A sleek, black, federal issue car raced down the street past Ken Rosenberg
& Co. Law Offices in Washington Beach, on past Rafael's clothing shop, up
the road toward Leaf Links Golfing Resort, and over the bridge heading
south toward Starfish Island. Once it neared the large estate on the isle,
the scenery changed from the pleasant tourist-attraction Florida to
something much more horrifying. The driver leaned forward and hit a switch
under the dashboard to activate the hidden siren behind the windshield on
the passenger side. It flashed blue and red light on utter carnage. The air
was screened with hovering smoke, bellicose and trembling. Police cars lay
charred, burned, and reduced to nothing but smoldering husks and wreckage.
Officers and civilians alike were scattered dead or dying on the sidewalk,
in the road, or on the grass.
Special Agent Graydon Creed winced at the unfolding scene, completely awed. "What in God's good name happened here?"
His partner swerved the car avoid a woman, obviously dead who lay in the car's path. Her shopping bags from the North Point Mall were strewn about her. "You ever heard of the Forelli Gang from up in Liberty City, New York?" Special Agent Patrick Ford asked Creed, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"Yeah, they run parts of the drug trafficking cartel up there," Creed responded absently, peering out his window at the scene with growing disgust and unease.
"Well, they have this bastard, Thomas Vercetti, who run around and does their dirty little chores for them, or at least they did. Vercetti took the fall for a massacre in Harwood that left eleven people dead. They sent him away for fifteen years inside. He was recently released and top gun Sonny Forelli must have sent him down here. He was supposed to be dealing with a routine drug exchange with some crackpot from the Columbian Cartel, but something happened and Vercetti ran for cover. The deal never went down. We had an eye on him for a little while, but eventually, we lost track of him. This," Ford gestured with his hand angrily, "is where he's decided to come back onto radar."
"Yeah, but why at the Coke Baron's Mansion? I thought that prick Ricardo Diaz ran his little business out of there. The way I heard it, Diaz has been operating out of there for years," Creed said.
"Vercetti must have taken over the capital, permanently, if you know what I mean." Ford shook his head. He pulled the car up next to a flickering street light, which was where a congregation of some fifteen police cars and a securi-van were parked. Those officers still left alive milled about, enjoying the moment of peace after the storm.
Creed and Ford exited their car and were immediately approached by a stocky police chief who looked like he had been through the third ring of Hell and back. A large gash in his forearm dripped crimson blood all over his neatly pressed uniform shirt.
"You the Feds?" He asked roughly. Ford and Creed nonchalantly flashed their identification badges at him simultaneously. The police chief nodded curtly and led the two agents over to the general mass of flashing lights and irritated people in front of the mansion's entrance.
"I warn you to be careful," the chief said. "This guy us dangerous, and he sure as hell resisted arrest. He's got an entire group of lackeys that follows him around, and every single one of them is armed with an Uzi. My boys managed to take out of few of them, but some of them fled., so be on the look out."
"Resisted arrest," Creed huffed. "That's for damn sure."
"You got Vercetti?" Ford wanted to know as he pushed past a few officers who stood on the front porch smoking cigarettes and grumbling to each other in low voices.
The chief nodded. "Yeah we got him, after a damn four hour recreation of World War II. I lost forty-five good men out there trying to take that asshole out."
"Noticed a lot of civilians too," Ford muttered. They entered the house. Officers were bringing weapons from every part of the mansion and dumping them into a growing pile in the front foyer. The pile was beginning to look impossibly large. Creed noticed canisters of nerve gas, concussion grenades, explosive grenades, rocket launchers, rifles, pistols, machine guns, and even brass knuckles.
"Where the hell does this guy get all this stuff?"
"God only knows. He steals them, or buys them, or makes them, I don't know. Who the hell cares," the chief answered bitterly. The three of them skirted around the pile of weapons and approached the bottom of the huge central stair case that led to the second floor balconies and the front office.
At the top of this flight, eight police officers stood with their hand guns trained squarely on a single man, who stood in the center of the circle. Vercetti stood there calmly, his hands raised where everyone could see them clearly. He stared unfazed down the barrel of a well manicured Glock 9 of the police officer who stood directly in front of him. Blood ran into his eyes from a deep cut above his right brow.
Ford drew his issued Sig Sauer 380 from his waist holster and gently pushed one of the uptight, exhausted officers out of his way. "Thomas Vercetti, good to see you."
"I'm sure," Vercetti replied.
"What are you doing here? Your turf is up in Liberty."
"I wanted to see the sights. I had heard the sea breeze is wonderful this time of year. I've always wanted to come down to Miami. Call me a tourist," Vercetti answered. "I never knew you police types cared so much to greet so warmly, and all." He smiled and Ford fumed.
"Don't play stupid with me, Vercetti. You killed all those men out there in cold blood and you don't care," Ford growled. He pulled back the hammer on his pistol, tightening his grip on the gun altogether. "I should kill you right where you stand because you sure as hell don't deserve to live."
"I'm not playing stupid, FBI Man. You're playing plenty stupid for the both of us," Vercetti said, repeating what he had once said to an angry café owner in Little Havana. That smile never left his visage.
"Shut up." Ford's hand tightened again, his finger brushing the trigger lightly. He turned to a close by officer suddenly. "Get him out of here before my hand slips," he ordered. Creed appeared next to him.
"Are we taking him back to Liberty City or are we keeping him here?" Creed asked. Ford though about it; it was a good and valid question. Vice City's prison system was a walk in the park compared to the one up in New York, however, it would be a pain to keep Vercetti under the proper guard while making the switch. It would create weaknesses in the criminal's shackles, and he was great with weak spots.
"We'll have to ask the Bureau. Let's lock him up in Florida State for right now. If the AD wants to transfer him, he can handle all the damn paperwork.," Ford answered at last.
Two of the officers cuffed Vercetti and they dragged him out to the waiting securi-van. Ford and Creed returned to their car. "We'll follow them to the station, and then to the penitentiary after they pick up the Marshals. I want to make sure this prick gets locked up nice and tight," Ford said, starting the engine.
"Is that really necessary, Pat? Why would we need to do all that with the shark's nest of squad cars they've got here?" Creed shifted his gaze to his partner. For the first time, he saw how uncomfortable Ford looked.
"What's wrong?"
Ford shook his head slowly and guided the car out to follow the traveling police convoy. "Vercetti killed my brother a month back. He hit him with a car as he was running away from some tedious little street gang. My brother didn't even have a chance. I just want to see the guy brought to justice, you know?"
"He didn't seem like he recognized you at all though," Creed observed.
"No, he wouldn't, would he. He's killed so many innocents that I don't think he'd ever remember an individual person," Ford said with a long sigh. "Nevermind it, Gray. Don't worry about it."
"Okay, whatever you say."
The remote controlled concussion grenade detonated under the securi-van as it chugged along across the bridge that allowed passage into Little Havana. The sonic force sent the vehicle spinning into the steel railing. The convoy halted in a panic and police officers jumped from their cars. Ford pressed the brakes of his own car and slammed his hands down on the steering wheel.
"No, you idiots! Don't get out of your cars!"
The police instinctively drew their weapons and held them ready, guardind themselves from the rear with their backs pressed against their squad cars. The night remained strangely silent.
Inside the securi-van, Vercetti picked himself up off the floor the best he could with the hindering cuffs around his wrists. "Damn," he whispered, wincing. "Ouch."
The Vercetti gang had gathered under the bridge, and on the shores of each side, out of sight. Leading them was Lance Vance, who stood balanced shakily on the bow of one of the speed boats in the water.
"All right guys, this is it. We have got to be careful now because they have Tommy in that wagon. We don't want to kill him, right? Let's go," he commanded.
They moved out. One groups crept around to flank the guards from the side while another jumped up from its concealed position behind the thick bushes to distract attention, and the gunfire began. The speed boats roared out from underneath the pass and shooters sitting in the back began to tear apart the people on the road. Lance's boat pulled up along side the shore and Lance hoped out. Then the boat rejoined the fleet. Lance scampered into the bushes to get topside.
The police scattered, trying to eliminate the threat and at the same time, keep their lives. Ford and Creed leapt from their car and joined the battle, forgetting all about the absurdness of the situation.
Lance went around the gunfire and hopped on top of the securi-van from the hood. He jumped down and unlatched the back door as quickly as he could. He clamored inside and turned around promptly to avoid being shot in the back.
"Hey Tommy, miss me?"
Vercetti raised an eyebrow. "Only if you can get me out of here alive. If not, no. I didn't miss you at all," he said flatly. Lance shook his head and tossed a Colt .45 to him, which he caught backwards with his cuffed hands. Lance swiftly picked the lock on the cuffs and Vercetti, now free, rubbed his wrists. Then he held up his gun and smiled. "Onward and upward," he said.
Lance and Vercetti both grabbed the top edge of the securi-van's back door and hoisted themselves onto the roof. Vercetti took a moment to check how much ammunition Lance had brought him. The bullets, although small, were soft-tipped, so they would definitely pack a punch. Vercetti clicked the magazine back in place and flipped the safety off. The he joined Lance in the shoot-out. From their position on top of the van, they had extremely good access to those scrambling around below them. They began to pick off their opposition on no time flat.
"This is NOT going well," Creed said rather needlessly, ducking as bullets flew past him. Someone hit the streetlight nearby and glass rained down on all present. Another light blew, the another, and another. Before long, the bridge had been plunged into darkness.
"We've got to take out Vercetti!" Ford shouted hoarsely over the mayhem. "He's got a better shot than anyone here."
Creed nodded and both agents raised their Sigs. They aimed over the top of the railing they were hiding behind and aimed at Vercetti, who was still on top of the van, busy reloading his gun.
Ford's bullet hit Vercetti in the right shoulder and he reeled a short distance before losing his balance all together and falling off the roof of the van. He landed on the street below with a winded "oof!" as his breath left him. He didn't, however amazing it was, lose his grip on his Colt .45.
Lance risked a glance in Vercetti's general direction. "Tommy? You okay down there?" He didn't have time to worry though. A cop appeared on the roof behind him, having climbed up onto the hood undetected.
"Fine," Vercetti wheezed, trying to catch some air. "I'm fine, but we should really hightail it out of here before this gets any worse. I don't want to end up dead!"
Lance finished shooting the cop and jumped down next to Vercetti. He hauled him to his feet and let him lean on him for a brief moment while he got himself back into sorts. "Let's go then, Tommy."
They ran towards Little Havana, leaving the convoy behind them. Vercetti shouted to his gang as he ran. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here!"
The officers left standing attempted to give chase, but the surviving gang members rapidly hijacked passing cars and disappeared. The police choppers managed to locate and capture quite a few of the newly acquired Vercetti vehicles, but Vercetti himself and Lance managed to elude them. Patrick Ford, was not a happy man, and he vowed to find Vercetti if it took him the rest of his life.
Special Agent Graydon Creed winced at the unfolding scene, completely awed. "What in God's good name happened here?"
His partner swerved the car avoid a woman, obviously dead who lay in the car's path. Her shopping bags from the North Point Mall were strewn about her. "You ever heard of the Forelli Gang from up in Liberty City, New York?" Special Agent Patrick Ford asked Creed, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"Yeah, they run parts of the drug trafficking cartel up there," Creed responded absently, peering out his window at the scene with growing disgust and unease.
"Well, they have this bastard, Thomas Vercetti, who run around and does their dirty little chores for them, or at least they did. Vercetti took the fall for a massacre in Harwood that left eleven people dead. They sent him away for fifteen years inside. He was recently released and top gun Sonny Forelli must have sent him down here. He was supposed to be dealing with a routine drug exchange with some crackpot from the Columbian Cartel, but something happened and Vercetti ran for cover. The deal never went down. We had an eye on him for a little while, but eventually, we lost track of him. This," Ford gestured with his hand angrily, "is where he's decided to come back onto radar."
"Yeah, but why at the Coke Baron's Mansion? I thought that prick Ricardo Diaz ran his little business out of there. The way I heard it, Diaz has been operating out of there for years," Creed said.
"Vercetti must have taken over the capital, permanently, if you know what I mean." Ford shook his head. He pulled the car up next to a flickering street light, which was where a congregation of some fifteen police cars and a securi-van were parked. Those officers still left alive milled about, enjoying the moment of peace after the storm.
Creed and Ford exited their car and were immediately approached by a stocky police chief who looked like he had been through the third ring of Hell and back. A large gash in his forearm dripped crimson blood all over his neatly pressed uniform shirt.
"You the Feds?" He asked roughly. Ford and Creed nonchalantly flashed their identification badges at him simultaneously. The police chief nodded curtly and led the two agents over to the general mass of flashing lights and irritated people in front of the mansion's entrance.
"I warn you to be careful," the chief said. "This guy us dangerous, and he sure as hell resisted arrest. He's got an entire group of lackeys that follows him around, and every single one of them is armed with an Uzi. My boys managed to take out of few of them, but some of them fled., so be on the look out."
"Resisted arrest," Creed huffed. "That's for damn sure."
"You got Vercetti?" Ford wanted to know as he pushed past a few officers who stood on the front porch smoking cigarettes and grumbling to each other in low voices.
The chief nodded. "Yeah we got him, after a damn four hour recreation of World War II. I lost forty-five good men out there trying to take that asshole out."
"Noticed a lot of civilians too," Ford muttered. They entered the house. Officers were bringing weapons from every part of the mansion and dumping them into a growing pile in the front foyer. The pile was beginning to look impossibly large. Creed noticed canisters of nerve gas, concussion grenades, explosive grenades, rocket launchers, rifles, pistols, machine guns, and even brass knuckles.
"Where the hell does this guy get all this stuff?"
"God only knows. He steals them, or buys them, or makes them, I don't know. Who the hell cares," the chief answered bitterly. The three of them skirted around the pile of weapons and approached the bottom of the huge central stair case that led to the second floor balconies and the front office.
At the top of this flight, eight police officers stood with their hand guns trained squarely on a single man, who stood in the center of the circle. Vercetti stood there calmly, his hands raised where everyone could see them clearly. He stared unfazed down the barrel of a well manicured Glock 9 of the police officer who stood directly in front of him. Blood ran into his eyes from a deep cut above his right brow.
Ford drew his issued Sig Sauer 380 from his waist holster and gently pushed one of the uptight, exhausted officers out of his way. "Thomas Vercetti, good to see you."
"I'm sure," Vercetti replied.
"What are you doing here? Your turf is up in Liberty."
"I wanted to see the sights. I had heard the sea breeze is wonderful this time of year. I've always wanted to come down to Miami. Call me a tourist," Vercetti answered. "I never knew you police types cared so much to greet so warmly, and all." He smiled and Ford fumed.
"Don't play stupid with me, Vercetti. You killed all those men out there in cold blood and you don't care," Ford growled. He pulled back the hammer on his pistol, tightening his grip on the gun altogether. "I should kill you right where you stand because you sure as hell don't deserve to live."
"I'm not playing stupid, FBI Man. You're playing plenty stupid for the both of us," Vercetti said, repeating what he had once said to an angry café owner in Little Havana. That smile never left his visage.
"Shut up." Ford's hand tightened again, his finger brushing the trigger lightly. He turned to a close by officer suddenly. "Get him out of here before my hand slips," he ordered. Creed appeared next to him.
"Are we taking him back to Liberty City or are we keeping him here?" Creed asked. Ford though about it; it was a good and valid question. Vice City's prison system was a walk in the park compared to the one up in New York, however, it would be a pain to keep Vercetti under the proper guard while making the switch. It would create weaknesses in the criminal's shackles, and he was great with weak spots.
"We'll have to ask the Bureau. Let's lock him up in Florida State for right now. If the AD wants to transfer him, he can handle all the damn paperwork.," Ford answered at last.
Two of the officers cuffed Vercetti and they dragged him out to the waiting securi-van. Ford and Creed returned to their car. "We'll follow them to the station, and then to the penitentiary after they pick up the Marshals. I want to make sure this prick gets locked up nice and tight," Ford said, starting the engine.
"Is that really necessary, Pat? Why would we need to do all that with the shark's nest of squad cars they've got here?" Creed shifted his gaze to his partner. For the first time, he saw how uncomfortable Ford looked.
"What's wrong?"
Ford shook his head slowly and guided the car out to follow the traveling police convoy. "Vercetti killed my brother a month back. He hit him with a car as he was running away from some tedious little street gang. My brother didn't even have a chance. I just want to see the guy brought to justice, you know?"
"He didn't seem like he recognized you at all though," Creed observed.
"No, he wouldn't, would he. He's killed so many innocents that I don't think he'd ever remember an individual person," Ford said with a long sigh. "Nevermind it, Gray. Don't worry about it."
"Okay, whatever you say."
The remote controlled concussion grenade detonated under the securi-van as it chugged along across the bridge that allowed passage into Little Havana. The sonic force sent the vehicle spinning into the steel railing. The convoy halted in a panic and police officers jumped from their cars. Ford pressed the brakes of his own car and slammed his hands down on the steering wheel.
"No, you idiots! Don't get out of your cars!"
The police instinctively drew their weapons and held them ready, guardind themselves from the rear with their backs pressed against their squad cars. The night remained strangely silent.
Inside the securi-van, Vercetti picked himself up off the floor the best he could with the hindering cuffs around his wrists. "Damn," he whispered, wincing. "Ouch."
The Vercetti gang had gathered under the bridge, and on the shores of each side, out of sight. Leading them was Lance Vance, who stood balanced shakily on the bow of one of the speed boats in the water.
"All right guys, this is it. We have got to be careful now because they have Tommy in that wagon. We don't want to kill him, right? Let's go," he commanded.
They moved out. One groups crept around to flank the guards from the side while another jumped up from its concealed position behind the thick bushes to distract attention, and the gunfire began. The speed boats roared out from underneath the pass and shooters sitting in the back began to tear apart the people on the road. Lance's boat pulled up along side the shore and Lance hoped out. Then the boat rejoined the fleet. Lance scampered into the bushes to get topside.
The police scattered, trying to eliminate the threat and at the same time, keep their lives. Ford and Creed leapt from their car and joined the battle, forgetting all about the absurdness of the situation.
Lance went around the gunfire and hopped on top of the securi-van from the hood. He jumped down and unlatched the back door as quickly as he could. He clamored inside and turned around promptly to avoid being shot in the back.
"Hey Tommy, miss me?"
Vercetti raised an eyebrow. "Only if you can get me out of here alive. If not, no. I didn't miss you at all," he said flatly. Lance shook his head and tossed a Colt .45 to him, which he caught backwards with his cuffed hands. Lance swiftly picked the lock on the cuffs and Vercetti, now free, rubbed his wrists. Then he held up his gun and smiled. "Onward and upward," he said.
Lance and Vercetti both grabbed the top edge of the securi-van's back door and hoisted themselves onto the roof. Vercetti took a moment to check how much ammunition Lance had brought him. The bullets, although small, were soft-tipped, so they would definitely pack a punch. Vercetti clicked the magazine back in place and flipped the safety off. The he joined Lance in the shoot-out. From their position on top of the van, they had extremely good access to those scrambling around below them. They began to pick off their opposition on no time flat.
"This is NOT going well," Creed said rather needlessly, ducking as bullets flew past him. Someone hit the streetlight nearby and glass rained down on all present. Another light blew, the another, and another. Before long, the bridge had been plunged into darkness.
"We've got to take out Vercetti!" Ford shouted hoarsely over the mayhem. "He's got a better shot than anyone here."
Creed nodded and both agents raised their Sigs. They aimed over the top of the railing they were hiding behind and aimed at Vercetti, who was still on top of the van, busy reloading his gun.
Ford's bullet hit Vercetti in the right shoulder and he reeled a short distance before losing his balance all together and falling off the roof of the van. He landed on the street below with a winded "oof!" as his breath left him. He didn't, however amazing it was, lose his grip on his Colt .45.
Lance risked a glance in Vercetti's general direction. "Tommy? You okay down there?" He didn't have time to worry though. A cop appeared on the roof behind him, having climbed up onto the hood undetected.
"Fine," Vercetti wheezed, trying to catch some air. "I'm fine, but we should really hightail it out of here before this gets any worse. I don't want to end up dead!"
Lance finished shooting the cop and jumped down next to Vercetti. He hauled him to his feet and let him lean on him for a brief moment while he got himself back into sorts. "Let's go then, Tommy."
They ran towards Little Havana, leaving the convoy behind them. Vercetti shouted to his gang as he ran. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here!"
The officers left standing attempted to give chase, but the surviving gang members rapidly hijacked passing cars and disappeared. The police choppers managed to locate and capture quite a few of the newly acquired Vercetti vehicles, but Vercetti himself and Lance managed to elude them. Patrick Ford, was not a happy man, and he vowed to find Vercetti if it took him the rest of his life.