Now, let's get to it.”
Released is the 1st mission in Killer Instincts.
The 1st mission given to Maximo by Mr. Green.
The 1st mission in Chapter I: Back to Hell.
Plot
Part 1: Walking Free
January 5, 2014 | 08:32 AM | Bolingbroke Penitentiary, Blaine County
Maximo: ...
Maximo stepped out of Bolingbroke Penitentiary's gates, the desert heat pressing against him like an old enemy. The sun hung low, bleeding orange over the desert at 6pm. Two months. That's all they could hold him. Two months for putting a senator six feet under on Mr. Green's orders.
Not enough evidence, not enough witnesses, just rumors, whispers, and fear. He adjusted his blood-red dress shirt, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. His boots hit the gravel with a steady rhythm as he walked forward, the prison's weight already lifting off his shoulders.
A '71 Buffalo sat waiting by the roadside, its light green paint catching the sun just right, idling like a caged beast. The sleek body reflected the sun's glare, tinted windows shielding the driver. A car like that didn't belong in the middle of nowhere. It belonged to someone who had style, history.
Maximo smirked, he knew who it was. He approached without hesitation. As he reached the door, the window slid down, revealing a familiar face.
Mr. Green: Mac, you never disappoint my boy. You look good for a guy who's been eating state-funded slop for two months. Figured they'd throw away the key, but I got you out. I always do.
Maximo exhaled through his nose. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, the leather interior creaking slightly. The car smelled of cigars, gun smoke, expensive cologne, and whiskey. Classic, like the man himself. Mr. Green, ever the picture of control in his tailored white suit coat and tie with dark sunglasses.
He wheezed as he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a worn brown box. He set it on Maximo's lap.
Mr. Green: A welcome-back gift. You left these behind, figured you'd be missing 'em.
Maximo flipped the lid open. His brass knuckles, switchblade, fiber wire, and twin 686 revolvers sat inside, untouched, waiting. He ran a hand over them before slipping the revolvers into their rightful place under his arms. The brass knuckles found their way back onto the chain around his neck, the switchblade disappeared into his boot. He curled the fiber wire around his wrist like a bracelet.
Order was restored.
Mr. Green smirked and reached into his suit pocket, tossing a cigar and a silver flip lighter onto Maximo's lap.
Mr. Green: Go on. Light up. You've earned it.
Maximo took the cigar between his fingers, rolling it slightly before biting off the tip. He flicked the lighter open with his thumb, the small flame casting shadows over his face. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke settle in his lungs before exhaling slowly. A satisfied grunt followed.
Mr. Green: A simple thank you goes along way son... heheh, just kidding. Los Santos is waiting, and so is business. You still up for it?
Maximo took another slow drag, then gave a single nod. Mr. Green chuckled, tapping the wheel.
Mr. Green: Atta boy. Let's go to work.
The Buffalo rumbled as he kicked it in gear, its V8 growl shaking the road as they sped down Route 68, kicking up dust and leaving Bolingbroke in the rearview. Maximo sat in silence, the weight of his revolvers familiar under his arms, the cigar smoldering between his fingers. Across from him, behind the wheel, Mr. Green drove like a man with nowhere to be but everywhere to go.
The old man was a hard figure, wide-set and thick-boned, his burly frame stuffed into the same white suit coat he had always worn. It was once expensive, luxurious, even, but time and neglect had turned it into something else. Stains, rips, cigarette burns, a tear on the right shoulder that had never been stitched up. For as long as Maximo had known him, Mr. Green had that coat on, paired with an equally blinding white vest back in the day.
That was before the belly, before the years had settled into his frame. Now, the vest was gone, but the pitch-black dress shirt remained, as did the tie, a tie he never properly learned to knot. The whole thing felt like a uniform. A costume. And Maximo knew, even if Green never said it outright, that he hated wearing it.
Mr. Green puffed on his cigar, inhaling deep. Unlike Maximo, he actually took the smoke into his lungs, letting it roll out through his nose. He turned slightly, looking Mac up and down before smirking.
Mr. Green: They feed you at all in there? Christ, you look like you lost weight. What was it? Beans? Rice? Some slop a guy spit in?
Maximo raised his hand and held his fingers a few inches apart, signaling a little. Then he brought two fingers to his mouth and exaggerated a gag.
Mr. Green: Yeah, figured as much. State-funded gourmet, huh? I'd say you shoulda called me, but, well...
Green chuckled, nudging Maximo's arm hard enough to make it feel dead. It was a joke, but not on him, so he allowed himself to enjoy it. That was Green's rule, he'd dish it out, but the moment the joke was on him, the mood changed. Fast. Maximo had seen it happen. Hell, felt it happen.
The city was closer now. The concrete jungle sprawl of Los Santos flickered in the distance, a beacon of sin and money. But before they got to business, Green veered the car onto Vinewood Boulevard, pulling up in front of Pizza This... A shitty old looking pizzeria joint with a few cracks on the facade, but Maximo knew better. Green didn't do shitty. If he ate here, it was because it was worth eating.
The second Green stepped out, the door swung open, and an old man in a flour-dusted apron grinned wide.
Owner: Ah, look who it is! The man big man himself! Ahh, and Max! Where the hell you been, Maximo?
Mr. Green spoke on his behalf with a crude smirk.
Mr. Green: Vacation. Real exclusive place upstate. Concrete walls, bars, shitty beds. Had to pick up my boy there.
Maximo grunted, putting on his brown jacket over his revolvers, flicking his cigar to the curb before stepping in behind him.
They sat in their usual booth, Maximo could tell, because a few commoners scurried away from it when they walked in. The pizza came fast. Mushroom and cheese with cheese-stuffed crust for Green, double meat-lovers for Maximo. Maximo ate a few slices, chewing slow. He couldn't taste it. Couldn't taste anything. Hasn't been able to since he lost his tongue. But the texture was good, the cheese stringy, the crust crisp. He nodded once, a small approval.
Green smirked, mouth half-full.
Mr. Green: Better than prison food, huh?
Maximo shot him a look and flicked his middle finger up.
Green laughed, smacking the table.
Mr. Green: Smartass.
The meal didn't take long. It never did. Green had places to be, money to make, and bodies to disappear. Before long, they were back on the road, heading straight for Downtown Vinewood, to their base of operations, the Downtown Vinewood Bail Office. Business was waiting. And so was the city.
Part 2: Back to Work
January 5, 2014 | 10:45 AM | Save Golden Company, Downtown Vinewood
The Buffalo pulled around the back of the Save Golden Company office, its engine rumbling low like a beast settling in its den in Downtown Vinewood. Maximo rolled his cigar butt between his fingers, flicking the last of the ash onto the cracked pavement and crushing it in the car's ashtray before stepping out. The back entrance was unmarked, just a rusted steel door with a single camera overhead. The kind of place that looked abandoned, but inside, it was anything but.
Mr. Green led the way, his stained, ripped white coat shifting tightly over his broad back. Maximo followed, stepping into the dimly lit interior. The place smelled of coffee, gun oil, and cheap cologne. Desks were stacked with papers, manila folders filled with names, addresses, and paychecks written in blood. This was their home base, their fortress in the middle of Los Santos' beating heart of crime.
A woman leaned against a filing cabinet, reading something, a bored expression on her sharp face. Elvira. The best assassin in the crew, besides himself, at least that's what he tells himself. But where Max was brute force and brutality, she was subtlety and precision. A glass of poisoned whiskey, a bathtub slip with a toaster, a misplaced step onto a conveniently weakened railing. Her kills were clean, unnoticed, and looked like accidents. These days, she was more of a handler, making sure the contracts were set up, targets picked, and money flowed into Mr. Green's pockets.
She didn't even look up from the file in her hands.
Elvira: Figured they'd let you out eventually... With all those witnesses having... unfortunate accidents. Cops in this city couldn't catch a cold, let alone keep you locked up.
Maximo smirked and tapped his temple with two fingers. Too smart for em. He nodded thankfully, appreciative.
Elvira: Yeah, yeah your welcome Donnie. Let's see if you're still sharp or if two months inside with a boyfriend in your cot made you soft.
Across the room, a stout man leaned back in a chair, loafers up on a desk, flipping through a stack of betting slips. Wayne Heron. When Max was locked up, Heron had filled in. They were opposites in many ways. Maximo was a lone wolf, hands always dirty with the job. Heron? He got things done without getting his own hands too messy. A professional, methodical, and structured, these days he had a small crew of vagrants working under him, unlike Maximo, who always handled his own business.
Heron glanced up, nodding once. He was wearing the same white suit get up Mr. Green had, except properly laundered, with the vest, and a well-knotted tie.
Heron: Good to see you back, Dalton. Place felt too clean without you painting the walls.
Maximo shrugged, clicking his fingers and then cracking his knuckles.
Then, there was the new kid. Young, cocky, and fresh out of Grove Street. Mr. Green had pulled him in, saw some kind of potential in him. Kid had only ever shot at other gangsters, never taken out a real target. Now he was here, running errands, cleaning up, and carrying things. His arms were staunched at his side with his chin up, peacocking, lips twisted in a smirk, the kind that said he thought he was the toughest guy in the room. He wasn't. Hunter Black.
Hunter: Man, this the legend? I dunno, n*gga. Thought you'd be taller or some shit.
Maximo stared at him, then tilted his head slightly. He made a quick motion, flicking his wrist, clenching his fist. Kid talks too much.
Heron: Kid, shut up. You're here to learn not talk shit. So do that.
Hunter: Yeah, yeah, whatever n*gga.
Mr. Green sighed, adjusting his ill-fitted tie, then walked over to his desk, pulling out a thick folder and tossing it onto the table. Papers slid across the surface. Targets, contracts, business. Like another day in the office.
Mr. Green: Alright, ladies. Mac's back, and we've got work to do. New clients, new money. Now, let's get to it.
Maximo cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. Back in business. Back where he belonged, the only lifestyle he knew. He knew what was coming, a job. He didn't get let out just to sit around and eat pizza. He was back for a reason, and the job was waiting.
Elvira stood at the head of the room, a folder in her hands. She flipped it open, skimming the details before speaking. Her tone was all business, sharp, focused, and to the point. The way she operated.
Elvira: We got a special request from a very pissed-off client. Some piece of shit named Mark Doyle. You ever hear of this guy?
Maximo simply raised an eyebrow. He didn't waste time learning names unless they mattered. Plus he was just in prison.
Elvira: Rich boy. Spoiled. Daddy's money bought him out of every charge. Drug dealing, street racing, laundering, but that ain't even the worst of it. He's got a thing for hurting women. A bad thing.
She slid a few photos across the table. Surveillance shots, tabloid headlines, and crime scene photos, blood-streaked apartment floors, broken furniture, a woman's bruised, raped, and lifeless body. Maximo's jaw tightened. That was all he needed.
Elvira: Our client? Her sister was one of his victims. Cops wouldn't do shit. Lawyers got paid off. She scraped together every last cent she had and contacted us. We gave her a discount.
Elvira leaned forward, resting her hands on the table.
Elvira: Doyle's in Los Santos right now. Came in last night, staying at a high-end hotel in Rockford Hills. He thinks he's untouchable as all rich sons do, and we'd love to prove him wrong.
Maximo took the folder and nodded. This one was personal, for someone, at least. And if the bastard deserved it, he had no problem making it happen. He moved silently, heading toward Heron's side of the room, where the ex-con sat with a box of ammunition and weapons in front of him. Heron didn't say much, just opened the lid and gestured toward the contents.
Heron: Took the liberty of restocking your usual. You'll need it.
Maximo picked up a few .357 rounds, running his fingers over them before loading up. The weight was familiar. Comforting. Like shaking hands with an old friend.
Heron leaned back, watching as Maximo holstered the now loaded revolvers.
Heron: Good luck, Dalton. Make it messy for me.
Maximo just smirked and nodded, with a face that read, I always do.
Mr. Green motioned him over before he could head out, leading him through the side door and into the garage. The metal shutters groaned as they lifted, revealing her.
Maximo's red Western Daemon, "Circe", sat in the center of the space, looking just as he left it. The deep red paint gleamed under the dim light, and the engine looked clean, too clean. Someone had been taking care of it.
Hunter Black leaned against the doorway behind him, arms crossed, smirking.
Hunter: Yeah, that was me. Green told me to clean it up. Damn thing was covered in dust and shi.
He ran a hand over Circe's frame. It was exactly as he remembered, except for the fresh shine. He glanced at Green, who just shrugged.
Mr. Green: Figured it'd be a shame to let it sit and rust while you were locked up.
Maximo pulled out a cigarette and grunted in approval, lighting it with a flick. He couldn't say it out loud, but it was good to see it still in shape and ready to roll.
Hunter took a step forward, grinning like a kid looking at a Christmas present.
Hunter: Yo twin, lemme ride it. Just around the block. Or let me come with. C'mon, man, lemme see how you work and shi, I'm tryna learn.
Maximo just shook his head, flicking his cigar before climbing onto the seat.
Hunter: Aw, c'mon, man! What's with you? You don't talk to me, don't even introduce yourself, just all silent and mysterious and shi. What's your problem bro you mute or some?
Maximo turned to face him. He held his cigarette between his fingers, then, slowly, opened his mouth. Hunter leaned in, confused at first, then froze. Where his tongue should have been, there was nothing. Just scarred flesh and empty space. Hunter's face went pale. His eyes widened, mouth opening to say something, anything, but instead, he fainted. His dreadlocks broke his fall.
Mr. Green sighed, rubbing his temple as the kid hit the ground hard.
Mr. Green: Jesus Christ, Mac.
Maximo just smirked, kicked up the stand, and revved the engine as Circe came to life. It was time to get back to work.
Part 3: Road to Blood
January 5, 2014 | 12:15 PM | Rockford Dorset Hotel, Rockford Hills
The mid-day sun burned against the pavement as Maximo weaved through Los Santos rush hour, Circe's engine roaring between cars like a predator hunting in a concrete jungle. The red frame of the bike split lanes, threading the needle between SUVs, lowriders, and high-end sedans belonging to execs too important to sit in traffic. Horns blared, curses followed, but Maximo didn't hear them. The city moved at its own pace, and so did he.
He sped past Pillbox Hill, the mirrored skyscrapers reflecting golden light as he dipped off an exit ramp and onto Boulevard Del Perro. He rode with purpose, knowing exactly where he was going, exactly who he was about to erase from existence. Marcus Doyle.
The bastard had been too easy to track. Elvira had done the hard work, found the details, and delivered them with a smirk. A high-end suite at the Rockford Dorset Hotel, room 1702. Doyle had checked in the night before, as if Los Santos were just another playground for the rich and untouchable. Maximo intended to prove him very, very wrong.
The Rockford Dorset Hotel towered over the boulevard, a monument to excess. Its white facade shimmered against the sunlight, and the polished glass reflected the slow crawl of luxury vehicles pulling into the valet. The pavement gleamed from a recent wash, as if money could scrub away the filth that lingered inside.
Turismos, Enuses, Lampadatis... all status symbols for the rich who thought money made them gods. A valet in a stiff suit opened the door for a bored-looking heiress, her diamond necklace catching the light as she stepped inside. The lobby beyond was well-lit and busy. Too many eyes, too many cameras.
The entrance wasn't an option. But there were always other ways in.
Around the side, past the pristine valet section and into the shadowed alley, a maintenance door sat between two industrial dumpsters. Unmarked, metal, a forgotten backdoor in a place that prided itself on appearances. The faint hum of air conditioning units droned overhead, masking the city's distant sirens.
A gloved hand reached for the keypad beside the door. A small, handheld device pressed against it, one of Heron's many useful tools. A moment later, a soft click echoed in the quiet alley, the red led switching green. He stepped inside. Just like that.
The hallway was dimly lit and empty. He moved swiftly, navigating past stacks of linens and cleaning supplies, following the layout he had memorized. The service elevator was ahead, reserved for staff and celebrities who didn't want to be seen. Perfect.
Maximo slid in, hitting the button for the 17th floor. He adjusted his holsters, checked the weight of his revolvers beneath a tailored coat, and exhaled slowly.
The hunt had begun.
Part 4: Price of Privilege
January 5, 2014 | 12:34 AM | Rockford Dorset interior, Rockford Hills
Doyle's suite was a shrine to excess as Maximo picked the lock. Glass tables stacked with liquor bottles, designer clothes tossed across the furniture, a half-smoked cigar still resting on a marble ashtray. The bastard was comfortable. In the middle of it all, sprawled across a king-sized bed naked, lay Marcus Doyle.
Maximo stood at the foot of the bed, revolver drawn, watching the bastard sleep. He could kill him now. Easy. Quick. But that wasn't personal.
He picked up a bottle of Blêuter'd 1926 from the nightstand with his free hand. The bottle alone was worth millions. He dumped its contents onto Doyle's head, soaking his expensive silk pillow, before throwing the bottle hard against the man's face with a sharp crack.
Doyle jerked awake with a gasp, coughing and sputtering.
Marcus: What the-? Who the fuck-?
His voice caught when he saw Maximo standing there, unmoving, revolver leveled right at his face.
The fear came fast. Doyle sat up, hands raised, panic setting in.
Marcus: Wait wait! You don't know who I am! I have money! I can pay you, anything! Just name your price, man! Don't kill me please!
Maximo just stared. No words. No expression. He raised his free hand and pointed at Doyle, then dragged a thumb slowly across his own throat.
Doyle's breath hitched. He understood.
Marcus: No-no, please-please, listen, I-
Maximo stepped forward, cutting the plea short. He grabbed Doyle by the collar and yanked him from the bed, slamming him through a coffee table, which shattered beneath his weight. Doyle groaned, coughing hard, glass digging into his skin as he covered his privates, shaking.
Maximo crouched beside him and pulled his switchblade from his boot, flipping it open with a slow, deliberate motion.
Doyle whimpered. He knew what was coming.
Marcus: Please! What have I don-
Maximo shoved the blade into Doyle's palm, pinning his hand to the floor. The scream that followed was music. Doyle writhed, his face twisted in agony, but Maximo pressed down, twisting the knife just enough to remind him, this isn't going to be quick.
He leaned in close, staring into Doyle's tear-filled eyes. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a printed photograph. He let it drop onto Doyle's chest.
A young woman. Smiling. Bright eyes. Alive.
The client's sister. The one Doyle raped, abused, and destroyed.
Doyle choked on a sob, shaking his head violently, as if denying reality itself.
Marcus: I-I didn't mean to-
Maximo wasn't listening. He reached into his pocket again, this time pulling out a marker and a letter. He uncapped it, pressing them into Doyle's trembling, uninjured hand.
Doyle stared at it, confused. His breath hitched as Maximo gestured toward the paper with a hand signal. Write.
Marcus: W-what?
Maximo crunched Doyle's trapped wrist with his boot and squeezed.
The rich boy screamed, his body convulsing from the pain.
Marcus: FUCK! OKAY! OKAY! WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY?
Maximo gestured again, as if praying, slowly, deliberately. An apology. An admission. A confession.
Doyle's breath was ragged, but he understood. He gritted his teeth and started writing. The marker's tip trembled against the paper mixing with his drops of blood, Maximo holding the photograph of the girl in his face. The ink was shaky but legible.
"I hurt her. I killed her. I was never punished. I'm sorry. Marcus Doyle."
Tears dripped onto the photo as Doyle dropped the marker, sobbing. He looked up at Maximo, desperation in his eyes.
Marcus: Please-please, I admit it I'm sorry! Don't-
Maximo picked up the photograph, letting his eyes pass over the words one last time. Then, without a sound, he holstered his revolver. With a slick, he pulled his blade and boot from Doyle's hand, flicking the blood on the lush carpet.
Doyle's lip quivered, his chest heaving with relief as he rolled around the broken coffee table, clutching his hand.
Until Maximo grabbed him by the hair and dragged him toward the window.
Marcus: NO-WAIT-WAIT-PLEASE-!
Doyle clawed at Maximo's grip, legs kicking wildly as they reached the floor-to-ceiling glass and his face met the glass with a crack. His screams echoed through the room, but they wouldn't last long. Maximo pressed Doyle against the window, giving him one last moment to take in the city he thought belonged to him.
Then, with a single motion, he shoved. Hard.
The glass shattered. Doyle's body tumbled into the open, arms flailing, his final scream tearing through the warm Los Santos air. He fell, twisting, spinning, caught between terror and disbelief. Seventeen floors. A rich boy who thought he was untouchable... until he wasn't.
Below, a bright white Pegassi Zentorno idled at the valet pickup. A machine worth more than some houses, polished to a mirror shine, its aggressive angles glinting under the hotel's golden glow. The owner, some Foster Valley prick probably in a tailored white suit and vest, leaned against the hood, arguing with the valet over a scratch, oblivious to the very exclusive surprise about to crash down on him.
With a sickening, wet crunch, Doyle's body slammed through the Zentorno's roof, cratering the sleek carbon-fiber frame in an explosion of blood, shattered glass, and twisted metal. The impact sent the car's alarm blaring, drawing gasps and screams from the onlookers.
The suited man jumped back, his phone clattering to the pavement, his face frozen in pure horror looking up to the heavens and back down to the hell in front of him. Doyle's lifeless form lay sprawled across the crushed supercar, spluttering blood, arms twisted the wrong way, his skull split open like a dropped melon.
The privilege, the money, the untouchable status... it all ended here, in a heap of shattered excess. A billionaire's toy, now a $725,000 coffin.
Above, Maximo stood by the ruined window, watching the chaos unfold. He let the moment settle, let the world register what had just happened. No loose ends. No escape. Doyle's death was now as public as his life had been... a final, brutal message.
Maximo looked down for a moment, then tucked the signed confession into his jacket. Proof for the sister and proof that justice had been served.
He stepped back into the suite, grabbed a box of cigars from Doyle's side table, then, without a word, he walked out.
Maximo slipped out the side entrance, weaving through the dimly lit alley behind the hotel. Circe was waiting, untouched. He mounted it, lit a cigar and took a slow inhale and revved the engine.
The day was still young. Barely hours out and he already killed someone.
Someone who deserved it at least.
Part 5: Drink of Life
January 5, 2014 | 03:15 PM | Tequi-la-la, West Vinewood
Circe rumbled up to the curb, its deep growl slicing through the city noise. The black and yellow facade of Tequi-la-la stood defiant against the West Vinewood skyline, a dive bar too stubborn to die in a city that never stops changing. On the corner, the glowing yellow neon sign buzzed faintly in the daylight, promising exactly what it had for decades. Booze, bad decisions, and rock ‘n' roll.
The entrance was clogged with pretentious hipsters, cigarettes dangling from their lips, talking too loudly about the local music scene like they had discovered it themselves. Vintage band tees, ripped skinny jeans, thrift-store leather jackets... every one of them trying too hard. Maximo didn't spare them a glance as he slid off his bike, the heavy weight of his boots hitting the pavement. This wasn't their place. It was his.
The walls of the building were plastered in a thick, layered mess of rock band promos, faded flyers, and crude graffiti. Some posters were so old that the glue had given up, their edges curling, revealing years of history beneath them. Love Fist, The Strokers, Hell Cell, Swabs, and dozens of local nobodies who probably broke up before their first gig. The cycle repeated, just like the city itself.
A long line snaked around the front, tourists, club rats, and washed-up musicians waiting for the night crowd to bring the place to life. But Maximo didn't do lines. Not here.
At the door, Nash, built like a freight train, with the kind of face that had seen too many bar fights and won most of them, leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He spotted Maximo immediately, a grin cutting through his rough exterior.
Nash: No fucking way. They let you out?
Maximo smirked, giving a lazy two-finger salute. Still here. Still breathing.
Nash: Shit, man. Knew they couldn't keep you. Get your ass inside.
He unhooked the velvet rope, waving Maximo through without a second thought. The hipsters in line muttered in irritation, some guy in a denim vest tried to protest, but one look from Nash shut him up quick. Maximo stepped past them, through the doors, and into the place he knew better than anywhere else.
The inside of Tequi-la-la was just as he remembered. Dark, loud, and unapologetically filthy. The walls were black with splashes of deep red, beer logos glowing dimly in neon against the haze of stale smoke and spilled liquor. The bar was already cluttered with empty bottles, half-finished drinks, forgotten lighters, all abandoned in whatever spot their owners could reach. A place where the night never really ended, just bled into the afternoon.
To his right, the stage was already set up, speakers stacked high, cables snaking across the floor. Some Love Fist cover band was sound-checking for the night crowd, their frontman arguing with the sound tech over the mic levels. Maximo had seen a hundred of these bands come and go, some decent, most terrible, all convinced they were about to be legends.
He didn't care. Not today. Today, he was free.
Without a word, Maximo made his way to the bar, tapping the counter twice. The bartender, a woman, Sasha, with a buzz cut and an arm full of tattoos, looked him up and down before nodding. She didn't ask what he wanted. She knew.
A moment later, a cold bottle of Patriot Beer slid across the bar. Cheap, strong, and no bullshit. Exactly what he needed. Maximo grabbed it and turned, weaving through the tables toward the back of the room.
The booths at the end of the area were dimly lit, half-hidden from the rest of the bar. He slid into his usual spot, leaning back against the torn leather, stretching his legs out. The first swig of beer was cold, crisp, and familiar. It wasn't bourbon, but it was freedom in a bottle.
After two months of prison food, stale air, and waiting, this was the first real thing he'd tasted. It was the kind of drink that didn't soften the edges. It sharpened them.
Afternoon light bled through the tinted windows, casting long shadows across the bar floor. Tequi-la-la in the daytime was different. No flashing strobe lights, no deafening basslines. Just the quiet hum of classic rock playing from the jukebox, the clinking of glasses, and the low murmur of early drinkers escaping the day. The scent of old leather, stale beer, and lingering smoke wrapped around Maximo like an old jacket. Home.
For the first time since stepping out of Bolingbroke, Maximo let himself relax. Just for a moment. No contracts, no killings, no eyes watching him from the dark. Just a man, a drink, and a few stolen hours of peace.
A familiar voice carried from the upstairs balcony. Cody, the club manager. Always running things, making sure the money kept flowing and the drinks never stopped.
Cody: Dude! Pretty fucking cool to see you again! Thought you were done for, man!
Maximo just lifted a hand in acknowledgment as Cody made his way toward the bar. Cody grinned before heading off to deal with a bartender about inventory, always in motion, never slowing down. Everyone had thought Maximo was done. That's what made walking back into the world so damn satisfying.
He exhaled slowly, letting the burn in his throat settle, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. The bar moved around him, people talking, drinks being poured, but for once, he wasn't part of the noise.
But work was work. And work was done.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialing Elvira. He held the burner to his ear, waiting as it rang twice before she picked up.
Elvira: Tell me it's done Donnie.
Maximo took a slow sip, then exhaled through his nose. He grunted once. Low, affirmative.
There was a short silence on the other end. Then, a soft chuckle.
Elvira: Figured. Saw the Weazel news alert already. Rich kid takes a dive, paints a Pegassi red. Classy.
She didn't need more details. She knew how Maximo worked. The job was done.
Elvira: Money's coming through soon. Seventy-five grand. Your cut's fifty percent, as usual.
$37,500. Not bad for an afternoon's work, but the revenge was sweeter.
Maximo grunted again, tapping the rim of his bottle with his thumb. Good.
Elvira: Heh, already at Tequi-la-la, huh? Enjoy the rest of your day, Donnie. Don't get too comfortable... there's always more work to do.
The call ended. No goodbye. No wasted words. Maximo slipped the phone back into his pocket, took another slow sip of his lager, and let the noise of the bar fade around him.
The noise of Tequi-la-la was shifting. It always did when something big hit the airwaves. The dusty old TVs hanging above the bar flickered to Weazel News, where smug anchors in cheap suits and forced smiles were already dissecting Marcus Doyle's final plunge. As they spoke, the energy in the bar changed. Snickers turned into outright laughter. Toasts were raised. No one mourned a rich kid with too many lawyers and no consequences.
The usual crowd at Tequi-la-la, that snooty, low-class communist breed of washed-up musicians, struggling actors, and professional alcoholics, were treating Doyle's death as a victory. A symbolic win in a city where the rich always won. Not today.
Maximo tapped his empty bottle against the table twice, then stood. He took a slow walk to the bar, brushing past a group already deep into their fourth round, celebrating "gravity's finest work." Cody, the club manager, was still behind the counter, keeping the drinks flowing.
Maximo reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of bills, $4,000 worth. He slid it across the counter, tapping it twice with his fingers. The tab was covered.
Cody raised an eyebrow but grinned, shaking his head as he scooped up the cash.
Cody: Shit, man. Drinks on the house? You got a soft spot for the downtrodden now?
Maximo just smirked and gave a lazy shrug. Maybe. Maybe not. He grabbed another beer, cracked it open, and made his way back to his booth. The bar was alive now, the news cycle fueling the celebration. A room full of people drinking to the death of a rich bastard, unknowingly toasting the man who made it happen.
Maximo took a slow sip, let the bitter taste linger, and let the world move around him.
For now, the world could wait. He was free.
Just a man, a drink, and a city that never knew his name.
The next mission, Returned, is now unlocked.
Objectives
- Get picked up by Mr. Green.
- Return to the Save Golden Company.
- Receive the assassination dossier from Elvira.
- Travel to Rockford Dorset Hotel.
- Find a way inside.
- Locate and access Room 1702.
- Beat a Confession out of Marcus Doyle.
- Eliminate Marcus Doyle.
- Escape without alerting hotel security or LSPD.
- Head to Tequi-la-la for a drink.
Gold Medal Objectives
- The Rich Boy - Slam Doyle through the coffee table.
- Pinned Down - Stab Doyle's hand into the floor.
- Rough Landing - Defenestrate Doyle.
- The Cleaner - Escape the hotel without drawing attention.
- Silent Assassin - Complete without being seen or harming anyone else.
Rewards
Contract Payout Breakdown
| Total Earnings | $75,000 | |
|---|---|---|
| Name | Cut (%) | Payout ($) |
| Maximo | 50% | $37,500 |
| Mr. Green | 28% | $21,000 |
| Elvira | 10% | $7,500 |
| Wayne Heron | 10% | $7,500 |
| Hunter Black | 2% | $1,500 |
Money
| Category | Amount |
|---|---|
| Starting Cash | $166,600 |
| Mark Doyle Hit Earnings | +$37,500 |
| 5x Patriot Beer | -$100 |
| Tequi-la-la Bar Tab | -$4,000 |
| Total Balance | $200,000 |
Aftermath
Weazel News
Bryan Wilkinson, Weazel News. Breaking news from Rockford Hills, where a shocking and bizarre death at the prestigious Rockford Dorset Hotel has authorities scrambling for answers!
Sheila Hall, also Weazel News. Guests at the high-end establishment were expecting a Sunday night of luxury, but instead got an unscheduled check-out, right through the 17th-floor window! Marcus Doyle, a wealthy socialite with a well-documented history of... let's say, dodging legal trouble, met his untimely demise when he took an express route to the pavement, crashing down on a rather expensive supercar.
Eyewitnesses report that Doyle's body landed directly on a rare Pegassi Zentorno, totaling the $725,000 vehicle in what can only be described as an unexpected "departure." The driver, reportedly a Japanese scientist who wished to remain anonymous, is said to be pissed off, likely from both the trauma and his insurance deductible.
And the mystery deepens! Sources indicate that Doyle's suite was discovered shortly after his fall, where he supposedly suffered multiple injuries, with blood everywhere and what investigators are calling "significant furniture damage" to a coffee table. Additionally, a handwritten confession was found at the scene, allegedly admitting ""I hurt her. I killed her. I was never punished. I'm sorry. Marcus Doyle."". A heartfelt apology? Or a forced message at the end of a barrel?
LSFD responded swiftly to the scene, but there wasn't much left to save. Meanwhile, the LSPD is treating the incident as a "tragic suicide," though those familiar with Doyle's reputation suspect someone may have... helped gravity along. With no reported witnesses, no security alerts, and no known suspects, one thing is certain, some people really do fall from grace.
Doyle's faher has yet to issue a statement, but Weazel News can confirm that his legal team was seen scrambling, likely trying to determine if "death" is a valid defense against ongoing lawsuits, and that the confession could not hold in court.
Meanwhile, across town, local dive bar Tequi-la-la saw an unexpected afternoon rush, as patrons reportedly broke into an impromptu celebration following news of "the rich kid's" death. Sources say rounds of Patriot Beer were being poured freely, with the bar tab mysteriously covered by an anonymous benefactor. Staff describe the atmosphere as "festive, if morbid".
We'll keep you updated as this story unfolds. Until then, watch your back, check your balconies, and maybe invest in reinforced glass.
Good advice, Bryan. Stay safe, Los Santos!
Weazel News, confirming your prejudices.
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