Red Rain is the 3rd mission in Killer Instincts.
The 3rd mission given to Maximo by Mr. Green.
The 3rd mission in Chapter I: Back to Hell.
Plot
Part 1: Waiting Game
Friday, January 10, 2014 | 08:00 AM | 0111 South Rockford Drive, Vespucci Canals
The past few days had been quiet.
Too quiet.
The high of San Fierro had faded. The hit had been clean, loud, and precise. One of the biggest jobs Maximo had ever done, a billionaire buried alongside his dead son. Now, the only thing left of Cameron Doyle was the one million dollars sitting in Maximo's account. A cut of the full four million contract. Chump change to a billionaire. A fortune to most.
But to Maximo? Just another job done and dusted.
Still, it was the second-highest payday of his life. Money like that meant he could sit back and relax, smoke, drink, and enjoy himself. But sitting still had never been his thing. And he didn't drink for fun.
He needed work.
A Post OP package sat on his porch, its corners dented from the lazy toss of some half-assed delivery driver. Maximo had already decided it was a good thing he wasn't home when it arrived, or there would've been another funeral.
He picked it up, turning the box for a once over, checking for damage. Nothing serious. Lucky. He killed for less.
A flick of his boot knife split the tape cleanly, and with a slow, methodical pull, he lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in soft black wrapping, was a box of ten Cohiba Behike 52s.
His favorite. One of the best. Four grand for a order of 10. Nothing to him really. A drop in the ocean of the money he had now. The scent of aged Cuban tobacco filled the air as he slid one from its case, turning it between his fingers before biting the tip off.
The flip lighter in his jeans pocket, old, scratched, heavy with history, clinked open. A flame struggled as it flickered to life, briefly illuminating the engraved initials on the side.
Mr. G.
Mr. Green's old lighter. A relic. The damn thing was half-broken, always in need of a new wick, but Maximo never swapped it out. Some things you just kept. The same way he still carried his pair of 1981 Hawk & Little 686s, Green's old sidearms, given to him after he proved himself in 2005.
Green had almost given them to Callander instead.
Callander had been a better shot, faster on his feet, sharper in some ways. But one bad day in their line of work was all it took. Now, the guns belonged to him. And he made sure they were always ready.
He reached for a cleaning cloth, rolling the cylinder of one revolver open gently, checking the chambers. All six filled with 180 grain hard-cast rounds, enough to drop a grizzly, let alone a man.
Steel, wood, and .357, hard to beat.
Maximo chimney'd the cigar, smoke curling in the dim light of his apartment as it took to flame. Even without a tongue he could taste it in his throat. The apartment was silent, except for the click-click-click of the revolver's action as he reassembled it delicately.
Maximo's leg twitched. He wanted work. Needed work.
But lately, the only one getting sent on jobs was the kid, Hunter Black.
Some young thug, barely out of his teens, who Mr. Green had brought in to the fold while he was in prison. An ex-Families gangbanger with "potential". Green had him running small jobs, clean, simple hits, for a couple hundred dollars, the kind Maximo didn't even blink at.
Not that he was jealous. But still, he didn't take time off.
Then, as if on cue, as if God himself had answered his prayers... or the Devil, there was a knock at the door.
Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.
Maximo froze for just a second. Then, smoothly, instinctively, he lifted his revolver, checking the cylinder again. Six rounds. No wasted space. He moved without a sound to the side wall, where an old calendar from 2000 hung slightly crooked. A small peephole was hidden just beneath it, giving him a perfect view of the front step.
Outside, waiting patiently, stood an old man.
A fat, weathered old man, 70-something years old, wrapped in an ancient, battered white NightHawk jacket that had seen too many years and too many jobs. A fat and long cigar hung from his lips, the brand alone worth four times what Maximo had just lit. The smoke curled around his creased, double-chinned face, his eyes half-lidded, waiting, side-eying the peephole. Not impatient. Just there. As if he already knew Maximo was watching.
Maximo let out a slow breath through his nose, clicked the hammer of his revolver back into neutral, and stepped toward the door. Finally, work had arrived. Something big if the big man himself came.
The door swung open. Cigar smoke and cold air drifted in as Mr. Green stepped over the threshold, his bulky frame casting a shadow over the dimly lit apartment.
For a moment, he just stood there, actually inhaling his ridiculously expensive cigar, his eyes sweeping over Maximo like a general assessing a soldier. Then, finally, he held out his hand. Maximo met it firmly.
Mr. Green: Mac, how are ya, son. I know it's been a few days since your last job. Figured you're probably chomping at the bit for something new.
Maximo grunted, shaking once before letting go.
Mr. Green: I see you still take care of those old shooters, atta boy champ.
Mr. Green reached into his weathered old Nighthawk jacket, pulling out a folder, thick, heavy, important. The kind of job that required real planning. It was clean and organized, every page typed up in Elvira's sharp, professional handwriting. But beneath it, scrawled in messy, rugged pen strokes, were Mr. Green's personal notes.
This wasn't just another job, this was next level.
Mr. Green: Big one, Mac. Multiple targets. High-profile, across the city. I got Wayne and his boys handling a few others, even got Elvira out in Sandy Shores dusting off her 2000. But you? You're getting the hard ones, as always.
Maximo flicked the folder open, scanning the details. Three dossiers. Three difficult, high-risk kills. Each more complicated than the last.
"Clip" Monroe
Member of the East Side Ballas, Monroe runs drugs and guns out of Grove Street, constantly surrounded by his crew. Drives a purple Tornado when on the move. Usually seen in his hood.
Jericho Smith
A real estate mogul, Jericho owns half of Downtown Vinewood and hides behind layers of security. He lives in a penthouse on the 50th floor of the Von Crastenburg Hotel. But every Friday, he visits Bahama Mamas West in a purple Infernus.
Detective Gunsolley
A corrupt LSPD detective, Gunsolley plays both sides, taking bribes while maintaining his untouchable reputation. He lives in a gated Richman mansion, however, Fridays, he heads to the Vanilla Unicorn with off-duty officers to unwind.
Maximo let out a slow exhale of smoke, laying out the folder on his table. Difficult, but not impossible. That was how he liked it. Then, before he could nod-
"Wassup, OG."
Maximo's brow twitched. Slowly, he craned his head to see a new figure stepping in behind Mr. Green.
The kid was dripping in platinum.
A brand-new black Güffy puffer jacket, underneath it, a crisp white BIGNESS hoodie. His wrists? Covered in thick platinum bracelets. Each finger was wrapped in chunky platinum rings to boot. Three massive chains hung around his neck, glinting under the dull apartment lights.
His black jeans sagged low, held up by a Sessanta Nove checkerboard belt, a matching SN wallet dangling by a platinum chain. His green-tipped dreads drooped out from under the hood, his eyes hidden beneath their shadows. Tattoos, gang ink, peeked from his cheeks and neck.
And the worst part? Maximo already knew.
Before Green even said the words, he already knew.
Mr. Green: Mac, take little Hunter with ya. He needs hair on his chin.
Maximo just stared. Blankly.
Mr. Green: Don't give me that look, Mac. He's tagging along. Gotta learn from a real killer. No more baby hits.
Maximo's jaw tightened. This little wannabe gangbanger? This spoiled kid who blew his 80k 1% cut in four days on jewelry and designer shit? Maximo had been killing since before this kid was born. And now he had to... babysit?
Hunter grinned, flashing his platinum-covered grillz as he pulled his gun from behind his boxers, a GLOCK Gen5, all black, covered in attachments and modifications. At least he had a gun...
Hunter: I gotchu, homie. Gonna show me how the real ones do it and shi?
Maximo just grunted, puffing his new cigar. His face gave nothing away. But inside? He was already mentally preparing for the worst.
Mr. Green clapped Maximo on the shoulder, giving him a grin full of smoke and mischief.
Mr. Green: You'll be fine. As I said, kid has potential. Just teach him how I taught you and Cal. Think of it as an investment in the future.
Maximo didn't believe in the future. He believed in what was right in front of him. And right now? He was looking at a problem wrapped in platinum chains and bad decisions.
Mr. Green: I know he looks, well, like he looks. But he has been solid so far. Try not to kill each other.
Mr. Green limped back out, too proud for a cane, making his way back to his green '71 Buffalo, still puffing on his ludicrously expensive cigar. He slid into the driver's seat, fired up the engine with a low rumble, and rolled the window down just enough for a wave.
With that, he was gone with a roar. Leaving Maximo and Hunter alone, standing over a table full of target dossiers and a job that just got way more complicated.
Maximo took a slow drag, exhaled, then sat down eyeing the dossiers.
This was going to be a long day.
Part 2: Original Baby Gangsta
Friday, January 10, 2014 | 08:20 AM | Outside, South Rockford Drive, Vespucci Canals
The dossiers lay spread out across his coffee table, the soft morning light filtering in through the half-closed blinds.
Three names. Three targets. Three deaths waiting to happen.
Maximo leaned back in his chair, rolling his cigar between his fingers, eyes flicking between the files. He was forming a plan in his head, routes and opportunities, but before he could signal anything, Hunter spoke up first.
Hunter: Alright, let's break this down, homie.
Maximo raised an eyebrow. He had expected Hunter to just stand there in his expensive clothes, talking tough, trying to prove himself. But the kid leaned forward, flipping open Clip Monroe's file, actually studying the details.
Hunter: Aight n*gga, we got three muthafuckas, but we ain't doin' this messy. First, we hit Clip on Grove street.
Maximo cocked his head slightly, questioning him with a flick of his fingers. Hunter caught on immediately.
Hunter: Bruh, think about it. It's 8 AM. Jericho? That cop too? Both 'em still tucked up safe in their lil' fortresses. Clip, though? He'll be outside, twin.
Maximo slowly nodded, watching as Hunter tapped the paper twice with his jeweled fingers.
Hunter: N*ggas always post up on Grove early, makin' moves and slangin'. If we hit him now, before he get to ridin', we got the drop on him. If we wait till later? He gonna be deep in the set, and we gon' have to shoot through a buncha n*ggas to get to 'im. That shit messy and shi.
Maximo took a long pull of his cigar, blowing out the smoke in a slow, deliberate stream. He tapped two fingers against the dossier, signaling agreement. Hunter had actually thought it through.
Maybe the kid wasn't as dumb as he looked.
Hunter: See? You already know what it is, OG. We hit Clip first, get out clean, then we plan for the other n*ggas. Hit when he exposed. You got the right idea, I just put words to it and shi.
Maximo smirked slightly, flicking his cigar ash into a tray. Hunter wasn't wrong. He had read the room quicker than expected. Maybe this wouldn't be a total disaster after all. He was smart, but just lacked experience.
He stood up, tightening his shoulder holster, sliding his 686 revolvers into place. As he shrugged on his bomber jacket, Hunter watched, eyes flicking over the weapons with a mix of respect and curiosity.
Hunter: Yo, you got some old-school heat, homie. Real outlaw shit. Cowboy muhfucker.
Maximo just grunted, tucking an extra speed loader into his pocket. Hunter grinned, reaching into his puffer jacket, and pulled out his gun again, a sleek, all-black Gen 5 Glock 45, fitted with a laser under the barrel.
He turned it over in his hands, admiring his own work.
Hunter: I gotta Gen 5 with a 45 drum binary trigger wit a switch and shi!
He popped the drum magazine out with a flick, spinning it in his fingers before slapping it back in with a crisp click. It looked ridiculous, like a ballsack. He turned the gun slightly to the side like a gangster, showing off the custom stippled grip, the threaded barrel, and the laser module mounted under the frame with a green light.
Maximo took a long, slow look at the piece.
Overkill and flashy.
He reached out, taking the Glock to have a closer look. Hunter let him, watching closely as Maximo tried to flick the selector switch, checking the fire modes. Full-auto was already engaged, and it seemed to be welded in place. Of course it was.
Hunter smiled, flashing his platinum teeth, taking the Glock back.
Hunter: She smooth, huh? I ain't playin' around wit this. Spent some of that easy money from them lil' hits. Got me some night sights, laser, and switchy so I can SHSHSHSHSHSHSHRAH n*ggas.
Maximo grunted in approval. It wasn't exactly his style, but the kid at least knew how to invest in his tools.
Hunter: See, I ain't dumb, OG. I know y'all think I'm just some flashy-ass kid, but I know this game. It's just... gotta look good doin' it, ya feel me G?
Maximo just nodded, tucking an extra speed loader into his holsters before heading for the door. Hunter followed, eyes lighting up when they stepped outside onto the quiet Vespucci street. There, gleaming in the sun, was Maximo's bike, Circe.
The Western Daemon, blood-red, polished to perfection.
Hunter: Damn, that shit still clean as a muhfucker! Can we take it?
Maximo didn't even bother answering. He just held up a single finger.
One rider only.
Hunter groaned, shaking his head, looking around for another option. Then his eyes landed on a Castigator, parked just down the block, a sleek gray SUV, engine still warm.
Hunter: Aight. I got us.
Maximo watched as Hunter reached into his pocket, pulling out a small slim jim. The kid strolled up to the Castigator, moving smooth, casual, looking around. Within seconds he fished through the window slip, popped the lock, slid inside, and hotwired it like he'd done it a hundred times before. The engine roared to life.
Maximo raised an eyebrow. Not bad. Hunter wasn't just a shooter, he knew how to move.
Hunter: Hop in, OG. I know this part of town better than anybody.
Maximo didn't argue. He slipped into the passenger seat, adjusting his gloves slightly as Hunter threw the SUV into gear.
As they pulled away from Vespucci Canals, heading toward Grove street, Maximo took one last drag of his cigar before flicking it out the window.
Time to work.
Part 3: Clip
Friday, January 10, 2014 | 8:55 AM | Grove Street, Davis
The SUV rolled slow through Davis, the early morning haze still lingering over the cracked pavement. The streets here had their own rhythm, their own heartbeat, a steady pulse of hustlers, homeless, corner boys, and gangbangers already posted up for the day.
Up ahead, Grove Street lined into its famous cul-de-sac, the heart of Ballas territory, a place no outsider had any business being without permission. And today? They weren't asking for it.
Hunter gripped the wheel, his ring-covered fingers drumming impatiently against the leather.
Hunter: Bruh... we sittin' here like some fuckin' pussies. Let's pull up, air it out, and dip.
Maximo shot him a side glance, then simply raised a finger.
Wait.
Hunter groaned, tapping his platinum-ringed fingers on the steering wheel, but he didn't move. He knew better than to argue, at least for now.
They had a Bleeter picture of Clip, printed in the dossier. Sharp jawline, neck tattoos, a smirk like he thought he ran the world, holding a gun with a long clip and laser to the camera. But looking out at the crowd of Ballas, all dressed in purple and gold, some even rocking Los Santos Panic jerseys, it was damn near impossible to tell who was who.
But the car? The car stood out.
A Tornado, sleek, deep purple with polished chrome trim, parked just inside the cul-de-sac, gleaming like a crown jewel among the cracked asphalt and graffiti-covered walls.
Hunter: That's his ride. Gotta be.
Maximo gave a small nod. They had their mark. Now they just had to find the right moment.
Across the way, Ballas gathered in tight circles, throwing up signs, exchanging handshakes, talking business. The kind that didn't involve strangers rolling up unannounced.
Maximo could feel Hunter's energy shifting. The kid wasn't patient. His fingers itched, his leg bounced slightly, his hood-covered head twitching as he glanced around. He was amped. Too amped.
Then came the inevitable.
Hunter: Man, fuck this. We just roll in and let the switchy out on 'em n*ggas.
Maximo's hand shot out, gripping Hunter's wrist firmly. Not hard. Not aggressive. But enough to say no.
Hunter froze. Looked at Maximo. A second passed. Then another. Finally, he clicked his lips, relaxing his arm.
Hunter: Aight, aight... bet, OG. I'll follow your lead and shi.
Maximo exhaled slowly and gave a single nod, his eyes scanning the crowd. The plan was simple. They weren't going in loud and dumb. Not yet. Not until they had Clip isolated. So they waited. Watching. Calculating.
The Castigator idled quietly up the street, both men sitting low, watching as the energy in the cul-de-sac shifted. It wasn't hard to tell when the man of the hour had arrived.
Clip Monroe stepped out his home like a king, and his court greeted him accordingly.
No shirt, his lean, cut torso glistened under the hot Friday morning sun, his dark skin covered in intricate ink, a walking mural of Los Santos gang culture, sin, and street violence. His chest was dominated by an enormous LS tattoo, wrapped in roses and smoking women, flames curling around them like he was born in the fire. His delts carried dice, cards, and stacks of cash, a gambler's prayer inked into his flesh.
His purple and yellow-trimmed LS Panic basketball shorts hung loose over his knees, but the Mac-10 with an extended clip dangling from the waistband was anything but casual. A massive gold chain swayed from his neck to his waist, the B emblem shining in the sunlight. He had a purple hat with a white bandanna untied underneath, shielding him from the sun.
He moved smooth, dapping up every one of his boys with a unique handshake, a different pattern for each man, a ritual of brotherhood. Then, with a lazy pull from his fat blunt, Clip hopped into his purple Tornado.
Hunter: There's that muhfucka.
The hydraulics hissed, and the car bounced on its switches, Clip laughing as he pulled a three-wheel motion, flexing on the street before peeling off.
A young girl, barely eighteen, already lost in the life, hopped into the passenger seat. Tattoos laced her chest, her purple bra barely covering her nipples, shorts hugging her thighs, looking like she had already made peace with her fate. Two Ballas jumped into the backseat, one lanky and the other bald, their heads on a swivel for trouble.
Clip was on the move.
Maximo and Hunter ducked low as the Tornado passed, waiting a beat before Hunter started it back up and twisted the wheel into a clean U-turn.
Hunter: Aight, this is better. Four is better than forty, homie.
Maximo tapped his fingers on the revolver grip in agreement. No witnesses. No crowd. Just work.
They followed at a distance, watching Clip and his crew make their rounds. Stops at street corners, exchanges of cash and handshakes, baggies and weed passing hands, a classic routine. Then they hit a liquor store off Brouge Avenue, the Tornado hissing as the airbags exhaled.
This was the moment.
Hunter pulled the SUV into a slow roll, easing into a spot behind the Tornado as Clip and his crew stepped out, laughing as they made their way toward the entrance. The moment the car doors opened, the duo struck.
Maximo moved first, stepping out and drawing his right hand revolver, smooth and efficient, his arm locking in like a machine. Hunter followed, raising his switch-modified Glock sidways, his finger already squeezing down.
The air exploded with gunfire.
BANG.
BRATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATA-
Clip barely had time to register the ambush before the first .357 slammed into his back, knocking him forward onto the liquor store pavement. He screamed, fumbling for his Mac, but Maximo's second shot drilled him in the neck, silencing him.
BANG.
BRATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATA-
The young girl in the passenger seat screamed, reaching for a pistol, but she was already dead before she could pull the trigger.
BANG.
BRATATATATATA-CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK-
A Balla ducked in the backseat before he leaped out, an AK-47 clutched in his hands, spraying wildly.
Maximo didn't miss. He never does.
BANG-BANG.
The first shot hit the gunman's shoulder, snapping his AK out from his hand with half his arm. The second drilled him through the eye socket. He collapsed, gun clattering lifelessly like its owner.
BANG.
The other Balla tried to run, but Maximo aimed and gunned him down too. No survivors, one shot right in the back of the head. The banger collapsed on his face on the curb across the road.
Hunter? Hunter was chaos.
He emptied the entire 45 round drum in seconds, his Glock screaming through full-auto, but his shots were wild. The Tornado got turned into Swiss cheese, glass exploding, metal peeling back, but Hunter's accuracy was garbage. The liquor store caught more strays, and he didn't hit any of the Ballas...
Maximo's eye twitched slightly. The kid needed work. A lot of work.
Clip gurgled, blood spilling from his mouth and throat, slowly trying to crawl away in a pool of blood.
Hunter ran up, kicked him over onto his back, and grinned. Then, with a rough yank, he ripped the B-chain from Clip's neck, snapping it clean. A war trophy.
After a sloppy reload, missing the mag insert twice, he unloaded half of it into the corpse of Clip who was already dead.
BRATATATATATATATATA-ishhhhhhh.
Maximo exhaled, disappointed in the kid. That's not how he does things... With a swift twirl, he spun his revolver twice before sliding it back into it's left armpit holster.
Hunter sprinted back to the Castigator, sliding into the driver's seat like a kid that just won an arcade prize.
Hunter: Ayy! I got my first chain! This how y'all do it, huh?! CGF for life!
Maximo just sighed, sliding into the passenger seat. He would tell him off if he could. Hunter's driving was wild as hell as they peeled off, sirens already sounding somewhere in the distance.
One down. Two to go.
The Castigator's tires screeched as they peeled away from the execution, fading sirens wailing in the distance. Maximo sat calmly in the passenger seat, hitting release, softly rolling the cylinder of his 686 revolver out, and pushing the ejector pin, flicking out six spent casings with a practiced motion.
He gathered them swiftly in his glove, still warm from ending four lives in under six seconds. He didn't even need his second revolver. The casings jingled as he disposed them in his jacket pocket.
Six shots. Six hits. Four KIA.
Meanwhile, in the driver's seat, Hunter was grinning ear to ear, spinning Clip's chain around his fingers like a prize.
Hunter: Damn, n*gga! I lit they asses up! You see that shit? That was some video game shit, OG! I caught like all them bodies, bruh! Bratatatatata! My ears are ringin' twin!
Maximo's head twitched slightly. Without a word, he reached over and slapped Hunter upside the head, the impact knocking his hood further over his green dreads. Hunter flinched, then looked at him with wide eyes, like a kid caught stealing cookies before dinner.
Maximo sighed, lifting a gloved hand, then jabbed a finger at him, then curled into a zero.
You. Zero kills.
Then he held up four fingers, snapping it into one which pointed back at himself.
Four kills for him.
Then he tilted the speed loader in his palm, reloading his gun in a flash.
Six shots. Six hits.
Hunter frowned, rubbing the back of his head.
Hunter: Aight, aight... but I was layin' it down though, on God.
Maximo simply leaned forward, miming Hunter emptying his drum mag, arms shaking violently and in every direction like a wild animal spraying bullets. Then he held up a fist, then a wanking motion.
Nothing. No hits. A waste.
Hunter sat there quietly for a second, staring at the road. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.
Hunter: Aight, OG. I get it. I get it. Work on my aim. Conserve my shots.
Maximo nodded once. That was enough. He didn't mind teaching, but the kid had to learn. He reached over, snatching Clip's gold B-chain from Hunter's hand, letting the heavy links dangle between his fingers.
Then, without hesitation, he rolled down the window and went to toss it out.
Hunter: Whoa, whoa! Please no, boss! I'm sorry! I could sell that for a lot!
Hunter reached out desperately, a hand gripping Maximo's wrist as they swerved on the street. Maximo stared at him for a long moment before relenting, dropping the chain back in his lap. He picked it up like a dehydrated man finding water.
The kid was smart, but was also dumb. But he was learning. And he had passion. Maximo could respect that.
With the first hit dusted, they had hours to kill before Jericho Smith came out of hiding for his Friday night trip to Bahama Mamas West. Maximo leaned back in his seat, staring out the morning skyline, lighting his second cigar. He could tell Hunter wanted to ask for one, looking over as if expecting Maximo to offer. Fat chance.
It was one of those moments he lamented to himself, how this job would've been easier alone. How Hunter was a headache. How he could've been home, drinking black coffee and cleaning his revolvers instead of sitting in a stolen SUV next to a kid who just wasted 90 rounds.
But at the same time... Hunter was driven. Messy. Reckless. Wasteful. But driven. He wanted the money. He wanted the work. Maximo had met plenty of guys who just wanted the lifestyle. This kid? He wanted the business.
He sighed through his nose, tapping a single finger against the dashboard, then showing his palms.
Where are we going?
Part 4: Jericho
Friday, January 10, 2014 | 9:12 AM | Fleeing Brouge Avenue, Davis.
Hunter smirked, twirling the chain around his finger before mimicking a steering wheel in the air.
Hunter: Dunno, OG. You tell me. You the boss and shi, right?
Maximo's stare was cold, piercing. Hunter cleared his throat.
Hunter: Aight, aight. Listen. We can't just leave this hot-ass SUV sittin' around. Cops see a stolen whip in South LS, best believe they gon' stop it. And I ain't wanna burn it. I know some guys in Murrieta Heights. Some Russian dudes who flip stolen rides. We dump this off, get a lil' paper back, and we clear.
Maximo sighed quietly. Chump money. What was this SUV worth? Maybe 10K? Maximo had a million sitting in his account. It wasn't even worth the gas. But... the kid had hustle. That was something.
Hunter leaned back, grinning.
Hunter: Yeah, yeah, I know. You too rich for this shit. But c'mon, OG. Hustle is hustle, I ain't making real money like you and Wayne and Elvy are... Plus I'm broke... already.
Maximo said nothing. Just gestured for him to drive, reclining the seat back and pulling his second cuban from his cigar holster. Yes, his cigar holster, tucked under his left 686 holster.
Hunter nodded, upping the SUV into high gear. As they pulled onto the freeway, he casually glanced over.
Hunter: Yo, Mac, real talk-
Maximo turned, his eyes narrow. Mac? Tell me he didn't just say that.
Hunter froze. The stare was enough.
Hunter: Shi, aight.... Only Mr. Green gets to call you that. I get it. My bad OG.
Maximo leaned back, satisfied. At least the kid learned fast.
Hunter: Just wanna say I appreciate the teachin' and shi but... don't hit a n*gga, okay?
He pretended he didn't hear that.
The drive was smooth, freeway traffic light as they rolled up into Murrieta Heights. It wasn't pretty, but it was quiet, the kind of place where business got done, where cars disappeared, and where money moved under the table.
They pulled into Red's Salvage Yard, a patch of industrial land where half-stripped cars sat stacked on rusting racks, the air thick with oil and burnt metal.
Maximo stepped out, scanning the place. He had expected some big Russian dude with a thick accent and a broken nose. But instead, at the far end of the yard, under the hood of a beaten-to-hell Karin Rebel, was a young mixed kid, black with something else in him.
Hunter smirked, bounding over.
Hunter: Ayy, my Russian boy! Wassup G!
He strolled over, and the kid popped up from under the hood hitting his head on the bonnet, wiping grease off his hands before hitting Hunter with a clean handshake, their routine smooth as hell.
Maximo watched, arms crossed.
Hunter turned, gesturing lazily, wiping his hand on the guy's overalls.
Hunter: Yo, OG, this is Leroy Teddy. He the best at makin' stolen cars vanish. Fixin' 'em up and shi too.
Leroy grinned, his light brown eyes sharp, assessing Maximo.
Leroy: For the last time I'm Ukrainian, and its Tederev. And that's the killer with no tongue? I was expectin' some grumpy old white dude, not some Mexican action figure.
Maximo took a slow drag from his cigar, staring. Leroy blinked.
Leroy: ...Yeah, my bad brother, just busting your balls...
Hunter chuckled. Maximo just sighed. This was going to be a long day.
The Castigator sat near the chop shop's oil-stained concrete, its engine still warm from the long drive. Leroy circled the SUV like a seasoned dealer, tapping the hood, checking the VIN tags, and occasionally nodding to himself.
Maximo stood calmly to the side, watching, cigar resting between his fingers. Hunter, on the other hand, was leaning against the Castigator, arms crossed, trying to look like he wasn't nervous.
Leroy: Mmmhmm. Yeah. Yeah, I see what's goin' on here.
Leroy ran his hand over the door frame, inspecting the paint scratches, the bullet dings, the fresh smell of burnt gunpowder still clinging to the interior. He let out a deep sigh, turning back toward Hunter. His face deadpan.
Leroy: Aight. I'll give you twenty. But that's it.
Hunter: C'mon, bruh, this is a clean-ass SUV! We ain't even do nothin' in it-
Maximo gave him a side glare.
Hunter shut up. Fast.
Leroy: Yeah, sure. You ain't do nothin' in it, huh? And this fresh bullet hole in the windshield just appeared from magic?
Hunter sucked his teeth, shaking his head, but didn't argue. He grumbled under his breath, but slapped hands with Leroy, sealing the deal. Leroy disappeared into the office and came back with 20 grand in stacks, and Hunter shoved it into his hoodie pocket. It bulged obviously. The Castigator was gone.
Maximo exhaled a slow puff of smoke, then motioned toward Leroy with a lazy flick of his hand, as if driving a car.
Leroy squinted. He didn't get it.
Hunter: Oh, my bad, he sayin', we need a car. Somethin' unmarked. Not stolen. Just some beater-type shit to get around for the next couple hours.
Leroy let out a sharp laugh.
Leroy: Brother who dis guy? He don't talk but expect me to know sign language?
Hunter grinned.
Hunter: Nah, you just a dumb n*gga.
Leroy rolled his eyes, motioning them to follow. He led them toward the garage doors, reaching for a grease-stained remote, and pressed a button. With a loud creak, the metal doors lifted, revealing his work-in-progress. Inside, under flickering fluorescent lights, sat a monstrous two-door muscle car.
An Imponte Duke O'Death. "The Beast"
The thing looked like a tank disguised as a car. Thick reinforced plating, tinted bulletproof glass, beefed-up suspension, and an aggressive, growling stance.
Leroy leaned against it, smirking.
Leroy: Now this? This is my baby. Been workin' on it for a minute. Runs like a beast, built like a fuckin' bunker. 300k cash in the hand and its yours.
Maximo took it in, running his gloved fingers over the reinforced side panels. It was impressive. 300K easy.
Hunter, on the other hand, was already practically salivating.
Hunter: Yooooooo, lemme drive da tank. Let me just take it around the block, n*gga-
Maximo cut him off with a stern glare. Hunter froze, then pouted.
Hunter: Damn, OG. You could buy this right now. I say how much ya got paid for that San Fierro job. We ain't gotta drive no weak-ass sedan.
Maximo gave a slow shake of his head. Not for this job. Not today, at least... They needed something low-key. Leroy sighed, motioning them further into the garage.
Leroy: Heh, just wanted to show you my masterpiece anyways, got some junkers at the back for cheap.
He walked past the Duke O'Death, past a rusted-out Vigero, its windows held on with duct tape, headlights missing, and fenders barely hanging on. Hunter groaned.
Leroy: Y'all can take this for 400?
Hunter: Bruh... no way.
Leroy smirked, then finally stopped in front of a baby blue Declasse Premier sedan. Faded paint job, scratched bumpers, but otherwise? It was clean. No bullet holes. No heat. Just a forgettable car for a forgettable job. Maximo gave a small nod.
Leroy: 10k this baby. New plates and VINs, previous owner in a retirement home.
Hunter, however, was less impressed.
Hunter: A granny car, n*gga? This shi weak as hell. Fuck no.
Maximo ignored him. He reached under his right armpit holster, pulling out a leather-bound ledger. Old-school. No electronic trail. He flipped to a blank check, then scribbled a quick signature, tearing it from the pad and handing it over. $5,000.
Hunter blinked. Then Maximo held out his hand.
Hunter groaned, digging into his hoodie pocket before pulling out his own cash he just got. He counted out five grand, hesitated, then dropped it into Leroy's hands.
Hunter: Man, I feel like I just got taxed.
Leroy took the money, glancing at the check. Then his eyebrows shot up.
Leroy: Hold up... Save Golden Company?
His eyes flicked between Maximo and Hunter, realization hitting him.
Leroy: Damn. We use you guys sometimes. I ain't even realize. You work for these guys now, Hunt?
Hunter: Fuck yeah I do, basically run this shi.
Maximo simply tilted his head. No reaction. Leroy nodded slowly.
Leroy: Yeah sure... Aight. Y'all some real ones then.
Hunter grinned, patting the hood of the Premier.
Hunter: I mean, still a weak-ass car... but whatever.
Maximo gave him a look. Hunter sighed, dropping his head.
Hunter: Aight, fine. It's perfect, OG. Let's go.
They slid into the Premier, Leroy waving as the garage door opened behind them. With a turn of the key, the engine sputtered to life.
Maximo sat in the driver's seat this time, hands steady, fingers resting lightly on the worn leather of the Premier's steering wheel. He wasn't the best driver in the world, not by a long shot, but he knew how to handle himself when it mattered. And tonight, it mattered.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Part 5: Gunsolley
Friday, January 10, 2014 | 7:02 PM | Vanilla Unicorn, Strawberry
The baby blue Premier rolled up to the Vanilla Unicorn, its front left bumper dented but still holding together. The red neon glow of the club's signage flickered in the evening haze, its promise of debauchery plastered across discarded flyers and promotional cups littering the street.
OPEN 7 DAYS.
They didn't have time to waste. After taking out Jericho, the entire LSPD could mobilize at any moment. But Detective Gunsolley was still here, still drinking, still letting his guard down. This was the hardest hit yet.''
''Maximo pulled the car right up to the entrance, stepping out without hesitation. Hunter followed, slamming his door shut, adjusting his Glock's under his hoodie.
They were met immediately. A large African American security guard, muscles puffed out like a peacock, stormed toward them, finger pointing, voice booming.
Guard: Move that car, now! You can't fucking park he-
Maximo didn't break stride. His knee shot up. Hard. The guard let out a choked wheeze, collapsing onto one knee, clutching his balls in agony.
Hunter, quick as ever, kicked him over acting like he helped.
Hunter: Damn, OG, we movin' like that? Aight!
Maximo barely glanced at him, already stepping inside. Hunter grinned, following close behind.
The club was hazy with cigarette smoke, neon lights flashing along the walls, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume, stale liquor, and bad decisions. The usual riff-raff was nowhere to be seen. No doubt they didn't want to be anywhere near the real scumbags in the room tonight.
Because the club was full of pigs.
Seven police cruisers and an LSPD SUV were parked in the back lot. Los Santos' finest, off duty and drunk as hell. At least fourteen of them. Maybe more. And they were already deep into their Friday night.
Dollar bills rained onto the stage as an elegant trans stripper spun on the pole, her movements fluid, practiced. The cops were shouting, hollering, throwing their cash, getting drunk on cheap beer and even cheaper thrills. Maximo scanned the room.
No sign of Detective Gunsolley yet. But he had to be here.
Before they could move, a blonde stripper slid up to Maximo, brushing against him. She had short, choppy hair, star tattoos covering her chest, and nothing else on except for a thong and pierced nipples.
She pressed against him, her fingers running slow along his chest.
Stripper: Hey there, handsome. Wanna-
Maximo gently pushed her aside, not breaking focus. Hunter, though? Hunter was staring. Hard. Mouth slightly open, completely mesmerized.
Maximo's hand shot out, smacking Hunter in the back of the head. Hunter snapped back to reality, blinking rapidly.
Hunter: Shi, bro! She got her titties out! What am I supposed to do, not look?!
Maximo shot him a glare. Hunter groaned, shaking his head, forcing himself to focus.
Before they could make another move, a second security guard approached, more professional than the first. This one was calm, placing a firm hand on Maximo's shoulder.
Security Guard: Sorry, gentlemen, but this is a private event for LSPD. If you'd kindly show me your badges-
Maximo didn't speak. He didn't need to. He simply opened his bomber jacket. Revealing both 686 revolvers, snug in their armpit holsters.
The guard went pale. Without another word, he slowly backed away, turned, and sprinted out the door.
Gunsolley wasn't in the main area. That much was clear. If he wasn't throwing cash at the stage with the rest of his off-duty degenerates, that meant one thing. He was in the back.
Maximo grabbed Hunter by the collar, yanking him toward the backrooms just as the kid was still eyeing the stripper on the pole. Hunter grumbled but followed, adjusting his hoodie as they slid past the red velvet curtain into the Premium Lounge.
The air was thicker here, the scent of cigars, sweat, and expensive perfume clinging to the leather booths. The hallway was dimly lit, giving off the kind of privacy that only the highest-paying clients could afford. Maximo moved with silent efficiency, creeping past the booths, glancing in each one. Not him... not him... Then, he found him.
Detective Raymond Gunsolley sat in the back of a luxurious corner booth, his LSPD uniform still on, badge shining under the neon lights, his aviators crooked on his face. A king in his own mind.
His face was covered in cocaine, nostrils clogged with powder, his hands sloppily brushing the excess off two naked strippers draped across his lap. His wrinkled cock was out, peeping through his trousers. He wasn't just partying. he was out of it.
This was the moment. Easy. Silent. Clean.
Maximo stepped into the booth, knocking on the side once. The strippers looked up, eyes widening in surprise as they registered him. They looked like they just got caught by the cops. Maximo flicked his thumb outward.
They understood immediately. No screaming. No panic. Just get out.
They hurriedly gathered their clothes, rushing past him, one of them shooting a last nervous glance at Gunsolley. The detective barely noticed, groggy and wasted, staggering as he tried to stand.
Gunsolley: Wh-wha' the fuck is goin' on-
He barely finished the sentence before Maximo was on him. A swift grip on the collar, a quick, brutal twist.
CRACK.
Gunsolley slumped instantly, his lifeless body hitting the floor with a dull thud at an awkward angle. His aviators slipped from his face, landing in a pile of spilled coke. Maximo crunched his boot on the back of his neck, just to make sure. He kneeled down, observing Gunsolley. He was dead.
To anyone looking in? He just looked like another drunk who had passed out after going too hard.
A perfect, silent execution. Maximo motioned to Hunter, who had pulled his Glock out but put it away sadly. The two slid back out of the lounge, moving quickly. No one even looked their way, the club was too loud, too drunk, too chaotic.
They stepped into the cold night air, slipping into the Premier, engine already idling. As soon as Maximo pulled away from the curb, Hunter finally spoke up.
Hunter: Man, what?! That was it?! I wanted to air those pigs out, OG! You saw all them motherfuckers in there-
Maximo shot him a look. Hunter threw up his hands, exhaling sharply.
Hunter: Aight, aight, what? Why we ain't go loud?
Maximo didn't say anything. Instead, he pantomimed carefully. He made a gun with his fingers. Then, he spread his arms wide, mimicking a massive spray of bullets, being killed. Chaos.
Hunter frowned. Maximo shook his head. Then he tapped his chest once, calm. Precise. Professional. This wasn't war. They weren't terrorists. They weren't gangsters fighting over street signs.
Hunter sighed, nodding slowly.
Hunter: Aight, boss. I get it. We professionals. We ain't out here actin' reckless.
Maximo nodded. That was all he needed to hear. Kid did have potential. Hunter leaned back, exhaling sharply as they drove into the early night.
Hunter sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, still buzzing from the job, jaw tight with adrenaline. He wasn't used to leaving people alive. He wanted chaos. Blood. War. That was the gangster in him.
Maximo understood it. Because once upon a time... he was the same way.
He remembered being Hunter's age. A young, reckless hitter, hot-headed and trigger-happy, a wild dog off the leash. He thought violence alone made a killer. That fear and reputation mattered more than precision and control.
Then he met Mr. Green. And Green beat the recklessness out of him. Physically. Lessons came with a broken nose, concussions, and bruised ribs.
But Green taught him patience. Taught him that a hitman is not just a killer with a price tag. A hitman is an artist.
Kill clean. Kill quick. Don't waste movement. Don't waste bullets. If you make a mess, you make trouble. Trouble meant heat. And heat? Got you killed. Maximo let out a slow breath, gripping the wheel tighter.
Then, suddenly, he smirked, chuckled even. Because not all of them learned.
Rip Callander never did.
An old friend. An old colleague. A damn good shooter, but a terrible professional. Callander was all gas, no brakes. Loved big, loud shootouts, high-speed chases, crashing through buildings, spraying bullets until the whole damn clip was empty. And somehow, he always made it out alive.
Until the day, he didn't.
Maximo had warned him. Elvira warned him. Wayne warned him. Hell, even Green warned him. But Callander lived reckless, and reckless men don't live long. Maximo let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
Hunter noticed.
Hunter: Ayy, what's funny?
Maximo simply gave him a side glance. Hunter leaned back, exhaling.
Sooner or later, every reckless killer has to grow up. Or they end up dead.
Three targets. Three clean kills. The job was done.
The next mission, Home Invasion, is now unlocked.
A Hunter Black Strangers & Freaks mission, Shopping Spree, is available.
Objectives
- Travel to Grove Street, Davis.
- Execute Clip Monroe.
- Sell the stolen SUV
- Buy a car from Leroy Teddy.
- Travel to Bahama Mamas West, Del Perro.
- Execute Jericho Smith.
- Travel to Vanilla Unicorn, Strawberry.
- Execute Detective Gunsolley.
- Return home.
Gold Medal Objectives
- The Professional - Only kill the Targets and Bodyguards.
- Smooth Getaway - Escape each location without taking damage.
- Off the Radar - Complete all hits without police pursuit.
- High Noon - Finish with 100% accuracy.
- Outlaws for Life - Kill the Ballas with only 6 shots.
- Protégé - Let Hunter Black kill Jericho.
- Silent Assassin - Kill Gunsolley silently.
Rewards
Contract Payout Breakdown
| Total Earnings | $600,000 | |
|---|---|---|
| Name | Cut (%) | Payout ($) |
| Maximo | 55% | $330,000 |
| Mr. Green | 20% | $120,000 |
| Elvira | 8.3% | $50,000 |
| Heron | 8.3% | $50,000 |
| Hunter | 8.3% | $50,000 |
Money
| Category | Amount |
|---|---|
| Starting Cash | $1,194,000 |
| Multi-Target Hit Earnings | +$330,000 |
| Wigwam Burgers | -$25 |
| Declasse Premier Purchase | -$5,000 |
| Total Balance | $1,518,975 |
Aftermath
Weazel News
Bryan Wilkinson, Weazel News. A chaotic and violent day in Los Santos as a series of seemingly unrelated incidents have left multiple people dead, including two gang leaders, a wealthy real estate mogul, a decorated LSPD detective, and four members of The Lost motorcycle club.
That's right, Bryan. Sheila Hall, also Weazel News. We begin in Davis, where East Side Ballas shot-caller Yu'nique "Clip" Monroe, as well as his daughter and two friends, were gunned down outside a liquor store in what police are calling "a tragic case of gang-related violence." Witnesses report two unidentified assailants ambushed Monroe and his crew in broad daylight before fleeing the scene in a stolen SUV. Monroe, who authorities confirm was no stranger to the legal system, suffered "over 50" gunshot wounds and was pronounced dead at the scene. A true loss for the community.
And from the streets of Davis to the high life of Del Perro, real estate mogul and mid-life crisis enthusiast Jericho Smith met an abrupt and violent end outside Bahama Mamas West. Smith, known for his aggressive business tactics and even more aggressive spray tan, was executed in a brazen drive-by shooting while stepping out of his classic Infernus. We take you now to the scene:
"Mary Cummings, Weazel News! I'm standing outside Bahama Mamas, where chaos erupted just hours ago. I have here an eyewitness to the shooting, sir, can you tell us what you saw?"
"YEAH SO BASICALLY RIGHT, I WAS JUST STANDIN' HERE TRYNA GET MY NIGHT STARTED, SIPPIN' THIS LEAN, DIPPED IN A LITTLE PCP, AND THEN BAHBAHBAHBAHBAHBAHBAHBAHBAHBAHBAHBAH! BRO IN THE WIG GOT LIT THE FUCK UP. SHIT WAS CRAZY. LIKE A MOVIE. CAR RAN OVER THESE GUYS TOO, THEN THE CAR RAMMED THE OTHER IN THE ASS!"
"...Thank you for your insight. Back to you, Bryan."
Jericho Smith's bodyguards attempted to respond but were reportedly thwarted when one of their own drivers, in a moment of pure Los Santos brilliance, crashed their vehicle into Smith's now-bloodstained Pegassi. Authorities have yet to identify the suspects, though one investigator described the attack as "cold, calculated, and honestly, kind of stylish." The car is now up for auction.
And if you thought that was the last high-profile death of the evening, you'd be mistaken! In an entirely unrelated incident, or is it?, decorated LSPD Detective Raymond Gunsolley was found dead inside the Vanilla Unicorn strip club under what investigators are calling "mysterious circumstances."
According to sources inside the department, Gunsolley, a longtime member of the Organized Crime Task Force, was discovered slumped over in a private VIP booth with "excessive amounts of cocaine in his system" and "injuries consistent with a fall." Whether foul play was involved remains unclear, but one thing is certain, this was one hell of a Friday night for Los Santos' most dedicated public servants.
And speaking of tragedy, in Sandy Shores, what officials are calling a "hunting accident" has left four members of the Lost MC biker gang dead. Authorities have recovered several .300 Winchester Magnum rounds at the scene but are unable to determine how exactly these bikers "hunted themselves to death." Locals remain skeptical.
And in Northern Rancho, another violent gang shootout erupted, this time involving a wanted criminal and lieutenant of the Varrio Los Aztecas, known only as "Clifton." Authorities arrived to find multiple gang members deceased, but so far, no suspects have been identified. Just another day in the land of opportunity, huh, Sheila?
That's right, Bryan. Five different killings across the city in less than twelve hours, and yet, Los Santos residents still insist on calling this a "nice place to raise kids."
Weazel News will keep you updated as more information unfolds. Until then, remember folks, stay indoors, mind your business, and Stay safe, Los Santos!
Weazel News, confirming your prejudices.
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