Returned is the 2nd mission in Killer Instincts.
The 2nd mission given to Maximo by Mr. Green.
The 2nd mission in Chapter I: Back to Hell.
Plot
Part 1: The Morning After
January 6, 2014 | 10:44 AM | 0111 South Rockford Drive, Vespucci Canals
Maximo woke up to the dull glow of daylight creeping through the blinds, his head pounding just enough to be annoying. Years of drinking had built up a tolerance that made hangovers a minor inconvenience at best. Still, the taste of stale whiskey and cigarettes lingered in his mouth, a reminder of the night before.
Tequi-la-la. Booze. Laughter. A city full of nobodies celebrating the fall of a rich bastard. He didn't remember how he got home, but he knew how. Blacked-out, riding Circe through the empty night streets, hands steady even when his mind wasn't. He could make it home from the bar with his eyes closed. It wasn't the first time. Wouldn't be the last.
He exhaled and sat up, the weight of his black bomber jacket still hanging on his shoulders, his blood-red dress shirt unbuttoned and wrinkled from sleep. The smell of booze, smoke, and the faintest trace of blood clung to him. He needed a shower.
His apartment was exactly how he liked it, somewhere between dingy and clean. Not a wreck, not pristine. Lived-in. Functional. Across the couch, a messy spread of magazines sat where he had dumped them last night, both the firearm kind and the Ammu-Nation catalogues he flipped through when he was too buzzed to sleep.
A headache pulsed in the back of his skull, but he ignored it, stripping out of yesterday's clothes as he headed for the shower. He kept it brief, cold water, brisk scrubbing. Just enough to wash away the scent of the bar and the past 24 hours. By the time he stepped out, toweling off his scarred, tattooed arms, the fog in his head had cleared. Mostly.
Dressed in sweatpants and an undershirt, he made his way to the kitchen, grabbing a box of Crackles O'Dawn from the counter. He dumped the cereal into a bowl, no milk. Didn't need it. The crunch was loud in his ears as he leaned against the counter, staring at the wall, lost in the quiet stillness of the morning. No gunfire. No screaming. Just the city breathing.
Then, his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it. Mr. Green.
Maximo chewed, unbothered. He knew this call was coming. He owed Green. Not that he minded much, business was business. But at the end of the day, it was still Green's orders that got him locked up.
He swallowed the last of his cereal, wiped his hand on his sweats, and picked up the phone with a grunt.
Mr. Green: Mornin', Mac. Hope you sobered up. Got something for you. Something big.
Maximo exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his damp hair. Here we go again.
Mr. Green: You ever been to San Fierro? Nice place. Hills, big bridge, good seafood. Lotta history. Thought you could use a little... vacation.
Maximo exhaled through his nose. A vacation. He smirked, running a hand through his hair. Right.
Mr. Green: Turns out, Marcus Doyle's funeral's gonna be held there. Heard he had a bit of a... fall from grace yesterday. Big family thing. Lotta important people attending. Thought it'd be good for you to... pay your respects.
Maximo set his coffee down. Now it made sense.
Marcus' father, Cameron Doyle. Real estate tycoon, billionaire, untouchable. A man who built half of San Fierro with backroom deals, stolen land, and crushed competition. A man powerful enough that killing him would shake the city.
Mr. Green: Thing is, this ain't just any vacation. It's important. Real important. Client wants it done personally. Wants to make sure the right message gets sent. And that means you, Mac.
Maximo exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against the counter. So, that was it. A funeral. A vacation. A hit.
Mr. Green: Elvira'll fill you in when you get in the car. She's outside. You'll be flying private. Figured you'd want to keep a low profile.
Maximo grunted again, rubbing the back of his neck. An important client. That meant big money, big consequences, and no room for mistakes.
Mr. Green: And Mac?
Maximo tilted his head slightly, waiting.
Mr. Green: Make sure you greet Cameron Doyle personally.
The line clicked dead. No wasted words. No unnecessary details. Just business. Maximo set his phone in his pocket, sighed, and grabbed his gun holsters from the couch.
So much for a quiet morning.
Part 2: Friendly Vacation
January 6, 2014 | 11:00 AM | Coil Raiden, Vespucci Canals
Maximo tightened the straps on his gun holsters, the familiar weight of his revolvers settling against his ribs. The morning still clung to his skin, the scent of whiskey, gun oil, and cigarette smoke from the night before.
He threw on his black bomber jacket, the leather cracked in places, well-worn from years of use. The blood-red dress shirt underneath hung unbuttoned at the top, loose, unbothered. A reminder that even when he was working, style mattered.
A vacation, they said. San Fierro. But Maximo knew the truth, this wasn't a getaway. It was a hit at a funeral. And funerals were just business with a different dress code.
The hum of an electric engine vibrated outside his window. He glanced out, the matte-black Coil Raiden idled at the curb, sleek and silent, its driver barely visible through the tinted glass. Elvira. Waiting. Ready.
The job was already moving.
Maximo grabbed his gloves, slid them on, and stepped outside.
The moment Maximo approached, the passenger-side window rolled down, revealing Elvira in the driver's seat. She had one hand on the wheel, the other holding a Bean Machine coffee cup, steam curling from the lid. Her aviators reflected the morning light, but he knew she was watching him.
Elvira: Look at you. Didn't even need me to kick your door down.
Maximo smirked, exhaling through his nose. He slid into the car without a word, adjusting the jacket on his shoulders as he shut the door.
In the backseat, Wayne Heron sat with his arms crossed, leaning back like a man who never rushed anything. He looked up from his phone, nodded once.
Heron: About time Dalton. Figured you'd still be nursing a hangover.
Maximo tapped his temple. Too calloused for that.
Elvira: Oh yeah, almost forgot, Donnie could survive a nuclear blast and still roll out of bed like nothing happened.
She took a sip of her coffee, then glanced at the mirror as she pulled the car away from the curb.
Elvira: You packed for the vacation?
Maximo patted his holsters under his jacket. She smirked.
Elvira: Good. 'Cause this ain't a sightseeing tour.
Heron: Shame. Thought we'd at least get a postcard.
Elvira: Oh, don't worry, Wayne. We'll have plenty of time for pictures.
The car glided through Vespucci Canals, the sun reflecting off its sleek frame. The flight was booked, the target was set, and the city of San Fierro was waiting. This wasn't a vacation, it was a double burial.
Maximo pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket, rolling it between his fingers as he leaned back into the Raiden's leather seat. He didn't get a vacation often, might as well enjoy it.
He had just placed it between his lips when-
Elvira: Oh, hell no. You're not lighting that in my car.
Maximo smirked around the cigar, making a show of reaching into his jacket for his flip lighter.
Elvira: I'm serious, Donnie. I just had this detailed, I am not letting your cheap-ass cigar stink up my upholstery.
Maximo flicked the lighter open, the flame flickering dangerously close.
Elvira: Maximo. Don't.
The tone was pure mother scolding a misbehaving child. Maximo met her deadpan stare through her aviators, holding it for a beat, then lit the cigar anyway.
Elvira let out a deep, exasperated sigh, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as smoke curled toward the roof.
Elvira: I hate you.
Maximo just took a long, slow inhale. He exhaled, letting the smoke fill the cabin. Perfect.
Wayne Heron, sitting relaxed in the backseat, just chuckled.
Heron: If you're gonna kill him, El, at least wait 'til after the vacay.
Elvira muttered something under her breath, gripping the wheel a little tighter as she sped toward the airport.
The private gate entrance was exactly what Maximo expected, quiet, tucked away from the commercial flights, and guarded by people who didn't ask questions. As the Raiden rolled through the security checkpoint, the towering presence of a Buckingham Luxor came into view, blinding white under the sun.
Blinding white. Painfully obvious.
Maximo's eyes locked onto the small hawk emblem on the tail. A calling card. A brand. His fingers drummed once on his knee before he flicked his half-smoked cigar out the window.
No fucking way. NightHawk.
It had been months since he last worked for NightHawk. The entire organization had gone dark in September last year, cutting off communications, payments, everything. Maximo had figured they had been taken down, scattered, wiped off the map. The feds, Merryweather, some other shadow group, someone with a grudge... it didn't matter who. Everyone burned out eventually.
And yet, here they were.
And that meant one thing. Lincoln Jones was back.
Maximo tapped the window with his knuckle, gesturing at the symbol on the jet's tail, then flicking two fingers toward Elvira. This NightHawk?
She didn't even look at him.
Elvira: Donnie... You know I can't reveal info about clients. This was 'donated' for the mission by the client. They also booked the hit.
Maximo exhaled slowly, rolling his neck. He already knew. The last time he worked with NightHawk had been a disaster. Some high-level job that required breaking into Bolingbroke Penitentiary and killing a snitch, working alongside that hardass, Miklos Lipton.
Irony was a bitch. Two weeks later, he was locked up in the same place for two months. Spending Christmas and New Years in a cell.
Maximo had assumed they were done. Buried. He hadn't heard from Lincoln, NightHawk, or any of the old faces since. Now, suddenly, they were back? And they wanted him to be their sword again.
Their Knight as Lincoln called him, which sent shivers up his spine just remembering his grating voice.
That wasn't a coincidence.
Heron, sitting in the backseat, let out a low whistle as he finally looked up from his phone, catching sight of the plane.
Heron: Well, I'll be damned. He's still kicking.
Maximo turned slightly, giving him a sideways glance.
Wayne used to work for them. Not at any high level, but he had been a supplier, one of the guys who found the things they needed. Never in deep, but deep enough to act like he was the shit. Deep enough to still wear their unofficial uniform, the blinding white suit and midnight black undershirt.
He was loyal to whoever paid best.
Maximo raised a brow, flicking two fingers in Wayne's direction. You surprised?
Heron: I mean, yeah. Last I heard, the whole operation disappeared. I figured Lincoln either went underground or got put in a hole.
Maximo just exhaled through his nose. Guess not.
Elvira: Whatever you're thinking, keep it to yourself. We took the job. We're flying out. End of story.
Maximo didn't have a problem. Not really. But he also never liked working for Lincoln Jones. He had taken plenty of contracts from him in the past, and sure, he paid absurdly well, always in full, no delays, no excuses. But the man himself?
Creeped Maximo the hell out.
It wasn't just the trillionaire status, or the fact that he always wore white. It was something uncanny about him. He looked young, maybe 30 at most. But he spoke like an old man. His voice carried that weight, that slow, deliberate measure of someone who had seen decades pass. His skin was soft, untouched, no scars, no signs of age. It wasn't natural. Maximo always figured he'd had surgery or something, some kind of high-end, billion-dollar age reversal.
Rich people shit.
He had only met him twice. Two different locations. Two different cities. And both times, Lincoln had smiled that calm, eerie smile, silver eyes studying him like he already knew every thought in his head. Everything that he had done and would do. Creepy.
Maximo didn't trust him. But he worked for NightHawk. Hell, Mr. Green was a NightHawk agent himself. His whole hitman operation, "Save Golden Company", the one Maximo worked for, was just a branch of their greater machine.
And Lincoln Jones was at the top of it all.
Part 3: Ghost in the Sky
January 6, 2014 | 11:31 AM | Buckingham Luxor, Los Santos International Airport
As they climbed the stairs into the jet, Maximo was met with pure opulence. The interior was lined with white-colored leather, polished marble, and a fully stocked minibar. If someone told him they were about to assassinate a billionaire, he wouldn't have guessed they were flying in the same kind of luxury.
Only one man loved white this much.
The Luxor hummed through the sky, cutting through thick clouds like a silent predator. The world below blurred into a stretch of endless coastline, distant cities, and forgotten roads. No pilots. No stewardess. No names. Just three killers in the belly of a ghost operation.
Maximo leaned back, cigar smoldering between his fingers, watching Heron swipe through his phone. He had been at it since takeoff, flicking through old contacts, burner numbers, dead leads. Every call went to voicemail. Every message unanswered.
Elvira, seated across from them, was already irritated.
Elvira: Wayne, if they didn't answer the first five times, they're not answering now.
Wayne didn't even glance up, still scrolling.
Heron: Maybe they're just busy? Or maybe they're avoiding me 'cause they know I'm stuck working with you two.
Maximo smirked around his cigar, taking a slow inhale, while Elvira rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath.
Elvira: I swear, you're like a dog scratching at the door, waiting for its owner to come back. Newsflash, Wayne. NightHawk isn't-
She stopped mid-sentence, jaw clenching. Too late.
Wayne's head snapped up, his expression shifting from lazy amusement to sharp focus.
Heron: Oh, so it is NightHawk!
Elvira scowled, visibly annoyed at herself for slipping. Maximo, meanwhile, just flicked his ash into the tray, tilting his head slightly. He had already known. But hearing her say it out loud? That made it real.
Elvira: It doesn't matter who the client is.
Heron: Bullshit. It matters.
Wayne sat up, suddenly more invested, his fingers tapping against his phone screen. His bright white suit almost blended with the plane's pristine interior, like he was still trying to fit into a world that had left him behind.
Heron: If NightHawk's back, why the hell aren't they answering me? I got history with them. I made shit happen.
Elvira scoffed, reaching for a bottle of champagne and pouring herself a drink.
Elvira: Yeah, you made shit happen. You ran errands. You got them cars, guns, tech, whatever they needed, but you were never deep in their operations. You were just a guy who could get things. That's it.
Wayne raised a brow, pretending to look offended.
Heron: Damn, El. Why you gotta say it like that? I mattered!
Maximo exhaled a slow curl of smoke, gesturing lazily with two fingers to his ear. Then why aren't they calling you back?
Wayne hesitated, twirling the stem of his champagne glass between his fingers. The realization settled. If NightHawk was back, and they weren't reaching out to any of their old hands, that meant one thing...
They had moved on.
Elvira leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharper now.
Elvira: You wanna keep calling, be my guest. But understand this. We're just doing a job. That's it. We don't ask questions, we don't dig, and we sure as hell don't start calling people who aren't supposed to exist anymore.
Wayne let out a small chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back again.
Heron: Man... all this time I thought they were gone. But no, they just left us behind.
Maximo tapped his cigar once, flicking more ash into the tray. Not all of us. He had always known Mr. Green was still connected. But now? Now it was clear... Lincoln Jones never left. He had just gone quiet. Waiting. Moving pieces on the board.
The real question was... why now?
Heron gave up, and was already making himself at home, popping the cork on a new bottle of champagne and kicking his feet up on one of the seats. His blinding white suit blended in to the decor, the midnight black dress shirt underneath open just enough to show a gold chain. He shrugged off his coat, draping it over the chair beside him before taking a sip straight from the bottle.
Heron: Ahhh... Now this... this is how you fly.
Maximo smirked, tossing his own jacket over the seat across from him before lowering himself into a chair. He tapped his cigar over an ashtray built into the armrest. Lincoln knew how to treat his assassins... or more accurately, pawns.
Elvira took a seat across from Maximo, propping her elbow on the armrest and rubbing her temples.
Elvira: Just so we're clear, I had to fight to get this thing. We're lucky to even be on it.
Heron: Not sure 'lucky' is the word I'd use when we're working for a ghost.
Elvira: A ghost that pays very well.
Heron: Oh yeah? How much?
Elvira: More than we have ever been offered.
Maximo flicked his cigar, then made a small motion with his fingers. No pilots? No stewardess?
Elvira nodded.
Elvira: Nope. Plane pulled out the second we stepped on. Client's orders. Whoever's flying this thing? We ain't supposed to meet 'em.
Maximo exhaled slowly. He didn't like flying blind. But the job was set, the target was waiting, and the client had already paid. This wasn't just a hit. It was something bigger. A power play? A corporate coup?
Heron: Jones is back, can't believe it... Always knew he was immortal.
Elvira didn't confirm or deny. She just grabbed the bottle of champagne again, pouring herself another glass before leaning back.
Elvira: Does it matter? We got a job. That's all that matters.
Maximo wasn't so sure about that. Lincoln Jones never did anything without a bigger reason behind it. If he was back, if NightHawk was back, that meant something big was moving. Some kind of gambit.
Wayne swirled his champagne, staring out the window as the plane lifted off the runway.
Heron: An hour to San Fierro, huh? Guess we better get comfortable.
Maximo just smirked, taking another slow drag of his cigar. Whatever came next? They were already in the air.
No turning back now.
Part 4: Saint Iron
January 6, 2014 | 1:10 PM | Easter Bay International Airport, San Fierro
The landing was smooth. Too smooth. Maximo had flown enough to know when a pilot was good, and when a plane moved like a ghost on the wind. This was the latter. The Luxor touched down without a jolt, without a single bump, as if it had been set down by invisible hands on a lush duvet.
The cabin was silent for a moment. Then, with a soft hiss, the door at the front of the jet opened on its own.
Elvira raised an eyebrow but said nothing, grabbing her bag as she stood. Wayne let out a low whistle.
Heron: Man, I gotta get me a plane that does that.
Maximo just pulled on his bomber jacket, adjusting his holsters as he stepped out behind them. The San Fierro air was cooler than Los Santos, a slight chill in the wind as they descended onto the private tarmac. The airport was quiet, too quiet.
And waiting for them? A blinding white Benefactor Schafter.
Maximo didn't need to ask. Of course it was white. Creepy old man was obsessed with that color.
The keys were already placed on the front wheel, waiting. No driver. No escorts. Another piece perfectly placed.
As they pulled out of the private terminal, every gate, every door, every checkpoint opened before them, silent, smooth, automatic. The security guards didn't even look their way. Some of them deliberately turned away, acting like they saw nothing.
Wayne laughed from the backseat as he stretched out, still dressed in his white suit.
Heron: Man, I forgot how much I missed working with real professionals. This is how it should be, no hassle, no questions, just straight business.
Elvira: We're still on a job, Wayne. Try not to act like a goddamn tourist.
Wayne didn't seem to hear her. His phone was already out, camera open, snapping pictures like he was on vacation.
Elvira had meticulously planned the route. No backtracking, no unnecessary stops. Straight through South San Fierro, into the city proper, weaving through Spruce Heights, into the Z District, and Little Sakura. She was focused, efficient, no distractions.
Maximo, meanwhile, barely registered the city passing by. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the view, San Fierro had a different kind of beauty than Los Santos. The skyscrapers weren't as loud, the streets weren't as suffocating. But he didn't get emotionally attached to places. He never had. He just took in the scenery as part of the ride.
Wayne, on the other hand, was a different story.
Heron: Yo, slow down, slow down! That street's got some dope murals! Let's pull over for a sec-
Elvira: No.
Heron: Come on, just real quick-
Elvira: We are not stopping to take goddamn tourist photos, Wayne.
Heron: Tch. No fun.
He still kept snapping pictures through the window, every skyline, every landmark. Maximo smirked faintly, taking a slow inhale of his cigar as the city stretched out around them.
Eventually, they passed the San Fierro National Cemetery, rows of white tombstones lined up in perfect military precision. But that wasn't where they were headed. That was for soldiers.
They kept driving, eventually crossing the Gant Bridge, the iconic red suspension towering over them as the car moved without hesitation.
Maximo barely paid attention to the bridge itself. But he did appreciate the view, the endless expanse of blue stretching beyond the city, the water beneath them calm yet ever-moving. It was one of those rare places where the world actually seemed... quiet.
Wayne was still taking pictures.
Heron: Man, we should've done this job sooner. This place is nice.
Elvira: Are you done?
Wayne grinned, leaning back.
Heron: Never.
They pulled off the highway, heading into Gant City. The buildings became less dense, the trees lining the hills growing thicker, greener. By the time they reached Treebark Cemetery, the roads were nearly empty. It was a quiet place, isolated, peaceful.
They had made it in just under 30 minutes. Perfect timing.
Elvira parked the Schafter under a stretch of shade, killing the engine. For the first time since landing, she let herself exhale.
Elvira: Alright. We're here. Funeral's at 3. That gives us time to get settled, check the layout, and wait for the guest of honor to arrive.
Maximo stretched his arms, then rolled his shoulders, shaking off the stiffness of the ride. This part was always the calm before the storm. The time between arrival and action, where things either went perfectly according to plan... or fell apart.
Heron: You know, we should actually enjoy this downtime for once. We're at a scenic location, no one's shooting at us, and we got hours to kill.
Elvira: Wayne, if you even think about hiking, I swear to god-
Maximo just smirked, puffing on his cigar.
The sun hung high over the cemetery, casting long shadows across the quiet landscape. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and damp stone, the silence broken only by the occasional distant hum of passing cars. The place was peaceful... too peaceful for what they were about to do.
Maximo watched as Elvira popped the trunk, revealing a Remington MSR sniper rifle, sleek and modern, its blinding white paint job almost painful to look at. And of course, right there on the stock, that damn hawk symbol.
Elvira got to work assembling the rifle, her hands moving with precision. But even she had a little trouble with it, gritting her teeth as she fitted the washers. Behind her, Wayne leaned against the car, arms crossed, smirking.
Heron: You sure you got that right, El? Looks like you're struggling a bit.
She shot him a sharp glare but said nothing, finishing the assembly with a final, defiant click of the suppressor.
Elvira: There. Ready.
Maximo just took a slow pull of his cigar, watching as Elvira reached into the trunk again, this time pulling out a sleek garment bag. She turned to him, holding it up like a gift.
Elvira: Client specifically requested you wear this.
Maximo unzipped the bag, immediately scowling at what he saw, a striking white suit coat and vest, a pitch-black undershirt, and a sharp white skinny tie. The NightHawk uniform. They had tried to push this damn thing on him before, but he never played their game. And he wasn't about to start now.
Without hesitation, he took only the black undershirt, tossing the rest of the suit back into the trunk.
Elvira: You could at least pretend to follow instructions for once.
Maximo ignored her, shrugging off his bomber jacket before unbuttoning his blood-red dress shirt and replacing it with the black one. It was a funeral, after all.
Wayne, on the other hand, had no such reservations. He eagerly unzipped his own garment bag like a kid on Christmas, revealing a suit identical to the one he was already wearing, except brand-new.
Heron: Well, damn. Look at that. Fresh threads. You should try it on Dalton!
He grinned, slipping the new suit on like it was made for him. In a way, it was. Wayne had never been deep in NightHawk's ranks, but he had worn their uniform proudly. Maximo just shook his head, exhaling a slow stream of smoke.
Such a good little slave.
Elvira ignored the exchange, moving to the next phase of the plan. She tapped the sniper rifle, looking directly at Maximo.
Elvira: Alright. Here's how this goes. Donnie, you're our eyes on the ground. Once you spot Cameron Doyle, signal me with a touch to your ear.
She glanced toward the cemetery, mapping out her angles in her head.
Elvira: I'll be set up with the sniper, covering you. When the shooting starts, Wayne will be running support with this.
She opened another military-grade weapons case, revealing a SIG MPX, compact, internally suppressed, and deadly. Blinding white, of course.
Heron: Now we're talking.
He picked up the gun, inspecting it with a grin, already checking the weight. Unlike Maximo, Wayne liked the toys NightHawk gave him.
Elvira: One last thing. The contract insists Cameron is taken out at point-blank range. No exceptions.
Maximo gave a slow nod, understanding the weight of those words. This wasn't just about killing him. It was about sending a message.
Elvira checked her watch.
Elvira: Ten minutes. We get into position now.
Maximo took one last pull from his cigar before flicking the stub away into the dirt.
It was time.
Part 5: The Red Funeral
January 6, 2014 | 2:55 PM | Treebark Cemetery, San Fierro
The funeral was a grand affair, the kind reserved for old money and power. Rows of expensive luxury cars lined the gravel paths, and the air was thick with the perfume of the elite. This wasn't just about grief, this was about appearances.
Marcus Doyle may have died like a fool, but his father would bury him like a king.
Maximo walked through the cemetery with silent purpose, blending effortlessly into the crowd. His black undershirt, tucked neatly into dark slacks, was funeral-appropriate but lacked the bright white theatrics of NightHawk's uniform. He wasn't here to impress. He was here to finish the job.
The casket sat at the center of the gathering, a pristine mahogany box, polished to a shine under the San Fierro sun. Cameron Doyle stood at the front, flanked by his people, the grieving tycoon, silver-haired and dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, his expression cold and unreadable.
He wasn't mourning. He was calculating.
But more importantly, he wasn't alone. Six bodyguards, dressed in sharp charcoal suits, stood positioned around him, two beside him, two near the hearse, two in the crowd. These weren't hired rent-a-cops. They moved like professionals, hands close to their jackets, scanning the area constantly. Cameron wasn't just rich, he was protected.
Maximo had seen men like him before. Men who built empires on the backs of the weak. Men who surrounded themselves with power and steel, thinking it would save them. Reminded him of Lincoln. But money doesn't stop bullets.
He touched his ear, turning on his earpiece.
Elvira: I see him Donnie, hard to miss. Looks like he brought a small army too, as expected.
High above, perched on a hill overlooking the scene, Elvira adjusted her scope, the MSR nestled against her shoulder. Through her crosshairs, she could see everything, the guards, the high-profile guests, the way Cameron stood with perfect confidence, as if nothing could touch him.
Heron crackled over the earpiece.
Heron: Tell me when to start shooting, El.
Elvira: You don't start shooting until Donnie makes his move.
Heron: Oh, I know. I just like to hear you say it in that lovely voice.
Maximo walked toward the casket, hands tucked in his pockets, posture relaxed. His mind was already running calculations, positioning, cover, exit routes. A job like this was art and chaos all at once. Then, like clockwork, the priest began his eulogy.
He was an older man, draped in traditional black robes, his voice carrying the weight of a well-practiced sermon. His hands were folded neatly over the Bible, flipping through its pages with reverence, though his eyes betrayed a knowing tiredness. He had seen too many of these services.
Priest: "Marcus Doyle was taken from us too soon. The Lord, in His infinite wisdom, has called him home before his time, and we are left to grieve."
A soft murmur of agreement, sniffles from the crowd.
Priest: "Do not be overly wicked, and do not be a fool. Why should you die before your time? It is not for us to question God's plan. It is not for us to wonder why some are taken before others. We can only pray that Marcus has found peace in His embrace."
Maximo barely listened. His hands twitched slightly, the weight of the two revolvers in his shoulder holsters hidden under his large arms comforting.
Priest: "As we lay him to rest, we must reflect upon the burden of this life. Many of us carry struggles unseen, demons that whisper to us in our darkest moments. Though we may not always understand why one chooses to leave this world... we must not judge, but only offer our prayers."
There it was. The quiet implication. Suicide.
A convenient lie.
Marcus Doyle hadn't jumped from that window. He had been hurled from it, flailing, screaming, his body shattering against a supercar. A message. A punishment. And yet, here they were, spinning it into something digestible. Something that didn't demand investigation.
He could do this clean. Or he could do this loud. Either way...
Cameron Doyle was going to meet his son in the afterlife.
Maximo stepped closer. A few feet behind Doyle. He could smell the man's aftershave from here. Cameron was ignoring the eulogy, instead whispering to one of his bodyguards.
Priest: "Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower and is cut down; he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not. Life is fleeting, fragile. None of us know the hour of our final breath. But we do know this!"
Maximo moved.
His hands shot under his armpits, yanking out his revolvers, the 686s gleaming in the sunlight, and in one smooth motion, pressed the barrels against Cameron Doyle's back.
Priest: "In the end, we all stand before God, equal in judgment."
The moment froze.
Priest: "No wealth, no power, no name shall spare us from His reckoning!"
BANG-BANG.
Cameron Doyle staggered forward, the bullets ripping through his body. His eyes went wide, mouth open in a soundless gasp. He collapsed to his knees, blood soaking through his expensive suit.
The priest faltered, his voice catching in his throat as the crowd erupted into chaos.
Elvira: Now, shoot!
Heron: Yes ma'am!
Then? Hell broke loose.
The first guard barely had time to draw before Maximo pivoted, raising his revolvers.
BANG-BANG.
The guard's head snapped back, splitting in two, body hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Elvira's sniper cracked from above, a precise shot slamming into the second guard's chest, sending him tumbling backward through a headstone.
Wayne burst from behind a tombstone, the SIG in his hands, spraying silent suppressive fire.
Family members screamed, scattering. Women and children ran, their sobs lost in the explosion of gunfire. Maximo ducked as bullets ripped past him, firing back in return, his twin revolvers barking in rapid succession.
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG.
A symphony of violence as henchman keeled over.
The guards had nowhere to go, caught in the open. One lunged for cover behind the hearse but Maximo slid low, coming up from the other side. A quick pivot, double barrel flash-
BANG-BANG.
The guard's chest caved in, and he crumpled against the side of the vehicle, spluttering.
Elvira's rifle cracked again. Another guard dropped, his head whipping back in a spray of crimson all over the casket. Wayne barely hit anything, but at least he drew fire.
Maximo turned back to Cameron Doyle.
The old man was still alive, barely. On his knees, gasping, blood pooling beneath him. His hands trembled as he tried to speak... to beg, or curse.
Maximo didn't let him. He leveled both revolvers.
BANG-BANG.
Cameron Doyle's body jerked back on his knees like a spring, a bullet slamming into both eyes. The end of an empire, written in red.
Gravity did the rest. He pitched backward, landing back-first on the top of his son's casket. The polished mahogany wood groaned under his weight, the mechanical lowering system snapping with a metallic shriek.
For a brief, morbid second, the casket froze. Then, with a heavy, final lurch, the casket and its unwilling passenger plummeted down together, father and son, six feet deep.
Maximo exhaled through his nose, standing at the edge of the grave. He lifted one of his revolvers, tilting the barrel slightly as he flicked the spent casings out, the empty brass clattering down into the pit below.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
The second revolver followed.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
Twelve shots and not a single miss.
With a smooth, natural rhythm, he pulled out quick-release reload chambers, slipping them into his revolvers with an effortless click. A well-practiced, surgical motion, second nature to him now. With a flick of his wrists, the cylinders spun back into place. He was ready to go again.
Not that he needed to. There was no one left to kill.
He twirled both revolvers backward, the polished steel flashing in the afternoon sun. The cylinders spun once, twice, before he effortlessly flipped them forward, the movements smooth, controlled, a killer's muscle memory.
Then, without breaking stride, he crossed arms and slid them back into his underarm holsters, the leather straps tightening as if the guns had never left their place.
From behind him, Wayne let out a laugh, shaking his head as he jogged up.
Heron: Show-off. C'mon lets go!
Just as he finished, Elvira skidded into the clearing in the white Schafter. Wayne was already hauling ass back to the car, laughing between giddy, adrenaline-fueled breaths.
Elvira yanked open the passenger door. Her aviators were still on, but even through the tint, her stare was sharp.
Elvira: Hurry the fuck up, Donnie!
Maximo didn't hurry.
He took his time as he slid into the seat with the same calm he had when he arrived. The moment his door shut, Elvira slammed the gas pedal, the tires shrieking as they ripped out of the cemetery.
Wayne threw himself into the backseat, still buzzing.
Heron: That was some real cinematic shit! Straight outta a movie! Man, NightHawk's gotta pay extra for that performance-
Maximo wasn't listening.
He reached into his cigar pocket, tucked under his left holster, pulling out his last cigar. Shit. He'd need to restock. Not exactly the biggest problem right now, but it still annoyed him. He bit the tip off, flicking his flip lighter open with a snap, and took a slow mouthful.
Wayne was celebrating. Elvira was already calculating their next move. But for Maximo? The job was done.
He cranked the electrical seat back into a recline, watching the city blur past them, the cemetery fading into nothing but memory, puffing away.
Behind them? Screams, sirens, and a dead billionaire.
Cameron Doyle was dead. And Lincoln's message had been delivered.
Part 6: Home Free
January 6, 2014 | 3:10 PM | Gant Bridge, San Fierro
The white Schafter tore through the highway, weaving smoothly past slower cars as the Gant Bridge loomed ahead. The towering red structure framed the setting sun, the waters below calm, the skyline of San Fierro growing in the distance.
Inside the car, the adrenaline was still fresh.
Wayne was buzzing, his white suit still crisp despite the chaos they had just caused. He leaned forward from the back seat, tapping the headrest of Maximo's seat.
Heron: Alright, hear me out. We just pulled off the hit of the century, yeah? So I'm thinking... one drink. Just one. Misty's. It's famous, man, classic Fiero dive bar. You ever been, Dalton?
Maximo, exhaling a slow stream of cigar smoke, thought about it for a second. Then he tilted his fingers toward his lips, signaling for a drink Yeah, he liked that idea.
Of course, the one person who actually had control of the vehicle had other plans.
Elvira: Oh, no. Absolutely not.
Wayne threw up his hands in protest.
Heron: Come on, El! We just dropped the richest man in San Fierro six feet under. One drink. Just one!
Elvira: We also just painted a giant target on our backs, idiot. We need to be at Easter Bay International by 5 if we want to be off the ground before every cop in this city starts hunting us down.
Maximo pouted slightly, rolling his eyes as he leaned back into his seat. Wayne, on the other hand, was not done negotiating.
Heron: Okay, but hear me out... its only 3pm! What if the best place to be when they start looking for us is in a bar? Huh? Think about it. Nobody expects the assassins to be doing tequila shots right after a job!
Elvira's grip tightened on the wheel.
Elvira: I swear to God, if either of you say another word about stopping, I will drive this car, off this bridge, and kill us all.
Both men groaned like children denied candy. Maximo took another drag from his cigar, shaking his head, while Wayne slumped back into his seat, arms crossed.
The Schafter cruised across the Gant Bridge, the city skyline stretching before them, the water below glittering in the afternoon light. The world moved fast around them, but inside the car, the conversation had slowed to memory.
Wayne leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, eyes locked on the city beyond the bridge. His voice was half-nostalgic, half-bitter.
Heron: Man, this crew used to be fun.
Elvira sighed loudly, gripping the wheel tighter.
Elvira: Oh, here we go.
Maximo just puffed smoke through his last cigar, watching the city blur past. He already knew what Wayne was about to say. He had heard it a hundred times before.
Heron: Back before you showed up, El, things were different. It was just me, Dalton, Green... and Callander.
At the mention of the name, the air in the car grew heavier. Callander. The old crew's missing piece.
Heron: Man, we used to pull a job, clean up, and head straight to Tequi-la-la. Didn't matter if it was noon, midnight, or whenever, we'd drink, laugh, celebrate. Green always bought the first round. Callander always started the toasts. "To another job done. Another day survived." Every single time.
Maximo nodded once, slowly. It was true. Callander had always been the one to raise his glass first. He had been the kind of guy who knew how to turn a gritty profession into a good time.
Elvira: And remind me, Wayne. How exactly did Callander's career end?
Wayne's smirk faltered slightly. He turned his gaze back out the window.
Maximo didn't need reminding. Callander had died on the job, gunned down mid-contract. A job that should have been easy, but a few beers beforehand made him complacent. A job that had gone wrong because they were sloppy. Because they got too comfortable.
And Callander had paid for it.
Heron: That was different. That was a bad day.
Elvira: That was a day after a bender.
Wayne let out a slow breath, shaking his head. He didn't disagree. But it still stung.
Heron: All I'm saying is... this crew ain't what it used to be. We had fun back then. You came in and turned this into a fucking corporate office.
Elvira: And yet, somehow, we're richer than ever, and none of us are dead in a parking lot.
Heron: Yeah, yeah. But we could at least have one drink. One. For old times' sake.
Wayne shot a look toward Maximo, who took a slow drag from his cigar. Then, with a casual flick of his fingers, he signaled for a drink.
Elvira shot him a sharp glare through her sunglasses.
Elvira: Don't you start.
Maximo flicked his spent cigar out the window, rolling his shoulders. Wayne was right about one thing, though. The old days were gone.
The Schafter rolled smoothly into the private terminal, right back where they had landed just a few hours ago. The security gates slid open before them, guards purposefully looking the other way as they passed. It was like they had never left.
And waiting for them, right where they left it? The same blinding white Buckingham Luxor.
Heron: Hah! They didn't even move it.
Elvira didn't even slow the car down fully before she barked out an order.
Elvira: Go. Now. We are wheels-up in five.
Wayne and Maximo didn't need to be told twice. They hopped out, Heron hurrying up the steps into the jet as Elvira locked the car and followed behind. The moment they stepped inside, the Luxor's doors shut behind them automatically.
No pilot to greet them. No stewardess. The plane immediately began taxiing toward the runway.
Heron: Man, NightHawk's got some next-level service.
Wayne ignored the seatbelt sign and started raiding the minibar. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, tossing one toward Maximo, who caught it effortlessly.
Heron: Fine, if we can't drink in San Fierro, we're drinking in the sky! To Cameron Doyle! Rich bastard had a funeral that turned into his own grave. And to Cal, may he look up at us from hell!
Maximo clinked his glass against Wayne's, downing the drink in a single gulp. The whiskey burned just right.
Elvira, sitting across from them, stared in utter disbelief.
Elvira: You two are unbelievable.
Heron: What? This is how professionals celebrate!
Elvira rubbed her temple, sighing. She opened up her checkbook and started writing. Maximo just smirked, pouring himself another drink. The job was done. The message had been sent. And now?
Now, he was going home to Los Santos.
The next mission, Red Rain, is now unlocked.
Objectives
- Travel to San Fierro.
- Cruise to Treebark Cemetery
- Equip the provided attire (Optional).
- Locate Cameron Doyle.
- Execute Cameron Doyle at point-blank range.
- Eliminate his six bodyguards.
- Escape the cemetery and return to Los Santos.
Gold Medal Objectives
- Not a Slave - Don't wear the full NightHawk suit.
- Judgment Day - Kill Cameron Doyle as the priest recites his final sermon.
- Buried Legacy - Father and Son reunited in the grave.
- High Noon - Use only 12 shots with 100% accuracy.
- Professional Exit - Escape the cemetery without taking damage.
Rewards
Contract Payout Breakdown
| Total Earnings | $4,000,000 | |
|---|---|---|
| Name | Cut (%) | Payout ($) |
| Maximo | 25% | $1,000,000 |
| Elvira | 25% | $1,000,000 |
| Heron | 25% | $1,000,000 |
| Mr. Green | 24% | $960,000 |
| Hunter | 1% | $40,000 |
Money
| Category | Amount |
|---|---|
| Starting Cash | $200,000 |
| Doyle Hit Earnings | +$1,000,000 |
| Mini-Bar Raid | -$2,000 |
| Cohiba Behike 56s Cuban Cigars | -$4,000 |
| Total Balance | $1,194,000 |
Aftermath
Weazel News
Bryan Wilkinson, Weazel News. Just a day after the shocking death of Marcus Doyle in what authorities are still calling an "unfortunate accident" or "possible suicide," tragedy has struck the Doyle family once again! This time at the historic Treebark Cemetery just outside Gant City, San Fierro.
That's right, Bryan. Sheila Hall, also Weazel News. Cameron Doyle, billionaire industrialist, corporate power player, and father of the late Marcus Doyle, was gunned down at his own son's funeral, along with six of his personal bodyguards in what can only be described as a high-caliber send-off.
Eyewitnesses at the scene describe the attack as "sudden, brutal, and cool," as up to three assailants infiltrated the funeral ceremony and opened fire, leaving behind a pile of bodies and a lot of unanswered questions.
And the real kicker? In a twist so poetic it could have been scripted, Cameron Doyle collapsed onto his son's casket, his weight snapping the lowering mechanisms, sending both father and son tumbling six feet under, together.
A billionaire burial! Authorities arrived at the scene only to find chaos, shell casings, and a very expensive coffin pre-packed for two. Initial forensic reports confirm multiple gunshot wounds, including what experts call "an excessive number" to the late Mr. Doyle's head and chest, likely ensuring there would be no miraculous recovery.
And while officials scramble for leads, one thing is certain, the killers remain completely unidentified. No security footage, no known suspects, no viable leads. With such precise execution and seamless getaway, authorities are suggesting the hit was professional, because let's be honest, Bryan, this doesn't exactly scream "random mugging."
Cameron Doyle had a lot of enemies, both in business and beyond, but so far, no one has stepped forward to claim responsibility. Could it be a corporate power grab? A vendetta from his long list of wronged associates? Or perhaps just another case of San Fierro's economy handling wealth redistribution the old-fashioned way?
The San Fierro Police Department is urging the public to come forward with any information, though considering the level of precision, firepower, and overall efficiency of this hit, we at Weazel News expect about as many leads as a Perseus discount sale.
We'll keep you updated as the story develops. Until then, if you're a billionaire with a lotta enemies, maybe avoid public gatherings for a while!
Good advice, Bryan. Stay safe, America!
Weazel News, confirming your prejudices.
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