The Haitian Gang Lord's body jolts violently before crumpling to the ground, lifeless. Blood pools rapidly beneath him, staining the pristine suit. The crowd erupts in panic, screams piercing the heavy atmosphere.
"¡CUBANOS!" one of the mourners screams, pointing in your direction. "IT WAS THE CUBANS!"
The chaos intensifies as the Haitians spot you on the rooftop. You see them grabbing weapons, their eyes blazing with fury. You don't stick around to admire your handiwork. You bolt down the fire escape, the engine of the Cuban Hermes growling as you speed away. The rearview mirror shows a city on the brink of war, just as Avery wanted.
The Haitians are hot on your tail, their cars weaving through traffic in a desperate chase. Bullets whiz past your car, shattering windows and denting the bodywork. You grit your teeth, swerving to avoid the hail of gunfire. The adrenaline is pumping, every nerve on edge.
In the chaos, you hear the frantic conversations of the Haitian gang members over the roar of engines.
"Oh, It's him....".
"GET HIM! DON'T LET THAT CUBAN BASTARD ESCAPE!"
"We have to avenge the boss! KILL HIM!"
Your heart pounds in your chest as you navigate the narrow streets, your mind racing. You need to lose them, fast. Spotting an alleyway, you make a sharp turn, the Cuban Hermes skidding as you barrel through the narrow passage. The Haitians struggle to keep up, their larger cars scraping against the walls.
You emerge onto a broader street, slamming the gas pedal down. The distance between you and your pursuers grows, but they're relentless. You weave through traffic, each maneuver a dance with death. The sounds of gunfire and roaring engines blend into a chaotic symphony.
As you speed through the streets, you can't stop grinning, "This is what I live for. The chaos, the danger. This! Is my element!"
The city blurs past in a haze of neon lights and concrete. You're nearing the edge of Little Haiti, the safety of your territory within reach. But the Haitians are still on you, desperate to exact their revenge.
Finally, you spot a construction site ahead, a labyrinth of half-built structures and scattered debris. An idea forms in your mind. You swerve sharply into the site, the rough terrain jostling the Cuban Hermes violently. The Haitians follow, their cars struggling to keep pace on the uneven ground. You weave through the skeletal frames of unfinished buildings, the chaos around you amplifying the intensity of the chase.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you navigate the narrow pathways, the towering structures casting long shadows. Each turn is a calculated risk, the threat of collision ever-present. The Haitians are relentless, their shouts echoing through the site.
"DON'T LET HIM GET AWAY!" one of them yells, the desperation clear in his voice.
You push the Cuban Hermes to its limits, the engine roaring as you maneuver through tight spaces and over piles of debris. The adrenaline courses through your veins, your mind razor-sharp, focused on every detail. You can feel the pressure, the weight of the chase bearing down on you.
Suddenly, you see it—a ramp leading up to a precarious edge. Your breath catches in your throat. It's a risky move, but you're running out of options. You steel yourself, gripping the steering wheel tightly.
"This is it," you think, the tension palpable. "Do or die."
You accelerate towards the ramp, the Cuban Hermes gathering speed. The edge looms closer, the drop below a terrifying reminder of the stakes. Your heart feels like it's about to burst out of your chest.
As you hit the ramp, the car soars into the air. For a split second, you feel weightless, suspended above the chaos. The world seems to slow down, the sounds of the chase fading into the background. Then, gravity takes hold, and the car plummets back to earth. You brace yourself for impact.
The Cuban Hermes lands hard, the shock reverberating through your body. You skid to a stop, the car shuddering but intact. You take a breath, relief washing over you. But there's no time to relax. You glance in the rearview mirror.
The Haitians aren't so lucky. As their cars hit the ramp, they lose control. You watch in a mix of horror and grim satisfaction as their vehicles tumble down the slope, crashing into the rubble below. The sound of metal crunching and engines dying fills the air, a cacophony of destruction.
You can hear their panicked shouts and the crunch of metal as the vehicles collide with the ground below. The sight is almost surreal—a ballet of chaos and violence, playing out in slow motion.
"WE'RE GONNA CRASH!"
"WATCH OUT!"
The cars pile up, one after another, the screams of the Haitians mingling with the sound of tearing metal. You watch as they fall, their pursuit ending in a disastrous heap. Your heart still races, the adrenaline refusing to dissipate. You've made it, but the price has been high for those who dared to chase you.
Another job well done, another notch on your belt. You're Tommy Vercetti, and in this city, you're the one who calls the shots.
On your way to your safehouse, the Cuban Hermes purring beneath you, your phone rings. The caller ID shows it's from Leo Teal's phone. You frown and answer, curious.
"Leo, it's about time you picked up," a rough voice with a thick Cuban accent growls on the other end. "Got a job for you, amigo. Interested?"
You chuckle, "Sorry to break it to you, but I'm not Leo."
The voice instantly becomes menacing. "What do you mean, you're not Leo? Who the hell are you? Leo's gonna have your balls if he knows you got his phone."
You smirk, deciding to have a bit of fun. "Well, Leo can't have my balls because I took care of him. He's on a permanent vacation now, if you catch my drift."
There's a pause, then the voice resumes, less aggressive but more cautious. "Huh, funny guy. So, you took care of Leo, huh? Guess you can handle yourself. You want to take the job instead?"
The Cuban accent is unmistakable now, but something about it tickles your memory. As the conversation continues, it clicks. You recognize the voice. "Wait a second, Umberto? Is that you?"
There's a brief silence, then the tone changes, shifting to more casual and fluent English. "Tommy Vercetti! Didn't realize it was you, man. Yeah, it's me, Umberto. Listen, why don't you come down to my café? We can talk business. Got something big in mind."
You nod, even though he can't see you. "Alright, Umberto. I'll come by, but not right now. Got some things to handle first."
"Sure thing, Tommy. Just don't take too long. This one's important," Umberto says, his voice serious now.
You hang up, the gears already turning in your mind. Meeting Umberto Robina could lead to something interesting, and at the very least, it's another distraction from the swirling paranoia.