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|Chapter 3; A Cross-Shaped Shadow|
|Topic Started: Sep 15 2006, 05:46 PM (531 Views)|
|Jazon Woorheez||Sep 15 2006, 05:46 PM Post #1|
LIBERTY CITY SURVIVOR 2
A CROSS-SHAPED SHADOW
“I HATE YOU!”
Koburt took a step closer, keeping his shotgun steadily pointed at Jericho who stood there, staring at the sun. Koburt could hear the pointless roar of the PCJ engine behind Belleville Park’s wall. Suddenly, a strong wind rushed down the street with a hungry howl. Van de Veer held his hand up to shield his eyes from the freezing piece of winter tempest. When the wind stopped, Jericho Cross was on the ground. He didn’t move.
People screamed and pointed at the young man who had just died in front of them. Calmly, Koburt walked up to the body and looked at it. Cross was dead alright. His eyes were looking at nothing and his mouth was displaying a strange kind of smile, as if he was very pleased with something.
Slowly and ceremonially, the Dutchman pulled the hunting knife from its old leather sheath and swung it through air. The noon sunlight reflected against the blade and Koburt licked his lips. This kind of pain was always welcome.
He put the very tip of the knife against his arm, feeling the cold steel touch the human flesh. Then, he cut a new deep notch. A new chapter in his diary.
A few pearls of dark blood fell onto ground, creating tiny craters in the snow. Koburt looked at the notch in his arm. The familiar, pleasant pain trickled upwards through the veins to the cortex where it jolted back and forth between the nerves. Van de Veer smiled and looked at Jericho who smiled back at him.
“Nothing personal.” said Koburt, took Cross’ sunglasses from the ground and put them back on the young victim’s face. He looked more like himself again.
Sirens in the distance. Though the death of Jericho wouldn’t mean any trouble for Koburt, he preferred to make himself scarce. Putting his shotgun into the coat, he ran back to the Freeway and got on it. He took one last look at the man who had died and started the engine.
Yoshimitsu put his hand on the car door and looked around. The madman with the flamethrower was nowhere in sight.
He didn’t follow me. thought Matsui and opened the door. Perhaps I should have followed him…
But what would Yoshi have done if he had managed to follow Carl? Stab him in the back? No. Only cowards and children attack their enemies from behind and it was certainly not the way of honour. Martin would not die by Yoshimitsu’s sword today. Separate ways, separate lives. But they would meet again. Or would they?
In his heart, he felt that they would. The man of fire and the man of honour would face each other again, in battle. And when that happened, one of them would die. Inevitable.
Matsui opened the glove compartment and took a big photograph from it. It was a group photo, taken one week before the start of the contest. They were all there. All the living ones, and McGregor who had died. How ironic it had been, the hunters meeting in peace to be photographed so that the people who made the real cash could print posters and billboards. Matsui looked at the picture. Some of the people didn’t look straight into the camera, others did. Carl Martin was staring right at it, almost through it. His eyes were strong, determined. So were Yoshimitsu’s.
He wondered who would die next. Little did he know that Jericho Cross had fallen only minutes earlier, not too far from there.
He would meet Carl another day. Until then, he had to hunt the others. Putting the photo back into the glove compartment, he slid the keys into the ignition.
Carl found the open manhole and descended the ladder, back into his smelly sanctuary. The meeting with the samurai hadn’t been very successful, but Martin was pleased. You don’t have to actually win a battle to be truly victorious. Honour is victory too, and even in this twisted shape, Carl had his honour. As a human, and a warrior.
Some people join the police because they like to carry guns and show off with uniforms. Carl had actually believed in the credo. Protect and serve. He wanted to protect. He had the instinct to do it.
Carl didn’t have any children. He had never been given the chance to marry and pass on his memories to a second generation of his blood. Before the accident that marked the end of Carl’s first life, he had had a girlfriend who he had loved deeply. If everything went well, she would have been upgraded to fiancé and then to wife. But everything went from well to straight hell and she left him. The final person to do so, she was the one who made Carl realize he was alone. So very alone. And he would always be.
Death will claim me. he thought. And then I will be at peace…
But as he looked at his burned hands, he wondered if he would look like this in heaven too.
“I knew you would come back sooner or later.”
Logan’s heart jumped violently. He grabbed the Kalasjnikov and turned around, aiming right at the man who was standing at the door. He came very close to firing, but reacted in time and took his finger from the trigger.
The man was wearing a striped black suit and hat. His skin was south-European to the tone and a small moustache decorated his upper lip. It was a Sean alright. One of the family’s couriers.
“ Logan.” said Sean with a smirk. “Still shooting at everything that moves?”
“Only people who deserve it…”
Sean smiled and looked around in the room.
“And your apartment is still shabby. Really not representative, you know.”
Oh, how much Logan would have given for the permission to kill Sean with a simple neckshot right now. It would have been so easy.
“What the hell are you doing here, Sean?”
Sean lit a cigarette and sat down on a chair with his legs crossed.
“Don Cipriani has a favour to ask you. A cleaner job.”
“What do you mean? I’m in the middle of Survivor.”
“Indeed. But that is no bar to your call. The don has requested you, and you will do it. No?”
Logan swore. He couldn’t fail Toni. Logan was a man on his way up in the family and a failure would mean plunging back down.
“But what about the cameras? I can’t kill a mark on national TV!”
“The don has taken care of that. A little money in the pockets of the right people causes a sudden and convenient malfunction. You have two hours.”
“Fine. Who is the target?”
“A Diablo captain named Felix Reyes. Ever since we got that shit SPANK off the streets, the Diablos have been establishing new business with “legal” drugs. Oxycontin, benzodiazepines. That kind of shit. Reyes is becoming a threat to the family, you see, and we need to end him.”
“I get the picture. Where can I find him?”
“He is meeting his dealing rats in Hepburn Heights. Try not to get yourself shot before you shoot him.”
“Couldn’t care less, could you?”
“I don’t like you.” said Sean and stopped smiling. “You’re a loose cannon, and I hate that.”
He puffed out a cloud of smoke and got off the chair. Logan grunted and packed the last of his equipment into a bag.
“You really did love her, didn’t you?”
Logan turned around like a military speedboat and stared at Sean, finally removing the lid on his hatred for the man.
“Yes, you did love her. But you never told her, because that could have ruined everything. That’s why you’ll never get anywhere, McNeil. You’re a coward.”
For one brief second, Logan’s hand reached for the rifle but his brain fought back and stopped it.
“I’ll go now.” said Sean with a sickening grin and dropped the cigarette butt on the carpet. “Before you throw a fit.”
Sean strolled out through the front door and leaned against the wall.
“By the way, another of your enemies has bit the scythe.”
“Yup. He did a swan dive onto the road over at the park ten minutes ago. I found out just before I got here. I don’t know who it was, but we’ll find out.”
Sean disappeared into the elevator and Logan locked the door while wondering who had become the second victim.
Madison left the bar and took two steps towards his Yosemite. The snow creaked pleasantly underneath his boots. The air was fresh and the sun sparkled between the skyscrapers. It was a good day. James had to visit Phil Cassidy and pick up some things from the storage garage before he could set his trap. Cassidy was a good man. A bit on the drunken side and more than healthily hectic, but trustworthy and skilled with firearms.
He got in the car and started driving, keeping watchful eyes pointed in all directions like prison searchlights.
When he passed Belleville Park, he noticed a huge crowd surrounding something in the middle of the street. Paramedics were there and a couple of cops were putting up the usual plastic barrier. Madison tried to see what is was all about but the crowd was too thick.
Guess I’ll have to read about it tomorrow.
Edward Kowalski strapped the last ribbon of police tape onto the lamppost and rubbed his hands together to get rid of the numbness. The burned corpse on the ground had been declared dead by the paramedics and they would soon be on their way out of here. The man had been a Liberty City Survivor participant. His death was legit, as absurd as it may sound.
Turning his head, Ed the policeman noticed a Yosemite driving by. The man who drove the car was also a participant of the contest. Kowalski shook his head and asked himself how some people can be so suicidal.
The man stood there, watching the city through the large window. The cup in his hand was full of expensive coffee from a distant country where the people had caffeine in their bloodstreams.
“So far, so good.” said the man and sipped the coffee.
“The plan is still in its first phase.” answered the other man. “Many risks yet.”
“I will deal with the risks, as per agreement. You should relax and enjoy your return.”
The man behind the desk laughed ironically.
“Yes, my return to a city which has almost forgotten me. Isn’t it fantastic how fast they disregard?”
The man at the window nodded silently. Many things in this world were fantastic, one way or another.
Christopher crushed the Sprunk can in his hand and decided that he had had enough. Guard duty is the dullest kind of action and no general has ever conquered countries from his car. Granted, most conquering generals didn’t have cars but horses were the same, apart from the lack of backseats and ashtrays.
O’Shea pushed the button on the remote and the car gave a little beeping to tell him the doors were properly locked. Then, he jogged across the street to the open metal gate of Philip R Cassidy’s sandbagged fortress.
“Retribution.” he mumbled. “Revenge, vengeance, reprisal. Settling a score. Evening the odds. Payback. Bad blood.”
Osa climbed into his Stallion and put his foot on the gas. He didn’t know exactly where to go. For the moment, he had thrown tactics to the wind and embraced his instincts. He would follow the wind, seeking his targets without actually seeking them like a blind bat which keeps screeching until it hears that special echo. Padilla had to get his mind of Madison. There was too much else at stake to get bogged down with one enemy man. Osa could never forgive, but he could forget for a while. Rage was not the only thing in his emotional archive.
The Stallion kept rolling down the street. The limo came out of nowhere.
Vito removed the silencer, attached it. Removed it, attached it. His restlessness was growing and the only thing he could do was wait for the others to reveal themselves while playing small games for temporary amusement. Where were they? How could they hide? They should be hunting too and they could not do that without leaving their lairs. “Ace” should have found one by now. The odds were in that favour.
“Let’s go to Portland.” he said to the driver. “They might be there.”
He attached the muffler again and looked at the airport dome. It was magnificent piece of architecture, one worthy of recognition. Tourvicci knew more than a little about Liberty City’s buildings, but he couldn’t remember who had designed the dome. Someone of great skill, obviously…
The screaming of tires was the only warning before the Stallion crashed into the limousine with a deafening sound of twisting metal.
The terrible stench of the waste pipes lightened as he finally found a ladder and ascended it.
No more! No more fucking sewers! Enough!
Bronx pushed the cover aside and crawled out of the sewers with a relieved gasp. For a while, he had been afraid of getting lost down there. As a child, he had enjoyed scaring Max with horror stories about monsters, ghosts and evil men with big knives. Max had always asked him to stop, but Jack knew that his brother had loved it. Tucked in and keeping a small lamp on, Max had cherished the nights when his big brother had sat down next to the bed to tell another story about horrifying things that would never happen for real.
Bronx remembered that one of those late-night stories had been about a little girl who had journeyed into the sewers where a strange kind of cannibal savages had resided. Jack was pretty sure he had stolen the concept from a comic book, but his version had been improved with close details about the cannibals cooking the little girl’s brain and offering it to the queen in a golden bowl.
Jack looked around and realized he was in an alley in Chinatown. He took a cigarette from the pack, sat down with his back against a trash can, recalled that night when Max had retaliated by telling a horror story of his own and roared with laughter while a single tear wet his cheek.
Herman put the AK47 on the passenger seat, closed the car door and sat in silence for a while. His right hand reached for the radio knob, but fell to his side before reaching it. Silence was the music for today, nothing else. Silence can’t be written as words and it cannot be played with instruments, but it is the most delicate of music genres. So fragile, the tiniest mistake can ruin the whole concert, for silence is an eternal song in which the orchestra never stops playing until the moment when the outside causes a shift and ends the piece that might have been going for aeons.
Garret knew this. Words are passing, but silence is for ever. Holy. Then again, the human culture is built upon a foundation of sounds.
Blinking twice, Herman started the car.
“Mr Whoopee, mommy! Whoopee!”
“But… It’s winter…”
The children laughed and clapped their hands as Albert passed them. His Ice cream truck sang its song and he couldn’t help but smile a bit. Even he, a hobo, could bring joy to the small ones. Of course, they were in love with the car, not him. But Salatskee didn’t mind. To see a child’s happy face is to regain some of your hope for the future.
Naturally, it had occurred to Albert that the jingle would attract other people too. Kids were not the only ones to heed the call.
So let them come. They’ll come for Ice Cream and I will ice them good.
Albert chuckled, coughed and had a last look at the children in the side view mirror.
The Bobcat stopped at the red light and “Brutal” sunk back into the seat. Where the hell were they? How could he possibly find them?
To his right was the monument shaped like a funky star. It was full of graffiti and the plaza where it stood was covered with candy wrappers and other trash.
This city is really going down. thought Jack with a deep sigh.
Not too far from there, the construction workers were still repairing a building which had been destroyed by participants during the first Survivor season. Brooks didn’t know the details, but a small plane had apparently crashed into the house along with a man after first colliding with the roof of the Love Media building.
How is something like that even possible?
He rubbed his eyes. So many strange things happened when a city became a hunting ground. You just never knew what to expect.
Indeed. Brooks did not expect the ice cream truck to appear from the intersecting road just then. But it did. His eyes widened as he saw it. Finally!
“And the man has yet to be identified, but sources say that he is one of the eighteen people taking part in Liberty City Survivor. If this is true, we can be sure to know for sure shortly.”
Lou turned the radio off and scratched his chin. Someone had died. Sixteen left.
Who could it be? Flash tried to visualize a young man flying through the air. Didn’t the woman on the radio say that the man been riding a bike?
Cross. It must be him… Jeez, what a way to go. Cross’ shadow will rest over Belleville… Until it is forgotten.
Lou chewed his lip and considered his next move. There were no boundaries for what could happen in this tourney. A man falling from the sky like some kind of dying bird on fire? Absurd. “LC” hoped that fate had something better than that in store for him. His quest now was to find Albert Salatskee. Bogart the hobo hadn’t revealed many details, but as long as Salatskee kept driving that truck, he would be easy to find. Perhaps too easy.
Wong looked at the Stallion on the hydraulic lift and felt a sting of worry. It was his baby, his love ride.
“Are you sure you can fix it?” he asked the mechanic who was smoking a home-rolled cigarette and reading an El Burro magazine.
“Yah, shouldn’t be too hard.” said the mechanic without taking his eyes from the voluptuous women in their exotic positions. “It ain’t that damaged.”
Mark looked at the car again. To him, it looked very badly damaged. Every little dent was a gaping wound and the headlights were sad eyes looking at him, begging him not to leave. Shaking his head, he turned away from it. Such feeling were not only ridiculous, they were hazardous at this time.
No distractions. No mistakes.
He left the Pay’n’Spray and walked out onto the sidewalk where he could think clearly without the accusing looks from his dove blue car or the thick smell of grease and fumes. December the third. Twenty days before stressed husbands would realize they had neglected their gift shopping. Twenty days before children would start feeling restless when they should sleep. Twenty days to die.
Mark saw a mafia gang member walking by. The Leones were still not friends with the Triads, but Toni Cipriani had taken many actions to limit the bloodshed. Toni had once been the Triads’ worst enemy, but things change. As don, Cipriani had a lot more influence and didn’t have to resort to garbage trucks with armed bombs in them. There were more delicate methods.
“Right n Wrong” looked everywhere but directly at the mafia man. Peace ruled, yes, but getting careless is always a huge mistake.
And with those words, this entry is finished. Another day of my life, as told by myself. To you, whoever you are, I wish a good day and peaceful nights.
Zyteslav closed the journal book and put the pen back in its cup. The coffeepot still smelled good, but the drink itself had gone cold.
Go cold, Zyteslav! Don’t fire!
But, sir… The woman…
That is an order!
Yuri grunted at the familiar voices. One was his; the other belonged to lieutenant Sergey Rotkov.
You are worthless, Zyteslav! But I will make a man out of you! Being a sniper is about more than looking at people through a fancy binocular! Are you a sniper?
Yuri still remembered the slap. Right in the face, hard. Rotkov had been a cruel man, but an efficient driller. His soldiers had all been hardened and cold. They fought until they died… Either by the enemy’s bullets… Or by their own.
The suicide. The poor man’s psyche had snapped and he couldn’t take it anymore. He had wept and screamed for his mother before pulling the trigger of his AK-101. Then, he wept no more. No more sorrows for the young Spetz Naz corporal.
But suicide was not for Yuri Zyteslav. The enemy’s weapon was his exit. Maybe not today and maybe not this year, but one day. He would never die peacefully.
Maya left the house and looked around. Still no ambushers or other crazies waiting for her. She jogged to the Cheetah, opened the door and put all her stuff behind the seats. This would probably be her last visit to this house for a long time, maybe forever. She looked at it and smiled. Many good memories lived in there.
She threw the house a wet kiss and turned around to enter the vehicle. But something caught here eyes before she could do that. Another car came casually rolling up the hill. It was a silver Kuruma and its driver had an even more unique look to him. Like a snowman or a man-shaped cloud of cold steam. The sight made Maya tremble slightly and she knew right away that this was one man she would never be able to seduce. But she would be able to kill him, for that was her mission.
Moving so fast her arm became a blur, she pulled the revolver from the thigh holster, aimed and fired one round at the car where the living ghost sat.
Logan parked the Clover and got out. Hepburn Heights was right down the hill. McNeil couldn’t really believe that the don had required a cleaner service from him now, but the criminal ways were always unpredictable and hard to believe. All Logan could do was hope the cameras were really disabled. If not, he would be in a cell before long. And he knew what had happened to Johnny Buckshot when he had been thrown in the slammer during the first season.
With his AK47 hidden in the bag, Logan quickly moved closer to the target area. So, a Diablo leader named Felix Reyes was holding a small meeting to make up plans for the distribution of legal but smuggled drugs. A normal job, but he would have preferred to do it with the cover of the night. Noon was a very bad time to do violent things in public.
Just a little bit closer. He could see a group of men down there, chatting and hugging themselves to keep warm.
A lot of people… This will be tricky. Better get closer first.
“Socrates” entered the main courtyard of the Cassidy compound and had a quick look around. A Rhino tank and a couple of Barrack OL military trucks were there, along with dozens of ammunition crates. Christopher could swear he even saw a rocket launcher sticking out of a container. It made him wonder what old Phil might have hidden where nobody could see it. Biological weapons? Nuclear warheads? He didn’t want to think about it.
Suddenly, Cassidy himself appeared from behind a container. His remaining hand was holding a rusty mug which reeked of Boomshine liquor.
“What that?” said Cassidy and squinted his eyes. “Who you?”
“My name is Christopher O’Shea, mr Cassidy, and…”
“Yeah, yeah, the Survivor guy!”
Phil gave a loud burp and dropped the mug on the ground.
“Did ya know that mah friend fought in the firscht Schurvivor?” inquired Cassidy. “Did ya?”
“MacMillan?” asked O’Shea and started regretting coming there.
“Fuck yesh! Mad Dog wash a great guy, I tellsch ya! Ya hear?”
“Good! Now, what can I do ya for, mischter Schurvivor?”
“I’m looking for James Madison.”
“Eh, the outlaw doesn’t come here no more! Haven’t seen schince the seaschon schtarted!”
“Do you think he’ll be coming back?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“But come over here! I’ll schow you some gunsch and body armour! Fine quality!”
Just outside the compound, James Madison parked his Yosemite.
Vito’s head collided with the window and he dropped the pistol. For a moment, white dots dances across Tourvicci’s retinas and the sounds caught by his ears were scrambled and distant. Beneath him, the car drove up big waves of snow as it was pushed by the Stallion. Then, it came to a halt and Vito grabbed his dizzy head with his arms. He could hear the chauffeur opening his door and getting out of the car.
What happened? asked Vito in his confused mind. What hit us?
Then, the painful silence was broken by an even more painful noise. Gunshots. Two of them. Tourvicci opened his eyes and looked out through the window. There, his loyal chauffeur fell to the ground with blood running from his chest. Osa Padilla was bleeding from a cut in his cheek, right below the blind eye, and his tank top was ripped. But he was steadily walking towards the limousine where Vito now sought his handgun desperately.
The first bullet hit the ice cream truck’s rear bumper. Salatskee heard the ricochet, looked in the side view mirror and saw something far more unwelcome than smiling children. Jack Brooks, aiming his revolver at the car.
Albert pressed the pedal down and sped down the street. He didn’t have any firearms, only the chainsaw and he couldn’t fight back with that. Behind him, Brooks ignored the red light and went in hot pursuit.
The chase didn’t last very long. As they neared the church, Brooks fired a bullet right into the left rear tire and popped it. Salatskee lost control of the singing vehicle, glided to and fro and then crashed into the church’s solid stone wall.
When the bullet penetrated the car window, time slowed to a crawl for Herman Garret. He could see the bullet as it rotated through the air right in front of his eyes, followed by sparkling fragments of glass. The vision lasted for a nanosecond before vanishing into nothing when the bullet hit the opposite window.
The driver side window now had a large hole in it. Herman took his rifle, aimed through the hole, hit the brakes and pulled the trigger as the car screeched and turned 90 degrees.
Maya dodged the volley with very narrow margin and took cover behind her own car. This man was no rookie or hot shot gung-ho. He knew exactly what he was doing. And that was more frightening than anything.
In the Kuruma, Garret was patiently waiting for the beautiful young woman to reveal herself so that he could remove her beauty permanently.
The Diablos didn’t see him. He was just an ordinary guy, taking his ordinary walk at an ordinary time. However, he was about to do something illegally extraordinary.
The rifle was heavy in the bag. It wanted to get out, to taste oxygen and blood. McNeil grinned very slightly as murders yet to come flashed by his eyes.
He was close enough. This would be the vantage point. Hidden in the bushes, he would be a ninja until it was far too late.
Slowly, he took the weapon from the gym bag and cocked it. The clicking sound was familiar, like an old friend. It is a peculiar sound. He who makes it feels a rush of power but those who hear it are struck with fear. That little noise was a weapon in itself.
Logan assumed a crouched position and beaded down the sight, aiming right at the group of gang members down there. He could end a life right now, but that would not be an intelligent thing to do. That is what separates an assassin from a mere killer. The ability to rest easy on the trigger at all times.
But then, the target appeared from an apartment building. He walked like a proud man; his stance was one of confidence. A leader indeed. Felix Reyes, a man gliding upwards to the top of the food chain. Logan smiled and put his trained index finger on the ribbed rubber surface of the trigger. He took two deep breaths and switched the laser sight on.
“Where ever the rod dot goes…” whispered McNeil. “Ya-bang!”
Reyes never got the chance to realize he was dead. The two 7.62 millimetre bullets penetrated his neck and turned his throat into plastic-like shreds. Pieces of skin and muscle tissue were washed out of his body along with a small waterfall of blood as he fell backwards. His lounges made fruitless attempts to suck the gas of life into what would soon become a cold carcass.
Disoriented, the Diablos drew their weapons and rushed to their leader’s aid. By the time they understood he had passed away, Logan was back in his car.
James rounded the corner and saw Phil Cassidy, hunched over a dark green crate. Next to him was a younger man who seemed to be a customer of Cassidy’s. But he was ordinary customer. As if a small gear started moving inside Madison’s brain, he identified the man and built an entire chain of actions to take.
But the young man had instincts. James’ presence tickled the fine nerves of his primitive reptilian centres and he turned around, already prepared for a battle.
But there was no battle. The bounty hunter moved his hand and pulled the revolver out of the holster within the blink of an eye. “Socrates” reached for his own weapon but before he could grab it, Madison’s slug hit him in the chest and threw him backwards. Then, a small chaos erupted.
“The yak!” hollered Cassidy, dropped the Boomshine mug and took a Ruger rifle from a bench. The only thing that saved James from the ensuing barrage of bullets were reflexes tuned through many years of hard life.
“Die , you fucking commie mammal!” roared Phil and swept the area with his automatic rifle.
Madison dived back outside through the gate and listened carefully. Footsteps. The crazy man was chasing him.
“How long will you do this to me?” said Phil’s voice from behind the corner. “First Nathan, and then things keep going to hell for me! Why!?”
There was no use staying here. O’Shea had been shot. It was time for retreat.
Inside the compound, Christopher stood up and looked gratefully on the DuPont armour vest he had just put on. The small crater in it displayed very clearly what had almost happened.
At the gate, Phil Cassidy was still hunting his illusive yak.
Osa looked at the limousine and spit a small lump of saliva-mixed blood on the ground. Behind him, the chauffeur was twitching in the snow. Padilla knew that Tourvicci was inside the limo, but it would be hard to gain an edge. It was a kind of stalemate. Osa wouldn’t get closer and Vito wouldn’t get out. Unless…
“Ace” found his silenced pistol and pushed the safety off. Now he had to crate a plan. In the deepest part of his intellect, he grieved the death of his loyal chauffeur and friend. But the true remorse would come later. For now, the adrenaline locked all emotions into small prison cells.
Osa held his Desert Eagle 50.AE in Weaver position and aimed very steadily at the limousine itself. Vito looked out through the tinted windows and as if his mind was connected to the enemy’s, he realized exactly what was about to happen.
Tourvicci opened the door on the opposite of the car, where “Happy” couldn’t see him directly, and started running down the slope. Before he got very far, Osa fired a single hot projectile into the stretch’s gas tank. The windows of the car were armoured, but the gas tank lid was not. The resulting explosion could be seen and heard all the way to the Staunton Island arena where the Liberty City cocks were just playing a game against the Winter City ocelots.
Tourvicci feet left the ground and he soared down the slope like a wingless bird. Once again, the pistol fell from his hand. When he landed hard on the ground a moment later, he was shaken up and in pain, but alive. No bones broken. He coughed and got back on his feet. With shaky legs, he turned to look at the flaming wreckage on top of the hill. His old limousine, the car which had taken him to so many places, was gone.
Vito took a couple of painful breaths and spotted his firearm next to a motorcycle which had apparently been abandoned by its owner. On top of the hill, Osa Padilla appeared through the smoke and inspected the destroyed car. Obviously, he came to the conclusion that Tourvicci had perished in the blast and disappeared again before Vito could get a shot off.
Then, the sound of the Stallion as it backed away. With a sigh, Vito got on the abandoned bike. The engine was still alive and the vehicle moved obligingly when “Ace” revved it. He had to get back to his mansion and fetch his Infernus now. The contest had suddenly taken a very sour turn.
Herman waited. Maya was still using her car for cover. Garret could have fired at the vehicle in hopes of blowing it up, but he didn’t feel like wasting bullets. This would end soon, one way or another.
Herman wondered if this woman would be able to kill him. Perhaps she could, but Herman had the upper hand now. Most likely, he would kill her.
All of a sudden, a huge fuel explosion echoed from another part of Shoreside Vale. Herman could see a gigantic column of flames rising towards the clear sky. At that very second, like she had been waiting for that to happen, Maya jumped out and fired a bullet. Her pressed situation combined with the quick attack made her aim unsteady. Instead of terminating “Ghost”, the bullet hit the side of the AK47 barrel and forced it to the side. Herman pulled the trigger and fired at nothing. When he realized what had happened and turned back to attack position, Maya was already in her car and on her way out of there.
Garret could have followed her, perhaps even eliminated her. But he allowed his muscles to relax and put the Kalasjnikov back on the passenger seat. Through the hole in the window, the cold wind and the distant smell of burning metal made entry. Felotas had earned her survival for today, but Herman would get more chances. He did not doubt that for a second.
The sun still blessed the city with its happy rays. People pointed at the crashed Mr Whoopee and tried to explain to each other what had happened.
Brooks climbed out of his Bobcat, gun in hand. The cross on top of the church was throwing its shadow onto the ground where the ice cream truck stood with its engine running. Jack approached the vehicle with quick steps, holding his revolver tightly. The enemy was in there. As he walked, he isolated himself from the world around him. Now, more than ever before, his head felt totally clear. Not numb, not clouded. He even felt like himself again. The Jack Brooks who had biked in Vice City. He would celebrate this victory with a drink and Lynyrd Skynyrd.
With a thousand different memories flowing through his mind at once, Jack put his hand on the truck door and opened it.
The roar of a small engine woke him up from his memory nap and when the chainsaw hit him in the stomach, every last sliver of nostalgia vanished like smoke. He looked up and stared at Albert Salatskee’s furious eyes.
Brook’s felt the chainsaw grinding his insides and made his last move. Slowly, he raised the gun and fired one slug into Albert’s arm. Then, he dropped the weapon on the ground and tilted his head backwards.
“Tony Escobar.” said Albert quietly.
Brooks shook his head and said one word.
Breathing for the last time, he fell backwards onto the cobbled ground where the shadow of the cross still rested.
Iustitia, Libertas, Veritas
|Treble M||Sep 15 2006, 06:38 PM Post #2|
It was good to have so much action going on at once.
And thank god O'Shea tried on the armor Cassidy showed him.
Rest In Peace: 1937 - 2008
|Guest||Sep 15 2006, 07:02 PM Post #3|
|Guest||Sep 15 2006, 07:05 PM Post #4|
|read it 5 minutes ago at school, 2 people were reading it with me|
|Treble M||Sep 15 2006, 07:26 PM Post #5|
I'm just taking a WILD GUESS here, but are you Potato?!
Rest In Peace: 1937 - 2008
|Irongamer||Sep 15 2006, 08:01 PM Post #6|
|Very brilliant....Very. Good job with everything man. Keep it up.|
"We're sort of like 7-Eleven. We're not always doin' business, but we're always open. -Murphy, Boondock Saints|
|Flask||Sep 15 2006, 09:40 PM Post #7|
Beware the Were-Bear
WOO! Nicely done.
I like that, like, three battles are going on and Mark is worried about his car.
|jimsci1000||Sep 16 2006, 06:06 AM Post #8|
|MY LIMO!!! no no, my limo had a forcefield and gained 10000000000000 deffense points but only on fridays o well i still got my infernus|
|If life gives you lemons, add some vodka, drink that, and you'll feel better.|
|BooBoo the Second||Sep 16 2006, 11:53 PM Post #9|
|Wow, I thought Maya was going down. Thank God for that limo.|
|sir skeleton sam||Sep 18 2006, 12:45 AM Post #10|
Skeletal Warrior Straight Outta the Strange Eons
Ah, Herman! You were so close! Oh well, you're not put of the game yet...
Great chapter, Jazon! How does it feel to be able to add the word "fuck" without looking over your shoulder for mods?
The illustrious master of randomosity!|
"I'm a bad motherfucker, don't you know and I'll crawl over
Fifty good pussies just to get one fat boy's asshole" Nick Cave - "Stagger Lee"
"Oh I get it, you're Jason Fuckees" - Jazon Woorheez
|Arkady16||Sep 18 2006, 07:55 PM Post #11|
|dang i wish i could of gotten into this aswell i even thought of a character to represent the Yardies since noone has a yardie character yet ohwell maybe next time|
|BooBoo the Second||Sep 18 2006, 08:33 PM Post #12|
I'm the first person to put in a woman character. That makes me some kind of weird person.
|Arkady16||Sep 18 2006, 10:26 PM Post #13|
|guess we will see if maya ends up winning the whole thing and showing the boys a thing or two right|
|Treble M||Sep 19 2006, 01:18 PM Post #14|
I created the first non-criminal character.
Actually, I created the first LCS 2 character.
Rest In Peace: 1937 - 2008
|Jazon Woorheez||Sep 19 2006, 07:02 PM Post #15|
|Well, Sam, it feels really well to be able to use any word in my vocabulary when writing without having to fear the censors. It did make sense to have censor cops, of course, but this small board was created so that we wouldn't have to keep ourselves in such tight bonds.|
Iustitia, Libertas, Veritas
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