Sample Test is the 36th mission in Grand Theft Auto: King of The Hill.
It is the 2nd mission given to Miklos Lipton by Lincoln Jones.
It's the 6th mission in Chapter IV: Manage the Expectations.
Plot
Vinewood Hills
Miklos drove in silence, the only sounds being the low rumble of the Caracara's engine and the labored breathing of Seth Shillis curled up from the backseat. The air was thick with the stench of blood, gunpowder, and sweat. As the truck barreled down the windy roads of Vinwood Hills, Miklos' mind raced.
Where the hell could he take Seth?
His Alta apartment? No. Lincoln had hacked his goddamn TV. Bringing Seth there would be like hand-delivering him to Lincoln's doorstep. Hand him off to someone else? Tederev? The Armenians? The Triads? Victor? No. He couldn't trust anyone with this yet... A new hideout? Maybe. But he needed somewhere familiar, somewhere nobody was watching. Somewhere no one expected...
That left only one option...
A run-down, shitty dump that he, Thomas, and Jenni once called home before they moved to Alta Tower. Dilapidated walls, a busted heater, cockroach-infested cabinets, rat-lived-in furniture, and a lingering smell of mold.
It was perfect.
Miklos' hand instinctively went to his phone, but he hesitated. Lincoln was probably listening. Watching. Tracking him. Instead, he pulled the battery out, wrapped it tight in his gaiter, and shoved it into the glovebox. He wasn't taking chances.
The Caracara pulled into Strawberry and slid into a roof covered carpool, its headlights flickering off as Miklos threw it in park. The place was exactly as he remembered it... shitty, ruined, and forgotten. Miklos stepped out, reaching under a pile of trash near the stairwell, digging through old takeout boxes and broken glass before finding a rusty key.
Miklos: We're here. Move.
Seth groaned, rolling over in the backseat, still wrapping his mangled hand in the bloodstained fabric of his ruined shirt. His heart-patterned briefs didn't do him any favors as his hairy beer belly wobbled every step. He looked like shit. Miklos grabbed him by the arm, yanking him out of the truck.
Seth: Jesus, Lipton, you could be a little gentler.
Miklos gave him a look.
Miklos: You're lucky I didn't feed you to the fire. Move, before someone sees.
He pushed Seth toward the stairwell, leading him to the second-floor unit, where the door creaked open to the same, miserable hellhole of a 'safehouse'. It smelled like dust and black mold, a sharp contrast to the burning wreck Miklos had just left behind. The walls had peeling paint. The roof slumped. A rat skittered into a hole in the corner. The couch was covered in dust.
Home sweet home.
Miklos shoved Seth onto the couch, where the old frame creaked under his weight.
Miklos: Start talking.
The couch heaved under Seth's weight as he groaned, still clutching his mangled hand, the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt wrapped tightly around the stump where his fingers used to be. Miklos didn't offer him any sympathy. Instead, he pulled out his Ka-Bar, flipped it in his hand, and pointed the bloody blade at the pile of files Seth had dragged from the safe and into his briefs.
Seth exhaled, leaning back against the couch as his good hand pulled them out and dumped them on what was left of a collapsed coffee table. He was still shaking, his face pale from blood loss, but his mouth curved into something between a smirk and a grimace.
Seth: Alright, you wanna know the truth? Can you handle the truth?
He reached into the pile, pulling out a faded, grainy photograph, the edges curled and yellowed from time. It showed a group of U.S. G.I.s, soldiers in Vietnam it seemed, clad in fatigues stained with sweat and dirt, their M16s slung casually over their shoulders.
They looked like the stereotype of American grunts, ripped shirts showing their arms, oversized helmets, ammo bandoliers draped over their shoulders, cigarettes dangling from their lips, and dog tags shining against their chests. Some smirked, others had the thousand-yard stare. In the middle of the group, barely distinguishable through the grain and the haze of history, stood a young soldier. Even through the blur, Miklos knew exactly who it was. Smiling like he owned the jungle.
Miklos' breath hitched. He had seen that smirk before, just an hour ago, sitting behind a marble desk at the top of Lombank.
Seth: Back then, he was just another soldier. A kid in the meat grinder. But some people? They don't just survive war. They thrive in it.
The next few photos were worse. Bodies in the mud, villagers lined up against huts, the aftermath of napalm strikes blackening the treeline, naked children crying, villages burning behind them. And yet, in each one, Lincoln was there. Always in frame, always untouched, always smirking.
Seth: The unit he was part of? Hardcore killers and motherfuckers. The kind that made the term "baby killer" a cold, hard reality. Their only rule was kill or be killed.
The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as Miklos stared at another photograph Seth held up. A newer image, maybe in the 80s or 90s, but the image was clear enough. White-clad soldiers, standing with military precision. Among them, centered like a king on his throne, stood a man, his youthful smirk frozen in time.
Seth: The grunts had no official name. They called themselves "NightHawk." They weren't the best-trained, not like the Green Berets or MACV-SOG, but they didn't need to be. They fought dirty, mean, ruthlessly, and without law. They butchered entire villages if they even thought Viet Cong was hiding there. They tortured for sport. They burned everything they couldn't take. They had no illusions about being heroes.
Miklos narrowed his eyes, taking the picture from Seth's trembling hands. The soldiers in the photo weren't just well-trained and well equipped. They looked efficient, methodical, lethal.
Seth: And Lincoln? He was the worst of them. The war made him. It carved out everything human and left... whatever the fuck he is now. One of the reports here, a small village near the Cambodian border. NightHawk were dropped in to see if there were any Viet Cong. Instead, they lined up every man, woman, and child. When command radioed in asking for a report, the reply was simple. "All hostiles eliminated."
Miklos looked over the report. Lincoln's name was at the bottom of that report.
Miklos: Crissakes...
Seth exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
Seth: That was just the beginning. After the war, they started taking missions outside the Army's jurisdiction. They stopped being soldiers and became something else. The IAA pulled them into black ops work, deep cover, interrogation, sabotage, and assassination. Lincoln had a talent for it. The kind of cold-blooded efficiency you don't just learn. You're born with.
Seth shuffled through the files, pulling out another document, this one stamped CLASSIFIED. The ink had smudged slightly from the heat of the fire, but the words were still legible, handing it to Miklos.
Seth: After Vietnam, he vanished. No record of discharge, no record of retirement, no record of death. Like he never existed. But he didn't vanish. He had gone from a fresh recruit to a perfect killer, handpicked by the IAA for missions that didn't exist, in wars that weren't acknowledged.
The files told the story, each stamped with different government seals. Latin America, the Middle East, Africa. Lincoln had worked for them all. In Operation Condor, Lincoln and his crew helped orchestrate the assassination of political dissidents in Chile, Argentina, and Brazil. Entire families disappeared overnight, their names erased from existence.
During the Soviet-Afghan War, he trained Mujahideen fighters to kill Soviets, only to sell them out to the Russians when the price was right. During the Iran-Contra affair, files say he helped arm both sides. Training death squads in El Salvador. Watching entire villages burn just to keep the war going.
By the 90s, Lincoln had enough blood on his hands to drown the fucking world, and yet, every photograph, every file, there was something similar.
He barely aged.
Miklos picked up another one, coffee stained. By the early 2000s, Lincoln had founded his own army. Mercs trained in the same brutal tactics he had perfected over decades of covert warfare. He called them NightHawk Strike Forces, or the NSF, with no oversight, no morals, and no allegiances.
Miklos: Who do they answer to? This NightHawk? The IAA?
Seth exhaled through his nose, his expression darkening.
Seth: Lincoln Jones. No one else. Not even the goddamn government. He just stopped working for the U.S. and started working for himself.
Miklos sat back against the counter, feeling the weight of the situation settle over him. Lincoln wasn't just some powerful crime lord. He wasn't just another ruthless businessman. This motherfucker was running his own shadow army.
Seth: By the time 9/11 happened, he had already embedded NightHawk into the U.S. war machine. Hell, I bet if you check enough of these files or USBs, NightHawk were involved somehow. Every conflict since then? Yemen, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria? NightHawk has been there, making billions off war.
Miklos swallowed hard, his stomach twisting. He had fought in the War on Terror himself. Killed and had friends killed, like his best friend, Tony Meech. He had pulled the trigger on enemies that he called terrorists. And yet, the real terrorists had been the ones paying his checks, providing the bullets... manipulating him right now.
Miklos: So now, he's just... here? In Los Santos, playing corporate kingpin?
Seth: He's not just playing. He owns this city. You just didn't know it.
Miklos: And where does Merryweather fit into this?
Seth hesitated, then reached for another file. This one was thinner, but the contents were just as damning.
Seth: Merryweather and NightHawk? They're working together. Don and Lincoln have been in bed with each other for years. It's all about money. Don Percy supplies the muscle, Lincoln supplies the contracts. You think Merryweather is just a private security company? They're a global war machine, testing weapons and shit. Dirty bomb ops in the Middle East, assassinations in South America. Half the 'terror threats' you hear about on Weazel News? They orchestrate them just to justify their own damn existence.
And all along, they were running false flag operations, treating entire countries like chessboards, manufacturing conflicts just so they could sell the solution.
Miklos: And why the hell are you in Witness Protection with the FIB?
Miklos asked, his voice edged with suspicion. Seth let out a dry, pained laugh.
Seth: Because I found out what Lincoln's planning next and wanted to stop it.
He pulled out one last document. It was brand-new, but the pages were creased and covered in notes, as if it had been passed through multiple hands. The words at the top read:
PROJECT: KINGMAKER
Miklos flipped through the pages, his pulse pounding in his ears. The goal wasn't just corporate espionage. This was something bigger.
Seth: They're going to bomb the Maze Bank Tower.
Miklos felt his breath slow.
Seth: The entire fucking building in a controlled demo, freefall. Blame it on Chinese insurgents. Say it's a terrorist attack. Wipe out Lincoln's biggest competitor and make it look like a tragic act of war.
Maze Bank was the only real competitor to Lombank. Taking it out would leave Lincoln and his empire untouchable. Miklos had been expecting corruption, sure. Maze Bank is the largest skyscraper in Los Santos, the backbone of the city's financial empire. Taking it out wouldn't just cripple the economy, it would throw the entire global banking system into chaos and kill thousands.
He had seen bad people do bad things for money, and he had done some himself. But this? This was something else entirely. This wasn't just corporate warfare. This was a power move on a scale beyond anything he had imagined. This was true terror.
Miklos: How the hell did you even get all this?
Seth exhaled, looking down at his mangled hand, flexing what was left of his fingers. His voice was distant, like he was recalling a nightmare that still didn't feel real.
Seth: Because I was one of them. I worked for NightHawk. I wasn't just Merryweather-I was one of Lincoln's guys. An inside operative. A cleaner. When shit needed to disappear, I made it disappear. When people needed to be silenced, I silenced them.
Miklos' grip tightened around the edge of the table. He wasn't sure why it pissed him off so much. Maybe because Seth was the same as him, another pawn in Lincoln's chess set. Another weapon that didn't get a say in where it was pointed. But what Seth said next made his stomach twist.
Seth: I was given a job by Lincoln. A simple one. Find a rat, put him down. Some NightHawk-FIB spook who had been leaking files, black budgets, unregistered ops. The usual shit. I didn't ask questions. Me and my boys just did the job.
Miklos: And then what? You grew a conscience?
Seth: Nah, hell no.
Seth coughed, leaning forward, shaking his head.
Seth: After I put a bullet in the guy's head, cut his hands and feet off, the usual. I did a routine sweep. Cleared out his safe, his laptop, the usual clean-up. But there was a safe he had hidden behind a fucking painting like some spy movie. Normally, I wouldn't even bother. Just torch and bomb the place, make sure no loose ends. But something made me look. And that's when I found all this.
He tapped the pile of files and drives on the table, his good finger resting on Project Kingmaker.
Seth: At first, I didn't believe it. A full-scale demolition of Maze Bank Tower, set up to look like an international terrorist attack. They were going to blame it on China with staged comms, planted evidence, entire dossiers written up on 'suspects' that didn't even exist. A war-level psy-op.
Miklos' mouth went dry. A false flag operation on American soil.
Miklos: And what was the endgame?
Seth laughed bitterly, shaking his head.
Seth: You already know. The world turns to war, and NightHawk cashes in. Trillions in government contracts. A complete shift in power. They'd use the war to push through their own experimental shit. Martial law, weapons, biochems, AI-driven warzones. Every nightmare scenario you can think of? They've had it planned for years.
Miklos ran a hand over his face. The weight of it all was suffocating.
Seth: Hell, its called Kingmaker because Lincoln plans to come out of this looking like the second coming of J.F. Christ.
Somehow his life had been woven into this madness. He had fought their wars, pulled their triggers. And all of it, every single second, had been just another calculated move on their chessboard.
And Lincoln? That smug bastard in his ivory tower, laughing from above while the rest of the world burned.
Miklos: You were offering this to the FIB for amnesty, weren't you?
Seth: Yeah. It was my ticket out before you sent it up in smoke. "Witness Protection" until they could capture Lincoln and NightHawk. But they never did. They kept putting it off, pushing me further down the list. They were either too scared, incompentent, or they were on the fuckin' payroll too.
Miklos stayed quiet, his mind spinning. The FIB wasn't just hesitant to go after Lincoln... they weren't going to. He had his fingers in everything. The banks, the military, the goddamn government.
This wasn't a war between criminals. This was a war against a shadow empire. And He was stuck right in the middle.
Seth: Look, I know you hate me. And I don't blame you. But I'm telling you, I owe you for this. I don't have anywhere else to go. But if we're taking down Lincoln Jones, you're gonna need me.
It was a hell of a thing, watching a man who had once tormented him in Merryweather now sitting there broken, humiliated, missing fingers, and begging for a second chance. Miklos didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, staring at the files spread across the collapsed coffee table, the dim bulb above them flickering in and out of existence.
Finally, Seth spoke again. His voice was softer this time.
Seth: You saved me. You didn't have to, but you did.
Miklos: Shut up.
Seth smirked, despite the pain.
Seth: I'm serious. I know I gave you hell back in Merryweather. And you knocked me out once. Hell of a punch, by the way, but I owe you one. So whatever you need, I'm in. You wouldn't have saved me if you worked for NightHawk, he has something on you doesn't he?
Miklos exhaled, rubbing his temples. This was insane. He didn't trust Seth. Not completely. But he hated Lincoln Jones even more. He grabbed the Kingmaker files, flipping through it one last time before closing it with a heavy thud.
Miklos: He has my loved ones in danger for now. One day, I'll kill him.
Seth grinned, leaning back.
Seth: Good. 'Cause that motherfucker's got it coming.
Miklos wasn't sure how or when, but one thing was certain. Lincoln Jones might have been pulling the strings now...
But Miklos wasn't going to be a puppet forever... Or so he hoped.
Miklos' Caracara
Miklos stepped out of the run-down Strawberry safehouse, the muffled screams of Seth echoing from inside as the man pressed his mangled, fingerless hand to the red-hot stove. The scent of burning flesh hit Miklos' nose, but he didn't flinch. It was a crude way to cauterize the wound, but Seth was on his own now. There were bigger things to worry about.
Sliding into his sleek black Caracara, Miklos fired up the engine and peeled off into the streets of Los Santos, the weight of everything sinking in. His hands gripped the wheel so tight his fingers ached. Knowledge of a looming terrorist attack that could start World War III. Being forced to work for a man who had shaped history from the shadows, or else his loved ones would be killed.
And now? He was already keeping secrets from Lincoln Jones, the most powerful man in America, saving Seth, faking his death.
He drove in silence for a while, the city rolling past him in a blur. Then, taking a deep breath, he reached for his phone in the glovebox. The battery was still out. He hesitated, then slid it back in and powered it on. It barely took a minute before the screen lit up with an incoming call.
Lincoln Jones.
Miklos exhaled sharply through his nose and answered.
Lincoln: Miklos Armando Lipton, splendid work in Vinewood. Very efficient.
Lincoln's voice was smooth, chipper, with that same old-timey lilt like he was a radio host from a different century. But there was an edge to it now, something colder beneath the surface.
Lincoln: But I must say my boy... I don't particularly like it when I don't know where my pawns are. You see, I don't enjoy surprises, Mister Lipton. I prefer order.
Miklos didn't say a word, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
Lincoln: And so, as punishment, I'd like to give you a little... test.
Miklos' gut clenched, words escaping through grinding teeth.
Miklos: What kind of test?
There was a pause.
A slow.
Deliberate.
Deafening silence.
And then...
Lincoln: In ten minutes, a bomb will detonate in the Alta Street Tower, reducing that post-modern, art-deco eyesore to a lovely pile of ashes.
Miklos' heart stopped. His foot pressed hard on the gas pedal.
Lincoln: Ah, but here's where things get interesting. You see, it's nearly 9 AM. Rush hour. The city is alive, bustling with its little worker ants scurrying to their menial jobs, grabbing their coffees, living their tiny, insignificant lives. And among them, well... I imagine you already know.
Miklos' jaw clenched. His voice came out in a low growl.
Miklos: Thomas and Jenni.
Lincoln chuckled... a slow, amused exhale.
Lincoln: That's a bingo, my boy.
Miklos nearly crushed his phone in his fist.
Lincoln: Oh, and before you think of warning them. Don't. I'm watching them right now. Safe and snug in your little "safehouse". If you try to warn them, I'll detonate it immediately. Keep on truckin' Mister Lipton.
Miklos barely heard the rest. His mind was already in pure survival mode. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal, the Caracara's engine crying out, tires screeching against the asphalt.
The truck roared through the city like a rampaging bull, barreling through intersections, sideswiping pedestrians and taxis, clipping street poles and crashing through fencing. Miklos' once-pristine Caracara was getting wrecked, but none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting home in time.
He tore through a parking lot, smashing through the exit gate without stopping. A hipster on his fixie went barreling under the 4x4, resembling a horror creature than a human on the otherside. He didn't care. His vision had tunneled... one target, one goal. GET HOME.
The truck's bull bar slammed into a Mini Cooper, sending it crushing underneath his tires, flattening its roof and squashing the poor soul driving it as Miklos launched over top, his suspension bouncing as the truck hit the ground hard and skidded onto another street. He cut across traffic, metal scraping against metal as he sideswiped a Cinquemila sedan, sending it crashing into a fire hydrant.
He was two minutes away.
The intersection ahead was gridlocked, but Miklos didn't slow down. He frantically jumped the curb, tires ripping up pavement as he tore through the sidewalk, nearly plowing through a crowd of horrified citizens who dived for safety.
Alta Tower Safehouse
Finally, Alta Tower came into view.
Miklos' tires screeched, sending the Caracara skidding sideways as he launched up the curb, crashing through the building's parking entrance. He barely shifted gears before jumping out mid-roll, sprinting for the elevator.
His breath was ragged, his pulse pounding in his ears. He slammed the button for Apartment 58's floor over and over and over, watching the glacial pace of the doors closing.
Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up!
The elevator felt like it took a lifetime. One minute wasted. The moment the doors pinged open, Miklos tore down the hallway, sprinting to his door, running so fast he shoulder barged through a maid and her cart of towels.
And then he saw it.
A box.
White colored, lace-wrapped like a gift. Large enough to hold with both hands.
Dread pooled in his stomach. He dropped to his knees, tearing the box open with his Ka-Bar. Inside, nestled in velvet lining, was a machine unlike anything he had ever seen. An intricate, futuristic bomb. Sleek, metallic, almost alien in design.
Strange wires and circuitry snaked around electronics Miklos didn't even recognize, the digital display glowing an ominous red. Rapidly dropping numbers. The countdown read 06:20 and decreasing. Miklos' chest rose and fell heavily. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears.
Six minutes.
Oh, shit.
Miklos stood there, staring at the nightmare device in front of him, his breath still ragged, sweat dripping from his forehead and mixing with the dust and grime on his skin. His heart hammered so hard against his ribs it felt like it might crack them open. In front of him, just a door away, Jenni and Thomas were going about their morning like nothing was wrong. Thomas probably slouched on the couch, half-watching Weazel News, while Jenni hummed in the kitchen, making coffee.
They had no idea.
His first instinct was to warn them, scream at them, grab them, tell them to run. But Lincoln's words echoed in his head like a slow-turning drill.
Lincoln: If you try to warn them, I'll detonate it immediately.
Miklos clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack. He couldn't even pull out his phone. Couldn't risk one single move that could tip Lincoln off.
He turned his attention back to the box, his mind racing. Could he defuse it? He had dealt with IEDs in Afghanistan before, defusing them in the back alleys of Kabul, where one wrong snip would turn a street into a crater. This fucking thing? This was on an entirely different level. This wasn't some haphazard roadside bomb, it looked alien. Almost sleek, compact, yet intricate, too perfect in its design.
He hesitated. If he touched the wrong thing, would it just... go off? The digital display ticked down.
5:00.
He had to move. Now.
Miklos crouched, gripping the edges of the box. It looked heavy, but he figured he could lift it. It didn't budge. His arms burned instantly, muscles screaming in protest. It was way heavier than it looked.
How the fuck did they even get this up here?
It must've taken two, maybe four guys. Miklos gritted his teeth, adjusted his stance, planted his boots against the floor, and heaved. Every tendon in his arms strained. His back screamed. His triceps felt like they were being ripped from the bone. The weight of the bomb crushed down on him like a lead coffin.
But he got it up. Barely. Bent double, knock-kneed, stumbling like a drunk, he took one agonizing step toward the elevator, then another, feeling every strained fiber in his body protest with searing agony. The weight was unreal, but he couldn't put it down, not now, not when every second lost was a second closer to death. The ticking drilled into his skull. Every ten seconds a dagger to his sanity.
4:00.
He stumbled through the hallway, barely able to breathe, fighting the urge to drop it and collapse. When the elevator doors slid open, he nearly threw himself inside, ramming the garage floor button.
3:30.
The descent felt like a lifetime, each tick of the clock a heartbeat closer to hell. Miklos could hear his own pulse in his ears, his vision blurring with adrenaline.
3:00.
The doors slid open, and he lurched forward, staggering toward his Caracara. His entire body protested in agony, but he didn't stop, he couldn't. He placed the bomb carefully in the truck bed, praying the shocks wouldn't jostle it the wrong way. He barely got into the driver's seat before he floored it. The Caracara's tires screeched, kicking up dust as he tore out of the parking garage onto Alta Street.
Showtime
2:30.
He didn't know where to go. Everywhere felt wrong. The city was too packed, too many people. Every street was choked with cars, pedestrians, traffic lights. If he dumped it here, thousands would die. His mind raced as fast as the truck, speeding through the city like a demon unleashed.
WHERE. WHERE!?
2:00.
A red light loomed ahead, no time to stop. He plowed through the intersection, clipping an Enus Diamond, sending it spinning into a traffic light. The Caracara barely felt it. Miklos didn't care. His world was a blur of speed, near-misses, and the ticking death sentence behind him.
1:30.
Little Seoul was gridlocked. No way through. He swerved onto Palomino Avenue, straight into oncoming traffic. A Patriot veered off, crashing into an electrical box, sending sparks showering into the street. He didn't slow down. A biker on a Dinka Thrust turned into his path too late.
THUMP.
One went over, one went under. The Caracara bounced like a speed bump, but Miklos didn't have time to think about it.
1:00.
A Dashound bus loomed in the next lane, no choice. He sideslammed into it, using the impact to keep his momentum as the bus veered into a bus stop, smashing through benches.
The end of the road kissed the sand of Vespucci Beach. Perfect.
0:30.
Miklos didn't slow down, he launched onto the sand, plowing through plastic chairs and sunshades, scattering beachgoers like startled pigeons.
0:20.
The sea was in front of him now. His only shot. He floored the pedal, sending the Caracara directly for it. The bomb was too heavy to throw out and he had no time left. At the last second, he bailed.
0:10.
He rolled, sand kicking up around him as the Caracara sailed forward, gliding over the water. For a second, it almost looked peaceful. A maiden voyage. Then it sank.
Miklos covered his ears. And for a moment, nothing happened. His pulse pounded. Had he-
KRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!
A detonation unlike anything he'd ever seen erupted from the sea, a shockwave blasting through the air, sending a tsunami of water and sand roaring onto the beach. It felt like a nuke had gone off or a monster breaching the ocean.
The entire ocean seemed to lift covering the sun, a wall of water cascading over everything, swallowing lifeguard shacks, flipping jet skis, sending beachgoers screaming and running for their lives. The sand rippled from the impact, shaking buildings and stores along the Vespucci shore.
Miklos was covered in salt water, his chest rising and falling, his body numb. Covered in sand and seaweed. He had done it. Barely. His hands were shaking as he pulled himself up, watching as the last of the waves crashed back down. His Caracara gone.
Lincoln Jones... had just played his first hand.
And Miklos had barely survived it.
Escape
Miklos staggered to his feet, sand clinging to his soaked clothes, saltwater dripping from his hair, his ears still ringing from the force of the explosion. He coughed, his lungs burning, his mind racing. The city was waking up, sirens in the distance, helicopters already beginning to circle overhead. He had minutes, maybe seconds, before the cops locked down Vespucci.
He sprinted across the sand, his boots sinking into the soft ground as he hauled himself toward the road, dodging terrified beachgoers who were still scrambling away from the cratered sea. The street ahead was already alive with honking cars and people shouting, everyone craning their necks to see what the hell had just happened.
Then he saw it, his getaway.
A sleek baby-blue Ocelot F620, the two-door grand tourer idling at the curb, its driver, a man in an equally baby-blue tracksuit, gawking toward the beach in confusion. Miklos didn't slow down. He ripped his Desert Eagle from his jacket, aimed it squarely at the driver's head, and stepped into the street.
Miklos: Out. Now.
The man threw up his hands, panic flashing across his face as he pleaded.
Blue Tracksuit Guy: Brother-brother, you don't have to do this, man! Please-
Miklos blasted a warning shot into the air. That was enough. The man wailed like a dying animal, throwing himself out of the car with a high-pitched yelp as if he somehow got shot, sprinting down the street, waving his arms.
Miklos slammed the door shut, yanked the shifter into reverse, and peeled out. He turned hard and through the Vespucci Canals streets, tires screaming as his rear fishtailed. In his rearview mirror, he saw the first LSPD cruisers pulling up to the scene, their lights flashing red and blue in the rising sun.
Shit. They were fast.
A second later, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. Miklos instinctively reached for it, barely keeping the wheel steady with his other hand. He knew he couldn't ignore it. He hit ANSWER.
Lincoln: Ahh, Miklos Armando Lipton... still alive and well, I see.
Miklos grit his teeth, barely dodging a pickup truck as he weaved through the late morning traffic.
Lincoln: I must say, that was quite the spectacle. I saw the water rise from my apartment. I imagine the beach will be closed for quite some time.
Miklos whipped the wheel left, barely squeezing past a garbage truck as he hit full speed down the boulevard and around Calais Ave. Behind him, sirens screamed, the LSPD already on his tail.
Miklos: If you've got something to say, say it.
Lincoln: You are very good. Efficient. Clever. I like that.
Miklos gritted his teeth, swerving hard onto Innocence Boulevard, clipping the corner of a sidewalk trash can and sending it flying. He needed to lose these cops. Fast.
Lincoln: Come back to the Lombank immediately.
Lincoln's voice remained eerily calm, as if this was all routine.
Lincoln: Well... after you lose your tails, that is. Wouldn't want you bringing unwanted guests, now would we?
Miklos didn't answer. He just hung up, slammed the gas pedal down, and focused on the only thing that mattered. Getting the hell out of this mess. The police were gaining.
Miklos growled under his breath and downshifted hard, sending the F620 into a sharp fishtail before gripping the road again. He flew past a red light at 160 mph, nearly clipping a white Schafter that blared its horn violently in protest.
The throaty roar of Interceptor engines filled the air, closing fast. Two cruisers, maybe three, plus a chopper somewhere overhead.
He could see the reflection of red and blue flashing lights bouncing off the pavement. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror, two squad cars hot on his tail, another one trying to box him in from the left. A third siren, faint but growing louder, signaled the arrival of a fourth unit. The chopper blades thrummed overhead, the floodlight sweeping across the streets, desperately searching for him.
Miklos spotted his chance.
Ahead, a narrow alleyway split between two old industrial buildings. It was tight. Too tight.
He ripped the wheel, cutting between an old Burrito van and a parked Futo, barely squeezing through. Sparks skittered off the passenger side as he clipped a dumpster, but he forced the Ocelot through. The moment he cleared it, he yanked the e-brake, sending the car into a controlled slide.
Behind him, the two pursuing cruisers had no such luck. The first one tried to turn too late and slammed into the wall, sending concrete exploding onto the pavement. The second tried to stop but was rear-ended by the third, sending them both into a pileup of twisted steel and shattered headlights.
Miklos gunned it forward, speeding deeper into the cramped alleyways of West Vinewood. The chopper was still there, its spotlight slashing through the streets, but Miklos kept his head low, using the maze-like pathways to his advantage. He spotted a narrow gap between two buildings, a tight squeeze, but doable.
He aimed for it, flooring the gas. The Ocelot lurched forward, its wheels screeching, and-
CRRRSHHHHHHHHH!
The side mirrors ripped off, scraping both walls, but the car popped out onto a side street like a bullet leaving a barrel. He spotted an open construction site, half-abandoned, a few rusty cranes nearby. With one last hard turn, he whipped the car into the lot, skidding to a stop behind a row of pipework.
Without hesitation, he threw open the door and bolted, his boots thudding against the concrete. The Ocelot was history. Miklos scaled a chain-link fence, ignoring the barbed wire slicing his pants, and dropped onto a deserted street. He darted into a side alley, adjusting his cap and keeping his head low.
The sirens were still blaring somewhere in the distance, but they were fading. The chopper had lost him in the maze of buildings. He kept walking, forcing himself to breathe slow, to blend in, grabbing his phone and scrolling aimlessly on the Weather app. After a few agonizing minutes, the police presence began to thin out. They lost him.
He had escaped. For a second, he exhaled, resting against the wall of a dingy liquor store. Then the realization hit him.
His Caracara was gone.
It wasn't just wrecked... it was at the bottom of the goddamn ocean. A burning, twisted chunk of tiny pieces of metal that Mors Mutual Insurance would never cover. He loved that fucking truck, keeping it flawless, clean, untouched... and now it was a saltwater graveyard. Miklos dragged his hands down his face.
Fucking Lincoln Jones.
He didn't have time to sulk. He had bigger problems. He needed a new ride. He needed answers.
And Lincoln was waiting.
The next mission, Manhunt, is now unlocked.
Objectives
- Go to the Strawberry Safehouse.
- Interrogate Seth Shillis
- Get to Alta Street Tower fast!
- Find the bomb!
- Take the bomb to the Caracara 4x4.
- Escape before the timer hits zero!
- Reach Vespucci Beach and drive into the ocean.
- Escape the explosion and survive.
- Lose the Police.
Gold Medal Objectives
- Speed Demon - Reach Alta Street Tower in under 2 minutes.
- Fastest Speed - Reach a top speed of 120 mph.
- Collateral Damage - Hit at least five vehicles.
- Close Cut - Escape with less than 10 seconds left on the timer.
Rewards
- No Reward
Aftermath
Weazel News
Bryan Wilkinson, Weazel News. Breaking news from Vespucci Beach, where what can only be described as absolute mayhem unfolded this morning. In a scene straight out of a Vinewood action flick, an unidentified driver in a large, black 4x4 truck turned the streets of Los Santos into a warzone, causing widespread destruction before setting off an explosion so massive it rocked the entire coastline.
Authorities say the chaos began just minutes before 9 AM when security footage captured a reckless driver in a black truck barreling through multiple red lights, clipping an Enus Diamond and sending it spinning into a traffic light, before slamming into a Dashhound bus and turning a Dinka Thrust motorcyclist into a very unfortunate speed bump.
Witnesses report the truck was moving at dangerously high speeds, leaving a trail of destruction from Strawberry to Alta to Little Seoul, plowing through intersections, sidewalks, and even pedestrians in its wake.
Sheila Hall, also Weazel News. It gets even crazier, Bryan. After what officials are now calling a 'coordinated act of domestic terrorism,' the suspect didn't stop! They went straight through Vespucci Beach, scattering terrified beachgoers before launching their truck into the ocean.
Moments later, an unbelievably large explosion erupted beneath the waves, sending a tidal shockwave across the shoreline, flipping boats, washing out entire lifeguard stations, and causing millions in property damage.
Authorities are scrambling to make sense of the incident, with LSPD officials stating that they have no leads on the suspect at this time, only grainy security footage showing a black truck smashing through traffic at high speeds.
Bryan Wilkinson. A terrorist attack? A rogue operative? Or just another day in Los Santos? We'll keep you updated as more details emerge. Until then, stay safe, stay vigilant, and maybe avoid the beach for a while.
Sheila Hall. Good advice, Bryan. And maybe invest in truck-proof insurance. This is Los Santos, after all.
Weazel News, confirming your prejudices
Bleeter Posts
@WeazelNews - "BREAKING: A high-speed rampage across LS this morning ended in an ocean explosion that rocked the coastline. Authorities suspect terrorism but have no leads, only grainy footage of a black truck causing chaos. More at 6pm."
@SueMurry - "The city of Los Santos condemns the reckless destruction caused this morning. We are working closely with law enforcement to identify the suspect and ensure public safety. If you have information, contact LSPD immediately."
@SteveHainesFIB - "Before you weirdo conspiracy nuts start, NO, the government did NOT bomb the beach. Some jackass with a truck did. We will find them, and they will regret it."
@footlong freddie - "To the absolute psycopath who T-boned my Enus and left me spining into a fkin traffic light! ur paying for it AND my chiropactor!"
@evagolliday - "Ever just chill at Vespucci Beach, getting your morning tan, when a nuclear-level explosion drenches you in saltwater and debris? I think I saw a boat fly past the pier. Wtf just happened?!? #TerroristAttack"
@Karen4Justice - "ARE WE JUST GONNA IGNORE THE FACT THAT SOMEONE DROVE A TRUCK THROUGH THE CITY AND THEN BLEW UP THE OCEAN?! WAKE UP, SHEEPLE! #FalseFlag #FIBCoverup"
@LosSantosCustoms - "We fix everything... but whatever happened to that truck this morning? Yeah, that's a hard no. Try the scrapyard, buddy."
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