Family Ties is the 38th mission in Grand Theft Auto: King of The Hill.
It is the 4th mission given to Miklos Lipton by Thomas Lipton.
It's the 8th mission in Chapter IV: Manage the Expectations.
Plot
Alta Tower Safehouse
Miklos arrived home just in time for dinner. The streets were still buzzing from the Panic's victory over the Penetrators, fans honking their horns, celebrating, draped in purple and gold. As he stepped into Apartment 58, he was met with the sight of Thomas grinning ear to ear, practically vibrating with excitement.
Thomas: Cousin, you missed it! Panic fucking dominated with a big comeback! I put down a hundred on 'em with +345 odds! BOOM, easy money!
He held up his phone, flashing his betting app like he had just won the lottery. Miklos barely spared it a glance, shrugging. It was chump change compared to what he made in a day from his underworld empire, but he didn't want to dash his cousin's excitement.
Miklos: Nice.
Thomas groaned.
Thomas: Nice? Man, it was a hell of a game! You seriously should've watched!
He just nodded, unbuttoning the fancy white suit jacket Lincoln forced on him, tossing it onto the couch like a discarded costume. Before Thomas could go off about his winnings again, he switched the TV to Weazel News.
And just like that, Miklos' face hardened.
"Authorities confirm that Claude Derrington, the new CFO of Maze Bank West, was found dead tonight inside one of the Arena's VIP bathrooms, under what sources are calling "highly suspicious" circumstances. Now, while LSPD hasn't officially ruled it an assassination, let's just say... dying with two bodyguards and your head in a toilet doesn't exactly scream "natural causes."-
Click.
Miklos pressed the remote, shutting the TV off.
Thomas: Hey! What the hell, man? You know I always watch the post-game breakdown!
Miklos: New rule. No TV during dinner.
Thomas scowled but didn't argue. He wasn't paying the rent. Miklos wasn't about to tell him why. The last thing he needed was to sit there eating while hearing them talk about the assassination he had just carried out. But that wasn't the real reason.
Miklos knew. He knew Lincoln Jones had hacked his damn TV. Knew that somewhere, Lincoln was probably watching him the way someone watches fish in a tank. Observing. Studying. Waiting. With those piercing white eyes and devilish grin.
Jenni appeared from the hallway, fresh from the shower, her hair wrapped in a towel. She was getting very comfortable around them, wearing nothing but Miklos' old blue checkered shirt, the hem just barely covering her lovely thighs and pink panties. Miklos wasn't sure if it was intentional or if she had just stopped caring, but Thomas rolled his eyes at the sight.
Thomas: Crissakes, put some pants on missy.
Jenni: And why the hell would I do that? I live here too. Don't like what you see? Always knew you liked men.
Jenni teased, sticking her tongue out. Thomas grumbled something under his breath but gave up the fight, looking at Miklos for support who returned a exasperated expression.
They sat down for dinner, a steaming dish of Paella Valenciana sitting at the center of the table. Thomas had outdone himself again. The scent of saffron, seafood, and rice filled the room, reminding Miklos of their Spanish roots, distant, maybe, but still there.
He was tired. Drained. He sat there in his vest and slacks, his hair still slicked back from earlier, his Desert Eagle pressing against his ribs in its shoulder holster. His Beretta sat in the other. Of course, Thomas noticed.
Thomas: New gun, huh? The Deagle not enough for... whatever you do now?
Miklos just grunted, grabbing his fork.
Miklos: Thanks for the meal.
They ate in relative silence, the tension in Miklos' body slowly unwinding as he let the flavors ground him, at least for a moment.
Then Jenni brought something up.
Jenni: So, I was thinking...
Miklos already didn't like where this was going.
Jenni: I wanna go shopping in Downtown tomorrow. It's been, like, a month since that whole Marabunta thing, and I haven't been out much at all. I think it's safe now. I wanna live again... and we've actually never had a real date...
Miklos' fork froze mid-air. Safe? No. They weren't safe. They were bait.
Lincoln Jones was using them to control him.
To keep him on a leash. And if he failed? If he disobeyed? They'd be dead. Just like that fucking bomb that was dumped just outside the door. Just like Seth was supposed to be.
Jenni leaned forward, raising a brow and pouting, rubbing her shoulders up and down.
Jenni: Come onnnn. No one's seen a single Marabunta member in weeks. They probably moved on. So just say you promise, alright?
Miklos forced a small smile, but it felt hollow.
Miklos: Sure. I promise.
But deep down, he knew.
He was lying. He couldn't promise anything.
After dinner, they cleaned up quietly, the warmth of a good meal doing little to soften the weight on Miklos' shoulders. They went their separate ways, Miklos and Jenni heading downstairs to the master bedroom, while Thomas, as always, claimed his throne on the couch.
Despite the sleek, modern design of the apartment, Thomas had turned the living room into his own personal kingdom. Stacks of folded clothes lined the coffee table, next to his beloved antique stamp collection, proudly displayed like it belonged in a goddamn museum. Beside it, a teetering stack of 'vintage' adult VHS tapes sat untouched, their questionable covers catching the glow of the city lights outside.
And at the very center of it all, a single framed photo, one of him and Miklos as kids at Christmas, 1999. A memory of simpler times.
Miklos barely spared it a glance as he made his way down to his own personal prison. The master bathroom was dimly lit, the only noise coming from the faint hum of the ceiling vent. Miklos stripped down, stepping into the rainfall shower. For a moment, he just stood there, letting the hot water run over his shoulders, his muscles tight, his mind racing.
Killing Claude had been relatively easy, but now... alone with his thoughts, he began to regret it. He could have used someone like Derrington, someone willing to go against NightHawk. Help him take down Lincoln Jones. The growing web he was caught in... was getting harder and harder to breathe.
He brushed his teeth, went through the motions like a man on autopilot, then finally slipped into bed beside Jenni. She was still awake, lounging against the pillows, flipping through the worn pages of The Lady of the Manor by Leslie Dupont. He barely had the strength to pull the covers over himself before she leaned over, her voice teasing.
Jenni: Y'know babe... it's been a while since we've... had a little fun together.
Miklos let out a slow breath, rubbing his eyes. God, he was tired.
Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, down to his fucking bones.
Miklos: Sorry Jenni, another time. Its been one of those days.
There was no disappointment in her face, just understanding. She nodded with a pout, turning back to her romance book.
Jenni: Maybe I should ask Tommy, then... turn him into a real man... hehe.
Miklos just closed his eyes letting the jab slide.
It had been a long day. A lot of long days lately. He felt 100 years old.
As his body finally gave in to exhaustion, he could only hope that for just a few hours...
The world would leave him alone.
The Offer
Miklos woke up feeling strangely well-rested for once, a rare luxury in the chaos that had become his life.
The morning sunlight seeped through the blinds, warming the room just enough to make the crisp sheets feel even more inviting. Jenni lay beside him, sprawled out on her back, her head half-buried under her messy hair with The Lady of the Manor resting over her nose, rising and falling with each exaggerated, ugly snore.
He smirked slightly, shaking his head. Even like this, half-drooling, book crumpled against her face, hair an absolute mess, she still managed to look gorgeous. The light of his dark life.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the day ahead promised nothing but peace, no shootouts, no ambushes, no cryptic threats from a man who shouldn't exist, and no orders barked at him like he was some... some pawn. Just a normal day at home, where he could have a slow breakfast, maybe hit the complimentary gym downstairs, play some video games with Thomas, and pretend, if only for a little while, that the world wasn't caving in on him.
Slipping out of bed without waking Jenni, Miklos grabbed his Love Fist t-shirt, neatly laundered and folded on the dresser beside him. He didn't even need to check; Thomas had taken care of it. His cousin had settled into the role of the apartment's mother so naturally, it was almost funny. He wasn't much of a fighter, at all, but the man could clean, cook, and fold laundry like a damn Navy Seal.
As he stepped into the living room, he found Thomas exactly where he expected, parked on the couch, half-wrapped in a throw blanket, eyes glued to the TV as the morning news droned on about the chaos of Los Santos.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the faint remnants of last night's dinner, making the apartment feel impossibly normal, as if it wasn't home to a man being blackmailed by "the most important man in the United States".
Thomas turned, catching sight of Miklos, stretching his arms above his head.
Thomas: Yo, you see the news? That Maze Bank CFO got murked last night, crazy sh-
Miklos cut him off with a sharp look, rubbing his temples as he exhaled through his nose.
Miklos: Don't wanna hear about it.
Thomas frowned for a second, then shrugged, flipping the channel without a word, already used to Miklos' lack of interest in anything remotely newsworthy.
Miklos: What I do wanna hear about, though, is you making your famous bacon and eggs. Feel like pulling that apron out today?
Thomas raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms dramatically.
Thomas: Damn, it must be a good day if you're asking for "bacey-eggs".
Today was a good day. Or at least, it fucking better to be.
The second Thomas got up and slipped on his ridiculous checkered apron, Miklos could already smell the butter hitting the pan. The sizzle was immediate, his mouth practically watering in anticipation.
Thomas' bacon and eggs were legendary, not just because he cooked them perfectly, with just the right amount of runniness in the yolk, the bacon tender with a slight crisp, but because he'd started using honey to glaze the bacon just right, balancing sweet and salty like a goddamn Michelin-star chef.
Miklos leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as he watched his cousin go to work. The way Thomas moved in the kitchen, flipping bacon and cracking eggs with a precision that made Miklos wonder if he had missed his calling in life, was almost meditative.
Miklos: You should become a chef, cousin.
Thomas: Heh, sure, and how am I supposed to pay for culinary school.
And then, like a bear catching the scent of fresh prey, Jenni practically floated up the stairs from the bedroom, her hair still a mess, but her eyes glowing the moment the smell of bacon hit her nose.
Jenni: Oh my god, Thomas, I love you. Marry me. Lets run away together and leave Miklos alone.
Thomas, always the showman, dramatically plated the meal and slid it onto the table.
Thomas: Behold, the Breakfast of Champions. Handcrafted by yours truly. Seven-star dining, if I do say so myself.
Miklos let out a rare chuckle, grabbing a fork and finally digging in. For the first time in days, he actually felt relaxed. But just as he took his first bite, his phone buzzed. Miklos froze, mid-chew, already knowing, deep down, that the peace was over.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, staring at the caller ID.
Of course.
The ringing continued, insistent, grating, pulling him back into the life he was so desperately trying to ignore. He glanced at Jenni and Thomas, both blissfully unaware, laughing about something stupid, completely wrapped up in their own little world. He sighed, placing his fork down and standing up, rubbing his face as he walked toward his office.
The phone kept ringing.
Finally, he answered, and just like that, whatever normalcy he had left was gone.
Miklos: What.
Miklos entered the office, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. Of course, it was Lincoln Jones. The second he answered, that grating, insufferable voice seeped into his skull like poison, sending a fresh headache rippling through his temples.
His day, once promising and peaceful, was already ruined. And it had barely even started.
Lincoln: Miklos Armando Lipton, my dear boy. You've been quite the obedient hound lately, haven't you?
Miklos exhaled slowly, gripping the bridge of his nose. He could already hear it in Lincoln's tone, the same smug condescension, the way he toyed with every word, savoring them like a man who knew he held all the cards.
Lincoln: Claude Derrington, reduced to a sad little stain in a stadium bathroom. His death sent Maze Bank's stock plummeting overnight, while my Lombank soared to new heights. You're making me very, very happy, Miklos. Such a good little pawn.
Miklos clenched his jaw, saying nothing. He didn't want to hear it.
But something did cross his mind, if he had been a little smarter, if he actually paid attention to the stock market, he could've made himself a fortune just off Lincoln's manipulations.
Too late for that now... But he kept it in his mind.
Miklos: What do you want?
Lincoln chuckled, slow and deliberate.
Lincoln: Oh, you already know what I want, don't you?
Miklos rolled his eyes, already tired of the theatrics.
Miklos: You want it all and you want nothing. I know.
Lincoln laughed, delighted at Miklos finishing his line for him, like a father entertained by his child finally memorizing their ABCs.
Lincoln: You're learning, Lipton. I do so enjoy that about you.
Miklos gritted his teeth.
Lincoln: Since you've been such a... good boy, let's say I'm feeling generous. Your next assignment? I don't care when you do it. Today, tomorrow, next week, next month, so long as it gets done.
The notification buzzed in Miklos' hand before Lincoln even finished speaking. A deposit of $500,000 wired directly into his account. A hefty sum, but nothing compared to what Lincoln was making off of him.
Lincoln: Consider it an advance. A little "thank you" for all your hard work.
Miklos: You gonna tell me what the job is?
Lincoln paused for a moment, then spoke in a slow, measured tone.
Lincoln: I need you to break into Bolingbroke Penitentiary. Inside, there's a former NightHawk informant. He's been... how should I put this? Running his mouth too much.
A sharp inhale from Miklos. Crissakes... He's been turned into a terrorist's attack dog. Into some assassin.
Lincoln: Find him. End him. Make sure he doesn't talk to anyone ever again.
Miklos rubbed his temple, trying not to explode.
Miklos: And how the hell do you expect me to just walk into a maximum-security prison?
Lincoln: That's not my concern, Miklos. That's yours.
Miklos opened his mouth to curse him out, but Lincoln cut him off before he could speak.
Lincoln: Oh, but I'm not completely heartless. You'll have help. One of the best thieves in the world, actually...
Miklos narrowed his eyes, something twisting in his gut.
Miklos: Who?
Lincoln hummed, dragging out the suspense like he lived for it.
Lincoln: Oh, you already know him. I'm sure of it.
Miklos sat up straight. That didn't sound good.
Miklos: Who the hell is it, Lincoln?
Lincoln: Now, now, I don't want to spoil the surprise.
Miklos exhaled sharply, his patience dangerously thin.
Miklos: And if I say no?
Lincoln laughed.
Lincoln: Then I suppose Jenni and Thomas will have an unfortunate accident. But you wouldn't let that happen, would you?
Miklos' fists clenched, the fury bubbling just beneath his skin.
Lincoln: Relax, Miklos. Enjoy your day, go shopping with Jenni. Your "old friend" will be arriving at 8 PM tonight. Plenty of time for you to prepare, yes? Enjoy your bacon and eggs before they get cold...
Before Miklos could retort, the line went dead.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the phone, rage vibrating through every muscle in his body. Lincoln knew exactly how to push him. Exactly how to keep him under his boot. And now he had sent someone Miklos supposedly knew, a wildcard into his life. Who? An old ally? An old enemy?
Miklos didn't know which one was worse. He shoved the phone into his pocket, his whole body stiff with frustration, and went back to the kitchen. The breakfast was still waiting for him, perfect as ever. Golden eggs, honey-glazed bacon, a meal fit for a king.
And yet, as he sat down and took a bite, it tasted like ash in his mouth. Jenni and Thomas were still happily eating, laughing about something, completely unaware that their lives had just been threatened once again. Miklos said nothing.
He just forced himself to chew, forced himself to swallow, and counted the hours.
The Date
After breakfast, Miklos exhaled slowly, running a hand through his slicked-back hair, trying, really trying, to shove everything to the back of his mind. He had far too much weighing on his shoulders, but before he could even begin to sit with it, Jenni was at his side, her arms tied behind her back, her foot curling, and a knowing pout on her lips.
Jenni: You promised to take me shopping today, remember?
Miklos groaned, rubbing his face. That's right... He promised.
Miklos: Yeah, yeah... fine.
Before he could say another word, she was already dashing off to get ready.
He sighed, realizing he didn't really have a choice. If he didn't take her, she'd be pouting all day, and, frankly? He'd rather deal with anything else. Besides... he could use a distraction.
Dusting the crumbs off his Love Fist shirt, he pulled on a pair of dark, forgettable jeans, and laced up some white sneakers, but the moment he was dressed, he realized something was missing. His favorite black tactical cap rested on the table by the door, the same one he always wore when he wanted to be left the hell alone.
But his blue blouson tactical jacket which he wore everyday, and his trusted combat boots, the ones he had worn through the sandstorms of Afghanistan, the ones that had carried him through gunfights and bloodshed?
Gone.
Left behind in Lincoln's goddamn penthouse after that ridiculous suit change.
His fists clenched. That bastard.
He was lost in his thoughts when Jenni reappeared, bouncing into the room like a model on a runway. She had on a white beret, a soft pink undershirt that clung to her small breasts, a short denim skirt over black leggings, and, of course, matching pink platform heels.
But what caught Miklos off guard wasn't her outfit.
It was the way she was spinning in place, draping something oversized and blindingly white around her shoulders.
His NightHawk-issued suit coat.
Jenni: How do I look?
She teased, striking a dramatic pose.
Jenni: Very executive, very runway chic, right? Like a professor of feminist studies.
The sight of it made Miklos' stomach turn. It looked good on her, he couldn't deny that, she had an eye for fashion, after all, but that thing wasn't just a suit.
It was handcuffs. A symbol of his servitude to Lincoln.
Miklos: Take it off.
His tone was flat, bordering on cold. Jenni pouted, twirling one last time before shrugging it off.
Jenni: Fine, fine. No fun.
They headed to the elevator, Thomas watching from the couch like a kicked puppy. He clearly wanted to be invited, but before he could open his mouth, Jenni shot him a glare.
Jenni: It's a date, Tom.
Miklos held back a chuckle as Thomas slumped deeper into the cushions, retreating into the solace of Weazel News.
By the time they reached the garage, Jenni was already eyeing the Baller ST-D, confused.
Jenni: Where's your big trucky thing?
Miklos hesitated for just a second before answering.
Miklos: Needed an upgrade.
No way in hell was he telling her it was now resting in pieces at the bottom of Vespucci Beach.
She shrugged it off easily enough, adoring the new ride. Miklos barely had time to open the door before she hopped in, stretching out like royalty in the plush passenger seat.
Jenni: I feel like a princess in this thing.
Miklos snorted, peeling out of the garage.
Their first stop? Rockford Hills. More specifically, Perseus.
Perseus stood tall at the corner of Dorset Drive, its pristine white-and-gold storefront glistening under the midday sun. Miklos had walked past this place before, usually on business. Bad business. But today? Today, he was just a boyfriend carrying shopping bags.
Jenni had always wanted to shop here as a customer instead of a cashier, and now, with Miklos rolling in dirty money, he decided to spoil her.
Inside, he helped her pick out dresses, shoes, accessories, even though she hardly needed the help. She had a natural eye for what looked good, and every time she modeled something in front of the mirror, she beamed.
She kissed him softly on the cheek when he bought them, genuinely happy. And for a brief, fleeting moment, Miklos felt normal.
Almost.
Even as she twirled in designer heels, he couldn't shake the gnawing thought in the back of his mind.
Lincoln.
NightHawk.
Tonight.
8PM
Their next stop was Vangelico, the infamous high-end jewelry store, but as they arrived, they found it shut down, under repair. "Closed For Refurbishment". Jenni almost threw a temper tantrum. Instead, they went to Winfrey Castiglione's, a similarly luxurious boutique, where Jenni picked out a pair of pearls that complimented her neck.
The whole time on Dorset, Miklos felt out of place.
Rockford Hills was filled with snobs. People who looked at his Love Fist shirt like he was a stray rabid dog that had wandered inside. They didn't know. They couldn't know. Most of them probably thought they were better than him, or had more money than him.
But in reality he probably had more money than a lot of them... dirty money, however, but what money wasn't dirty in Los Santos?
Final stop, Quincy Biro. Jenni picked out a designer handbag, giddy with excitement as Miklos carried all the bags, dutifully playing the role of her personal butler. He didn't complain. It was a small price to pay for a moment of peace.
On the way home, they stopped at Bean Machine on Palomino Avenue. Miklos just wanted a simple black coffee, but the barista acted like he had just spoken ancient Greek.'
Instead, he ended up with a "Double Shot Latte" drowning in sickeningly sweet caramel. Apparently, it was called The Bratte. Jenni, of course, got something even more ridiculous, a "Gunkacchino" with trans-fat corn syrup and cheesecake flavor.
As they sat in the café, sipping their drinks, she reached across the table, squeezing his hand.
Jenni: Thank you for today. It was nice. We never get to hang out, without Thomas or y'know, threats on our lives...
Miklos gave her a small nod, taking a sip of his horrid drink.
Jenni: But I've been worried about you. You've been so stressed lately!
Miklos stiffened. This was the last thing he needed right now, having almost forgot it all for a moment.
Jenni: I don't know what you're doing, and I don't wanna know. But whatever it is... maybe it's time to stop. or... slow down. You don't have to be some crime lord or whatever the hell you think you need to be. You can just... live, Mik.
Miklos forced himself to smile, nodding amorously. She didn't know. She would never know.
If only it were that simple.
But Lincoln Jones held his leash, and it was getting tighter and tighter...
And no matter how much Miklos wanted to break free, he wasn't sure he ever could.
As they pulled away from Bean Machine, Miklos made a sudden turn, veering off their usual route home and heading toward Lindsay Circus in Little Seoul.
Jenni, still happily admiring her new pearls, looked up from the passenger seat, confused.
Jenni: Where are we going babe?
Miklos didn't take his eyes off the road, voice even.
Miklos: You got to go somewhere you wanted. Now, I get to go somewhere I want.
She sighed but didn't argue, leaning back in her seat, content with her new necklace.
As they passed through Little Seoul, Miklos' eyes flicked to the right. He caught sight of a familiar storefront, a tiny, unassuming health store with a faded green awning and an organic-looking sign that simply read "The Garden."
To most people, it looked like just another juice spot. A hipster wellness trap. But Miklos knew better. It was a Triad-run crack operation.
Or at least, it used to be.
[[[Attack on Triad|Now, the place was still taped off, half-burnt, and gutted, a casualty of one of Miklos' past jobs. He had blown the damn place sky high a month ago, and yet... renovations had already begun.]]
Tatsu Hsiang worked fast.
He didn't comment on it, didn't even acknowledge it out loud, but Jenni noticed the way his eyes lingered. She opened her mouth to say something but stopped herself.
Last Rounds
Instead, they pulled into the lot of an Ammu-Nation on the corner of Palomino Avenue. Inside, the store smelled of gun oil, burnt powder, and cigarette smoke. The walls were covered head to toe in weapons, both new and old.
Clerk: Hey boss, whatcha need, ammo, 'nades, an RPG perhaps?
Miklos walked straight to the counter, pulling his Desert Eagle from behind his belt and placing it down with a dull clunk. The lanky clerk, a greasy-haired guy with a permanent five o'clock shadow, eyed it with appreciation, rolling his toothpick to the other side of his mouth, whistling in admiration.
Clerk: Wow... A Desert Eagle... .50 AE, Polished Chrome, L5... You here to trade in I hope?
Miklos: Never. Clean it. Shine it. Rifle it.
The scrawny clerk licked his lips as he picked it up, tilting it under the overhead lights with a soft, reverent whistle. His greasy fingers traced the .50 AE engraving along the barrel like it was something sacred, something forbidden. As if he found a lost chapter of the Bible.
Clerk: Damn... You ever seen a woman as fine as this, boss? Yeah, this baby's seen some action. I'll make her purr again, baby, no problem.
Miklos didn't answer. He simply watched, arms crossed, as the clerk effortlessly went to work. With quick, precise hands, he pressed the mag release, letting the heavy magazine drop into his palm. He weighed it for a second before placing it down gently on the counter, whispering something too low for Miklos to catch.
A prayer? A compliment? Either way, it was something weird.
He pulled back the slide, racking it once, twice, then checked the chamber. Clear. Satisfied, he flicked the take-down lever, and with a smooth motion, the barrel slid off, a moan on his lips. Miklos raised a brow. The guy was fast. Too fast.
This wasn't just some gun store jockey Fudd. The clerk whistled softly as he removed the recoil spring and slide assembly, placing them down with tender care, as if they were pieces of a delicate puzzle.
From beneath the counter, he retrieved a small cloth, a bottle of gun oil, and a bore snake. That's when it got weirder. The way he moved, the gentle swipes of the oil along the slide, the way he let the lubricant drip along the frame before wiping it in small, up and down motions... It was almost... sensual? Miklos' jaw clenched in disgust.
Miklos: Alright, buddy. Relax.
The clerk hummed off-key as he worked, like some deranged surgeon performing his magnum opus.
Clerk: You know, most folks don't appreciate the finer things in life... They just want fast, cheap, disposable. But a piece like this? This... this is a lover, boss. She needs to be touched, taken care of... loved...
Miklos just stared, blinking. The guy was a creep. But... He knew his shit. Miklos could clean his own weapons, sure, but not like this. Not with this kind of speed, efficiency, and obsessive attention to detail.
Jenni wandered in behind Miklos, the door chime jingling, looking completely out of place. Like a lap dog looking for their owner. Her designer purse and posh demeanor clashed so hilariously with the grimy store that the clerk actually did a double take, stroking the deagle slowly.
Seeing an opportunity, he grinned, leaning forward.
Clerk: This your girl, boss? Y'know, Miss... I got something that'd fit real nice in that pretty little purse of yours.
Jenni blinked, caught off guard.
Jenni: Uhhh... whut?
The way he touched the gun, cleaned it, whispered to it, while looking at her in the eyes... It made her skin crawl. As if he just flashed her.
Clerk: Ever thought about carrying? Ain't exactly a safe city, and with a hot babe like you, someone's bound to try and snatch that fancy bag off your shoulder, or lift that little skirt...
Jenni hesitated, glancing at Miklos. He didn't say anything, but deep down... he agreed. She should have something. She wasn't a stone cold killer, not like him, but this city didn't care. She looked like the dictionary definition of a "mark".
With a smirk, the lanky man gently placed the deagle down and reached under the counter, pulling out a mini gun case. Inside sat a tiny Ruger LCP .380, its iridescent pink frame shimmering under the overhead lights.
Clerk: Perfect little piece for a perfect little lady.
Jenni stared at it as if she was just asked to say the alphabet backwards. She wasn't a gun person. Never had been. She had fear in her eyes, but also something else.
Curiosity.
She reached out, picking it up carefully as if it would explode in her hands. Miklos watched her reaction closely. She wasn't comfortable with it... but she wasn't opposed to it, either.
That was enough for him.
Miklos: We'll take it.
The clerk grinned.
Clerk: Three hundred under the table. No records, no licenses. You know how it is.
Miklos peeled off three crisp hundred-dollar bills and slid them across the counter. Pocket change, really, but the promise of Jenni's safety was priceless.
As the clerk wrapped up Jenni's new gun and a couple mags, he stuffed the bills in his fannypack and returned to Miklos' Desert Eagle with a creepy grin.
Jenni: Jesus, does he have to be so... into it?
Jenni whispered under her breath, but Miklos didn't answer. He was thinking the same thing.
The gangly clerk, oblivious to her disgust, kept working, humming some tune only he seemed to recognize, his fingers moving with graceful, almost perverse precision. Molesting it. When the gun was fully cleaned and oiled, he admired his own work, a gleam of genuine satisfaction in his beady eyes.
Clerk: A masterpiece...
Miklos reached for the Deagle, but the clerk hesitated, almost reluctant to let it go, his fingers lingering on the barrel for just a moment too long before finally releasing it.
Miklos inspected it, and it was pristine, looking brand new, oiled, and gleaming, reflecting his wrinkled brow. Smoother than it had been since the day he bought it. But something about the way this guy had cleaned it... It made his skin itch.
Miklos: ...you sell home-kits?
The clerk's eyes lit up. Like a kid at Christmas.
Clerk: Oh-ho... Now you're speakin' my language, boss.
He ducked under the counter, rummaging like a rat in a hoard. Meanwhile, Jenni gave Miklos a sharp look, the side of her mouth opening enough for him to hear.
Jenni: If you start talking to your gun like that guy, I'm leaving you.
Miklos: If I start talking to my gun, shoot me.
The clerk popped back up, a small cleaning kit in hand. He placed it on the counter reverently, as if it was some holy artifact.
Clerk: Everything you need's in here. Brushes, oil, bore snakes, microfiber cloth, $100, only the best, boss. But, y'know... I could just do it for ya? I'll even cut you a deal! 50% off next time.
Miklos didn't even hesitate.
Miklos: No... I think I'll clean it myself from now on.
For the first time, the clerk looked genuinely hurt. Like a lover scorned. As if handed divorce papers.
Clerk: Damn, boss... Breakin' my heart over here...
Jenni, still uncomfortable, snatched Miklos' arm.
Jenni: Let's just go, babe...
Miklos paid for the kit and the clean, tipped a few extra bills just to shut the guy up, and walked out without another word.
As they stepped outside, Jenni exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
Jenni: What the fuck was that!?
Miklos just loaded a fresh mag into his newly polished Deagle, chambered a round, racked it and holstered it.
Miklos: "Los Santos."
That was all the explanation she needed. But before heading home, Miklos had one last stop in mind.
Unlike the pristine luxury stores of Rockford Hills, Binco was a dusty, second-hand discount mess. This was the kind of place where clothes were thrown onto racks in no particular order, where the employees were barely alive behind the register, where the faint smell of mothballs and old denim clung to the air.
And honestly? Miklos felt more at home here.
As he sifted through the racks, Jenni looked as if she had been dropped into a war zone. Her nose wrinkled, eyes darting around as if expecting to be mugged at any second, her hand on the handle of her new peashooter.
Jenni: I can't believe you're buying something for Thomas here.
Miklos: He likes vintage, I think...
Her skepticism was palpable. But then, Miklos pulled a surprisingly well-kept hoodie from the rack, turning it over. Black and grey grid tie-dye. Simple. Good quality. $40. On the sleeve? A small, subtle logo.
Jenni's eyes widened.
Jenni: Wait. Is that an original Sand Castle hoodie?
Miklos: ...a what?
She leaned in, whispering.
Jenni: These go for like... five hundred retail. That's a steal.
Miklos deflated a little. It was cool before he knew it was some expensive hypebeast bullshit. Still, he bought it, and some old brown jacket for Thomas, handing the bored cashier an extra twenty as a tip before they finally left.
The Arrival
When they got back to the apartment, Miklos casually tossed a old Chianski jacket onto Thomas' lap as he plopped himself down on the couch opposite him, flipping through his endless cycle of Weazel News and mindless sitcom reruns.
At first, Thomas barely reacted, too engrossed in whatever nonsense was playing on TV. Then, as his fingers brushed over the fabric, he sat up like he'd just been electrocuted.
Thomas: Yo... wait, wait, wait... Is this...? No way! Cousin, this is vintage! This is sick! You got this for me?
Miklos: Figured you'd like it.
Thomas ran his hands over the material, nodding in pure appreciation. Then his eyes caught the tie-dye hoodie Miklos wore like a natural fit.
Thomas: Hmmm, new hoodie too? What, given up on the white suit thing already?
Jenni shot Miklos a knowing smirk. She'd clocked it the second Miklos tried on the Sand Castle hoodie at the store. He liked it. He wasn't just buying it to blend in, for its street rep, or to look unassuming. He actually liked it. And of course, Miklos ignored her completely, not giving her the satisfaction.
Instead, he turned, just in time to see Jenni waving her new Ruger LCP around like a toy. Finger on the trigger. Pointing it in random directions like she was in a spy movie. Carefree, saying "Bang, Bang!". Miklos' stomach sank.
Before she could fuck around more, he stood and snatched it from her hand in one swift motion, gripping the barrel and yanking it down.
Miklos: This. Is not. A toy, Jen.
Jenni huffed, rolling her eyes, rubbing her hand as if she got burnt by a stove.
Jenni: Relaaaax babe, it's empty, I took the... the bullet thingy out!
Miklos racked it with one smooth motion. A single round pinged out and clinked onto the floor. Jenni's face paled. She gawked at the bullet, then back at him, then back at the bullet, over and over. Miklos sighed, dropping his shoulders defeated, and slowly handed it back to her.
Jenni: Oh... shit, I'm uhhh... Yeah, sorry.
Miklos: We're getting you a gun safety lesson.
Jenni puppy eyed and knelt to pick up the bullet, muttering, not sure what to do with the pink gun back in her hands. She racked it like Miklos did, expecting another bullet to magically spawn inside and fly out at her.
Jenni: It's cute, though... I feel like... powerful with it.
Miklos ignored her again. His expression hardened as he raised his voice, smacking his hands together.
Miklos: Listen up. Tonight, at eight, someone's coming over.
That got both Thomas and Jenni's attention. Thomas, mid-admiring his new jacket, looked up puzzled. Jenni, still flustered over the gun, tilted her head.
"Who is it?" they said in unison, like twins.
Jenni: Jinx...
Miklos didn't answer frankly, because he didn't know.
Miklos: Just act normal. Don't panic. I don't know who it is, but they have a job for me.
The room fell silent. Jenni and Thomas exchanged uncertain glances. Miklos didn't give them any more info and instead turned away, exhaling through his nose. He slipped his black cap off just long enough to run a hand through his blonde hair before pulling it back on.
Then, with a slow motion, he walked to the bar bench and poured himself a glass of single malt. Tonight, whoever Lincoln was sending... Miklos would be ready. The hours flew by until...
7:59 PM. Right on the dot.
The knock came like a gunshot in the silent apartment, crisp, deliberate, and demanding attention.
Miklos had installed security cameras and a deadbolt on the safehouse door, after being surprised by Tatsu Hsiang one haunting day. He had been watching the security feed intently, expecting something, anything, but the moment the knock came, his gut twisted, adrenaline spiking...
Because there was nothing there. The screen showed an empty hallway.
Thomas, who had been glued to the live feed like his life depended on it, jumped up, startled.
Thomas: What the hell-?! Who is-!? What is-!?
All three of them, Miklos, Thomas, and Jenni, stared at the monitors, Tommy shifting between the elevator entrance, the hallway, and the front door camera on the living room's widescreen. All three were showing the same thing. A perfect, empty feed, as if all was calm in the world.
Miklos immediately knew the trick. Classic. Someone had already hacked into his system and fed back a loop of the hallway. They had planned this.
Thomas, of course, immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion.
Thomas: It's a ghost! It's a goddamn ghost!
Miklos ignored him, focusing on the real issue. Whoever was standing outside his door was good. Really good. They weren't just some low-level thug sent to intimidate him. This was surgical. Precise. Professional.
Another knock. The same rhythm. The same confidence.
Miklos didn't hesitate. He unholstered his freshly cleaned Desert Eagle, its heavy weight feeling reassuring in his palm, as he stepped toward the door. Jenni moved beside him, pulling her tiny pink pistol shakily from her designer bag. She didn't even know where the safety was, or what even a safety itself was, thinking the gun would just decide to shoot bad guys on its own.
He shot her a glance and shook his head, then flicked it to the kitchen.
Miklos: Just.... Jen, please go make some tea for our guest.
Jenni pouted but obeyed, disappearing into the kitchen, relieved. Basically, Miklos didn't feel safe with an amateur behind him. And Thomas? Frozen stiff on the couch, wrapped in his blankee like a mummy, shivering like a dog.
They knocked again, more impatiently this time.
Miklos looked through the peephole but it was the same, completely empty, as if it really was a ghost. Or... someone clever enough to know not to stand in sight. He unlocked the first latch, keeping the chain lock in place. Slowly, cautiously, he cracked the door just enough to see outside.
A figure stood just beyond the ajar door, deliberately positioned to be partially obscured. Stocky. Broad-shouldered. Familiar. Their brim cap, blinding white, was pulled low, casting a deep shadow over their face. In their hand, an old-school leather doctor's bag, heavy and bulging. Their entire outfit was pristine white, save for a pitch-black undershirt beneath their buttoned vest and tie.
Miklos' stomach twisted into a knot. The NightHawk uniform. But this one looked... different. More regal. More important, with a long overcoat that nearly touched the floor.
The man stepped right up to Miklo's eye, which was peeking through the gap, and tilted their head up, enough for Miklos to get a look at their face. And that was when his blood ran ice cold...
He was looking at... himself? As if gazing into a mirror.
The breath left his lungs and his hand went numb, nearly dropping his gun.
It was him.
His "father".
His absent, worthless, deadbeat, piece-of-shit father.
The same man who had abandoned him at ten years old, dumped him at Bullworth Academy, and disappeared from his life without a second thought. Without a word, and without a trace. The same man who had only reappeared once, seven years ago when he was 18, at his graduation, in the stands at a distance before vanishing again.
And now, here he was. Looking exactly the same. Not a single day older. It made no sense. He should have been fifty-something now, yet he still looked twenty-five... A splitting image of Miklos, expect, with a mustache.
He had barely aged as if stepping out of Miklos' memory... just like Lincoln Jones. A creeping horror slithered up Miklos' spine. No. No way. He should be dead or in jail, not at his doorstep right now.
Michelangelo smirked, that same lazy, arrogant smirk Miklos faintly remembered from his childhood.
Angelo: Well well. If it isn't the scrawny son of mine?
His voice was aged, with a smooth, careless drawl, like none of the years mattered. Like he had never once given a damn about what happened to Miklos. Miklos clenched his jaw, his knuckles whitening around his Deagle.
Seven years.
Seven years since he had last saw a glimpse of this... this fucker. And now he shows up? Dressed in white and frozen in time, like Lincoln Jones? A fucking agent of NightHawk? Something was deeply, deeply wrong.
Miklos exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. Then, his voice low and filled with pure venom...
Miklos: Angelo...
Not "Dad." Not "Father."
Because he was neither.
Never had been.
Miklos hesitated. Every single instinct in his body screamed at him to slam the door shut. Or even better, aim and pull the trigger right there.
Why the hell should he let this man into his life after all these years? Seventeen years gone. This year made it eighteen. Michelangelo was nothing but a ghost from his past, a faded memory.
A conman, a swindler, a snake in white.
But the worst part? He looked exactly the same as he remembered. Not just a man who had aged well... he was unnaturally young. Too young. This was beyond plastic surgery. No amount of Botox or facelift could make a fifty-five-year-old man look twenty-five without it being uncanny. It was ungodly and Miklos felt it in his bones.
No wrinkles or sagging skin... Just a little hint of age in his voice and the soul of his eyes betraying the facade. Actually, he had less wrinkles than Miklos did, if you count the near-permanent scowl lines on his forehead from constant stress.
Another NightHawk mystery. Another impossible piece of the puzzle. How the hell have they managed to slow aging?
He clenched his jaw, then, begrudgingly, undid the chain lock and pulled the door open.
Angelo grinned like he had just won something.
Angelo: That's my boy.
Miklos ignored him and stepped aside, resisting every urge to assault this... this stranger. Angelo strolled in, moving like he owned the place, his white overcoat billowing just slightly as he adjusted the strap of his old leather bag.
Thomas, still bundled up in his blanket on the couch, stared between the two.
Thomas: Uh... Cousin? Who the hell is this guy? A younger brother... or?
Jenni, returning from the kitchen with a tray of tea, froze at the sight of two Miklos' standing in the same room, one in a dazzling white overcoat, and the other in a stained Love Fist shirt. She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then, slowly, her eyes trailed over the slightly broader, smug-looking version of Miklos with a cartoonishly evil mustache, who smirked and gave a small bow. Then, with the charisma of a seasoned con artist, he reached for her hand and placed a light kiss on it.
Angelo: Michelangelo Lipton, at your service. My parents wanted me to be an artist, hence the name. Thought I'd follow their footsteps into the world of finger painting and easels.
His smirk widened, eyes flashing with mischief.
Angelo: But I found the art of heists far more compelling...
Jenni blinked again almost dropping the tea set, cheeks turning a shade of pink. Miklos gritted his teeth.
Miklos: Alright, enough of this bullshit. He's my "father". Moving on.
Thomas choked. Jenni's eyebrows shot up so high they almost flew off her face.
Thomas: Your WHAT?
Jenni: Y-your dad? B-but-?
Miklos just ran a hand down his face.
Miklos: Yeah, a disappointment of one at that.
Thomas and Jenni exchanged wide-eyed glances. Miklos ignored them and stared Angelo down, he wasn't as shocked as the other two was as he had seen Lincoln Jones, who was supposedly 60 and looked 30... NightHawk definitely does something to extend themselves.
Miklos: What do you want?
Angelo just grinned wider, like Miklos had asked the right question.
Angelo: Straight to business, huh? No time to reconnect? Heheh... Just like me. That's good. That's very good...
Miklos clenched his fists. The last thing he wanted was to be compared to this man.
Angelo took his time, looking around the luxury high-rise apartment, nodding slightly, as if approving of his son's lifestyle before finally returning his gaze to Miklos, leaning in so only he could hear.
Angelo: I've been working with Lincoln Jones for a long, long time, kiddo. Since before you were born. Let's just say I'm... very high on the food chain.
Miklos' stomach twisted. Of course, it was him who recommend him to Lincoln, surely. Who caused him to become a puppet, or Pawn as they call it.
Miklos: So, what? You came here to recruit me? Try to pretend we're some happy little criminal family?
Angelo chuckled, moving toward Miklos' private office without waiting for an invitation.
Angelo: Oh no, kid. I came here to help you.
Miklos followed after him, shaking his head, pinching himself.
Miklos: This is a joke. It has to be a cruel joke.
Thomas called out from the couch, still processing.
Thomas: Wait, so this dude's really your father? How is that even poss-
Jenni: W-what about the tea-
Miklos slammed the office door behind him, the soundproof room deafening with the steps of Angelo.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, the large whiteboard on the far wall covered in his Maze Bank Arena notes. The faint glow of his computer monitors cast a cool blue tint over the space. Angelo strode over to the desk with swaggering confidence and unfastened his old leather bag. Miklos hated that bag already.
But before he could snap at him to get to the point, Angelo let out a low whistle, his fingers grazing along the desk as he eyed the whiteboard, the scrawled notes, the blueprints.
Angelo: Huh. So it really was you.
Miklos furrowed his brow.
Miklos: What?
Angelo smirked, shaking his head as he unfastened the straps on his bag.
Angelo: Claude Derrington. I thought a Knight pulled that one off. Can't believe Lincoln had you do it. Can never predict what he will do, that one.
He scoffed, pulling out a compact biometric spoofer and inspecting it under the dim light before placing it neatly on the desk.
Angelo: That was a tough test, kid. A high-profile hit, in public, with strong secruity, on a goddamn Maze Bank CFO? That was supposed to be a job for Maximo.
Miklos stilled. He had never heard that name before.
Miklos: Maximo?
Angelo chuckled as he continued unpacking, revealing a sleek, matte black lockpick set, and a miniature EMP jammer.
Angelo: Yeah, one of our 'Knights.' The guy who usually handles the real wet work. The top-tier stuff. See, Lincoln's got his Pawns, babies like you to boss around. He's got his Rooks, people like me, his enforcers per se. But Maximo? He's his goddamn sword.
Miklos frowned, feeling a slow, creeping sense of unease. If this "Maximo" was the one usually assigned for a hit like Derrington... Then why was Miklos given the job instead? Angelo caught the look on his face and grinned.
Angelo: Don't think too hard about it, kid. It was a test I assume, or, to see how good my son really is... All that matters is, you passed. And that? That makes me proud.
Miklos' stomach turned. He didn't want his approval. Didn't want his pride. But one thing was clear.
If Lincoln Jones had sent him on a job meant for a "Knight"... Then Miklos wasn't just another Pawn anymore, and that that was dangerous.
Angelo opened the bag fully, theatrically, it popping out with mechanical awnings. A collection of some of the strangest gear Miklos had ever seen. Experimental tech. Billions of dollars' worth of spy-grade tools. Sonars. Signal jammers. Spoofers. Doodahs and doohickeys. Miniature hacking terminals. Automatic keypad passers. A classic lockpick set. Micro EMPs. Wait... is that a goddamn grappling hook launcher?!
Miklos: What the hell is all this?
Angelo grinned and reached inside, pulling out what looked like a compact, prototype drone with silent rotor technology.
Angelo: This? This is the good stuff. The kind of tech that's a little too advanced for your everyday heist, but NightHawk? Oh, we are the real deal. Unlimited budget. Government black money. You name it, we got it and more.
Miklos exhaled sharply. This was insane. Angelo sat on the edge of the desk, tilting his head.
Angelo: I'll give you this, though, kid. You've made a name for yourself.
Miklos: Spare me the speech.
Miklos rolled his eyes. But Angelo wasn't just looking at him anymore. He was studying him.
Angelo: You know... I've been following this whole underworld power struggle for months now. "King of the Hill", right? Some big, scary gang boss trying to run the city. Taking out the Lost and the Drebins, taking over the Mexicans and the Chinese and the Armenians, and even the Ukrainians. "The King". Cops can't get a lead on him. Half the criminals in this town either fear him or want him dead.
He smiled, shaking his head.
Angelo: And would you believe it? Turns out, he's my own son. Off playing kings and horses.
Miklos felt his entire body tense. His fists clenched. His teeth ground together. Miklos saw red. Angelo laughed softly.
Angelo: A chip off the old block, huh?
Miklos: Don't. Don't even start with that shit. I'm nothing like you.
He didn't do this to become like his father. He had assumed Angelo had gotten himself locked up all these years. That he had been rotting in a prison cell somewhere, or in a shallow grave.
But no. No, the bastard had been thriving. Working under Lincoln Jones. One of his top "Rooks." Working for fucking terrorists. And now? Now he wanted to come back into his life like all was well?
Miklos didn't trust him. Not one bit. But this job? This insane, impossible prison break? He didn't have a choice.
Miklos: Fine. Let's get to work.
Heist Prep
Inside Miklos' dimly lit office, the air was thick with tension as Angelo unrolled a massive set of blueprints across the desk, barely acknowledging Miklos' presence beyond the fact that he needed him to listen and obey.
Miklos stared at the intricate blueprints of Bolingbroke Penitentiary, the details painstakingly outlined in white ink on the blue map, while Angelo traced his fingers over the map like a seasoned architect admiring his work. He rattled off the plan with the mechanical precision of a man who had done this a hundred times before, never once asking Miklos for input, never waiting to hear what he had to say.
Miklos wasn't his son in this moment.
He was, as always, a Pawn.
Angelo: Alright, listen up. We've got a high-value target inside Bolingbroke, a NightHawk informant who's getting a little too chatty. If he leaks information about our operations, it could compromise everything. We're not talking about some little snitch. This guy knows real names, real locations, real people. He has to go. And it has to look like an accident.
Angelo tapped a specific block on the blueprint, a cell in the Maximum Security wing.
Angelo: Now, obviously, we can't just storm in there like a bunch of jackasses with rifles and RPGs. We need subtlety. Clean and quiet. No alarms. No bodies in the hallways. No goddamn SWAT team swarming the yard.
Miklos folded his arms, his jaw tightening.
Miklos: Alright. Then what's the plan? We go in disguised? Steal a bus, play prisoner and guard? What-?
Angelo grinned like a devil, rolling the map back up halfway before he answered.
Angelo: Come on, kid. Think bigger. More dramatic. More... theatrical.
He leaned in, eyes practically glowing under the dim lights.
Angelo: You're gonna dive in from the sky... at midnight.
Miklos blinked.
Miklos: The fuck did you just say?
Angelo snapped his fingers, and from his ridiculous leather bag, he pulled out a black-and-white photograph of a military-grade Valkyrie helicopter, captured mid-flight, its massive rotors slicing through a stormy night sky.
Angelo: A NightHawk Valkyrie will take you as high as possible over Bolingbroke. You'll jump out, freefall through the clouds, and base-jump straight into the yard.
Miklos ran a hand down his face, already feeling the headache setting in. Angelo simply shrugged.
Miklos: You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Angelo: What? You thought we were gonna steal a prison bus and walk in through the front gates? What is this, some third-rate heist movie? This is NightHawk. We do things differently.
Miklos was fuming. He wasn't afraid of jumping... Hell, he had done HALO jumps before in the military, but this? This was insanity.
Miklos: And how the hell am I supposed to get OUT? You think I'm just gonna stroll out through the front gate with a prisoner jumpsuit on?
Angelo wagged a finger at him, like a teacher scolding a dumb student.
Angelo: Ah, see? That's the difference between you and me. You're always thinking small. You let me worry about your exit. I'll be positioned on the hills surrounding the prison, hacking into their security feeds. I'll kill the spotlights, disable the cameras. The guards will be relaxed, maybe even sleeping. And when you take out the target, I'll split the gate on the North side. You run like hell in that direction, where a plane will be waiting for you at Mckenzie Airfield.
Miklos narrowed his eyes, knowing full well Angelo was enjoying this.
Miklos: And if something goes wrong? If I get pinned down? If they spot me? What's the backup plan?
Angelo: Then you'll have to get creative, kid.
Angelo laughed as Miklos clenched his jaw so tight his skull hurt. Angelo could see his growing frustration, but instead of backing off, he leaned in closer, like a snake curling around its prey.
Angelo: Oh, and one more thing... you won't be going in alone.
Miklos: What? Am I being babysit?
Miklos froze. Angelo smirked, placing his hand over the blueprints with dramatic flair.
Angelo: This is a high-value target, kid. That means Lincoln isn't taking any chances. You're diving in with someone else.
Miklos' stomach turned. His mind immediately went to Maximo. That was the guy's job, wasn't it? A Knight. The one who should've taken out Claude Derrington but didn't.
Miklos: You mean Maximo, don't you?
Angelo: Guess you'll find out soon enough, huh?
Angelo just shrugged. Miklos hated him.
And then, like a punch to the gut-
Angelo: Alright son, let's go.
Miklos: L-Let's go? Right now?
Miklos blinked again. Angelo grinned.
Angelo: Yeah. Right now. What, you thought you had time to think about it? You really think Lincoln is the kinda guy who lets his Pawns sit around and plan? Nah, kid. We move tonight.
Miklos' entire body tensed. He had only just gotten home from one of the most insane nights of his life last night, killing Claude Derrington, dodging bullets, nearly getting crushed under Lincoln's thumb.
Lincoln promised him he had all the time in the world for this. But just like everything else, that was a lie.
Miklos was done playing games. His fists clenched at his sides, his pulse hammering behind his eyes, but he had no choice. He was going to Bolingbroke. Right fucking now.
Miklos let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders back as they left his office. He could still feel the tension winding through his muscles, every fiber of his being telling him to just turn back, to say no, to pull his Desert Eagle and end this now.
But Lincoln Jones had made sure he didn't have that luxury. A few months ago he had nothing to lose, now he had an empire, friends, family, and a princess.
Miklos: I don't have to wear that damn white suit, do I?
Angelo chuckled, slinging his leather bag over his shoulder as he left the apartment.
Angelo: Don't be ridiculous, kid. This is a military-level operation, not a damn fashion show.
Miklos scoffed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his new Sand Castle hoodie, the familiar cotton of his Love Fist shirt underneath rubbing against his skin. Good. At least he could still feel like himself and not like a tool.
Jenni stood with her arms crossed, watching him with that mix of worry and suspicion she always had whenever he was about to do something stupid. Thomas, calming down, was glued to his phone, watching Weazel News, probably placing more stupid bets. Miklos hesitated for half a second.
Miklos: I'll be back later. Don't wait up.
Jenni didn't say anything, but the way her brows knit together told him everything he needed to know. Thomas, on the other hand, waved dismissively, barely looking up.
Thomas: Yeah, yeah, don't get arrested or shot or something. Try not to be on the news tomorrow, huh?
Miklos let out a short breath, then turned and left.
The doors opened with a chime, and as they stepped outside the lobby into the dark, the night air felt cool and crisp against his skin, but his pulse was still pounding.
He had barely processed what was happening, barely let it sink in that in a few hours, he would be jumping out of a damn helicopter, in the dark, into a maximum-security prison.
Crissakes...
The next mission, Feel Like a Prisoner, is now unlocked.
Rewards
- Monetary Reward: $500,000
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