You lean in close, your voice menacing. "If this info is wrong, I'll be back, and you won't like it." Satisfied, you let go and head out to find Leo Teal.
You arrive at Ocean Drive, a vibrant street lined with pastel-colored buildings and neon lights. The warm ocean breeze carries the scent of saltwater mixed with the aroma of various restaurants. Amidst the bustling crowd, you spot Leo Teal, a stocky man with a chef's hat, outside a high-end seafood restaurant.
Approaching him, you waste no time. "Teal, I heard you have something to tell me," you assert, your tone leaving no room for doubt. You find Leo Teal on Ocean Drive, his phone conversation abruptly cut short as you approach him. "We need to talk," you say, your voice a dangerous growl.
Leo glares, "I don't know anything."
Anger flares within you, and you shove him, sending the phone clattering to the ground. The fight begins with fists flying, each punch landing with a bone-crunching impact. Leo fights back, his moves desperate and wild. You land a solid hit, sending him sprawling.
Scrambling to his feet, Leo pulls a gun, firing wildly. You dive behind a car, feeling the rush of adrenaline as bullets whiz past. You return fire, each shot methodical, forcing Leo into retreat. The sounds of the fight echo down the street, scattering pedestrians.
You advance, your gun steady, heart pounding. With a final, precise shot, you disarm Leo, sending his weapon skidding across the pavement. As he slumps against the wall, bleeding and defeated, you approach, demanding answers.
But Leo, stubborn and defiant, refuses to talk. You grab him by the collar, shaking him. "Tell me what you know!"
In a desperate attempt to break free, Leo lunges at you. Reflexively, you fire your gun. The shot echoes, and Leo falls to the ground, a look of shock frozen on his face. You watch coldly as the life drains from his eyes.
Frustration and anger boil within you. You've lost the chance to get information. You kick the ground, cursing the situation, knowing you'll have to find another way to uncover the truth. As Leo crumples to the ground, his lifeless eyes staring blankly, you spot his phone lying nearby. Snatching it up, you think it might hold some useful information. Just then, Lance arrives, anger burning in his eyes. "You just killed my lead on my brother's death," he spits, frustration and fury evident in his tone. But you don't care; there's no time for regret.
Out of nowhere, three more chefs burst onto the scene, each wielding a butcher knife with menacing intent. They don't waste a second, charging at you and Lance. Adrenaline floods your system as you and Lance turn on your heels and sprint towards his white Infernus, bullets flying from your gun as you try to fend off the attackers.
The chefs are relentless, their knives glinting in the dim light as they close in. You fire shot after shot, trying to slow them down, but they keep coming. Lance fumbles with his keys, finally unlocking the car as you reach it. You dive into the passenger seat, continuing to fire at the chefs, while Lance jumps into the driver's seat and revs the engine.
The car roars to life, and you peel out, tires screeching, as the chefs' butcher knives barely miss the rear bumper. You continue to fire out the window, determined to keep them at bay as Lance floors it, putting as much distance as possible between you and the enraged chefs. As you speed away from the scene, Lance glances at your handgun and raises an eyebrow. "Why the hell are you using that cheap piece? What happened to the minigun you had?"
You sigh, keeping your eyes on the road. "Not practical to carry that beast everywhere, Lance."
He nods, understanding but still concerned. "Fair point. We need more firepower. Head to Ammu-Nation southwest of Ocean Beach. We'll stock up and be ready for whatever comes next."
You speed through the streets, neon lights blurring as you make your way to Ammu-Nation. Pulling up outside, you both hop out and enter the store. Inside, the walls are lined with an array of firearms, ammunition, and tactical gear. The air smells of gun oil and metal. The clerk, a grizzled veteran, nods as you approach the counter.
You scan the shelves, selecting a variety of weapons. Handguns, shotguns, and even a few high-caliber rifles. Lance grabs extra ammo while you eye the grenades and body armor.
"Better safe than sorry," Lance mutters, tossing the items into a basket. You make your way to the counter, the clerk ringing up your purchases without a word. He hands you the receipt, and you both head back to the car, the trunk now loaded with enough firepower to take on an army.
As you slide back into the driver's seat, Lance grins. "Now we're ready for anything."
As you enter Ken's office in Washington Beach, the tension is palpable. Ken paces back and forth, his brow furrowed with worry. "Tommy," he says with a sigh, "the Forellis are up in arms. They haven't received their cut, and now they're demanding a favor. Sonny's cousin, Giorgio, is facing five years for fraud. We need those jurors on our side." He hands you a folder containing information files on the jurors.
"Don't worry, Ken. I'll handle it," you reply, flipping through the files. "These guys won't know what hit them."
Ken stops pacing and looks at you, desperation in his eyes. "Tommy, this has to go smoothly. We can't afford any more screw-ups."
You nod, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Relax, Ken. I'll make sure they get the message."
As you leave Ken's office, you witness a heated altercation. A golfer is arguing with a construction worker, voices raised and faces red. "You idiot! You scratched my car!" the golfer yells, shoving the worker. The construction worker retaliates, "I don't give a damn about your car, watch where you're going!"
In a fit of rage, the golfer jumps into his car and slams on the gas, hitting the worker and causing him to drop his hammer. The impact sends the worker flying, landing in a crumpled heap on the pavement. Blood pools around his lifeless body, the hammer lying just inches away from his outstretched hand.
Seizing the opportunity, you pick up the hammer and commandeer the golfer's abandoned Glendale, the golfer too shocked to protest as you drive off, ready to handle the jurors.
Your first destination is Vice Point, where the high-rise buildings gleam under the sun. You park discreetly near the first juror's car and review the file, ensuring you recognize the target. You compare the picture in the file with the man stepping out of the building. It's him. You approach the car, hammer in hand, and with a determined swing, shatter the windshield. The sound echoes through the quiet street. The juror rushes out of the building, eyes wide with fear as he spots you.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he stammers.
"Giorgio can't go to jail," you say coldly, raising the hammer again. He stumbles backward, his expensive suit now rumpled and his face drained of color. He drops to his knees, hands up in a pleading gesture.
"Please, I'll do anything! Just stop!" he begs.
You keep hammering his car, each swing more forceful than the last. The metal crumples, glass shards scatter, and the juror's voice quivers with desperation. "I'll change my vote! Just stop, please!" His pleas grow more frantic with each strike.
Satisfied that you've sent a clear message, you take a final swing at the car, then turn your back on the terrified juror, who scrambles to his feet and flees, leaving his car behind in a chaotic mess of broken glass and dented metal.