order of, "Don't fucking move." as Blonde slowly reached for the pistol tucked back into his suit pocket.
"Jesus, man, I'm fucking dying. Mind letting me try and stop the bleeding."
Lucas lowered the gun slightly as he heard chatter from outside and a shout from Velcoro asking if he was alright.
"Yeah, suspect's down! I got him."
The momentary distraction was all Blonde needed, and he drew the gun and fired. Fortunately for Lucas, the shot went wide, and he quickly fired back, splattering Blonde's brains against the wall as the round passed through his forehead.
"Hood!"
"Jesus, I'm fine! He had another gun, but I got him."
Slumping back onto the bed, Lucas exhaled and stood looking at Blonde's corpse, which grinned at him, even from death. A few minutes later, the rest of the department came up the stairs, some thanking Hood, who stared blankly ahead, while others got to work. Velcoro rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You alright? You look a little rattled."
Lucas sat up from the bed and holstered his gun, forcing a smile.
"Yeah, I'm good. Not my first time shooting somebody."
"Me neither, Hood."
He sighed as the deputies reluctantly checked for a pulse before yelling for the medical examiner to come get the body.
"Me neither."