When Richard woke up, he saw a rusty metal ceiling.
He was lying on a cot, covered with a filthy blanket.
His left shoulder was wrapped in gauze like a mummy, and his calf was also bandaged.
The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant, engine oil, and pizza.
“You’re awake.” Lester’s voice came from the side.
He was sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee, the reflection on his glasses hiding his expression.
“Where is this?”
“My warehouse.
Hospitals in Los Santos would call the cops, and I don’t trust black-market doctors, so I took the bullet out myself.” Lester took a sip of coffee.
“You’re lucky; the bullet went through the shoulder blade and didn’t hit an artery.
The one in your calf is just a flesh wound.”
Richard slowly sat up.
A jolt of pain shot through his left shoulder, but it was much better than before.
He checked the system panel:
HP: 42/100 (Recovering)
Status: Gunshot wound (Left shoulder), light injury (Left calf).
Movement speed -30%, Shooting accuracy -50%.
Estimated recovery time: 7 days.
Seven days.
“Where are the others?” Richard asked.
“Franklin and Lamar are sleeping in the next room.
Michael went back—said he had ‘family business’ to handle, but my guess is he went to get a drink.” Lester pointed to a bag of jewelry on the table.
“The loot.
Rough estimate is one point eight million.
After paying the driver, the gunman, Boomer Dan, and me, the three of you get about a million.”
Richard whistled, then winced as the movement agitated his wound.
“You almost died, and all for a million?” Lester asked.
The door opened and Franklin walked in.
Seeing Richard sitting up, he paused for a moment, then walked over quickly and punched Richard’s uninjured right shoulder.
“Ow!” Richard cried out.
“Serves you right.
I told you, who asked you to stay behind?”
“I didn’t stay behind; it’s just that the guard’s aim was terrible.
He was supposed to hit Michael.”
“Bullshit.” Franklin rarely swore, then he smiled.
That smile held relief, gratitude, and a lingering trace of fear.
Lamar also burst in, holding a plastic bag.
“I bought you porridge!
Richard porridge!
I had to check three shops to find it.
Some Vietnamese guy’s restaurant was pretending to be Richard, and I gave him a piece of my mind—”
“Lamar, thank you,” Richard interrupted.
Lamar froze for a second, then his eyes went red.
“Oh!
Don’t get all serious on me all of a sudden, I can’t take it.”
Michael didn’t show up until evening.
When he pushed the door open, he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, his tie was loose, and there were wine stains on his shirt.
He stood by Richard’s bed, silent for a long time.
Finally, he said, “I owe you.”
“You owe Lester.
He’s the one who took the bullet out.”
Lester rolled his eyes in the corner.
Michael pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and placed it by Richard’s bed.
“This is the address of one of my safe houses.
It’s at the foot of Vinewood Hills.
It’s not big, but it’s better than that Blue Hill Apartments place of yours.
Move in once you’re healed.”
Richard picked up the paper; it had an address and a key code written on it.
“Thanks,” Richard said.
Michael nodded and turned to leave.
At the door, he stopped, and without looking back, said only one thing: “If you get shot again, I’m leaving you behind.”
“You would,” Richard said with a smile.
Michael left.
Lester turned to look at Richard.
“Would he really leave you behind?”
“No.” Richard lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“He’s just talking tough.”
That night, Richard slept soundly and didn’t dream.
The system popped up a notification at two in the morning that he didn’t see:
[Michael De Santa Favorability +45 (Current: 80)]
[Franklin Clinton Favorability +10 (Current: 95)]
[Lamar Davis Favorability +20 (Current: 80)]
[Team Skill Upgrade: [Life and Death Friends] — When any member’s HP is below 30%, other members gain +20% Movement Speed and +30% Shooting Accuracy.]
Hidden Plot Triggered: [Echoes of the Desert] — Someone on the borders of Los Santos has heard a name: Trevor Philips.