Trevor Philips was lying on a broken sofa outside his trailer, his head resting on the thigh of a blonde woman.
That woman was Ashley, the girlfriend of The Lost MC leader, Johnny Klebitz.
However, Johnny wasn’t there right now, and Trevor was using a straw to divide the powder on the table into three lines.
“You know, Ashley,” Trevor snorted a line and tilted his head back, his nose burning, “you’re way more interesting than that wimp Johnny.”
Ashley giggled and stroked Trevor’s stubble.
“Johnny went to Los Santos tonight to talk business.
Said he was meeting some ‘investor’.”
“Los Santos?” Trevor’s brow furrowed for a moment, then smoothed out.
“That city is full of monkeys in suits.
I hate monkeys.”
He was about to snort the second line when his phone rang.
It was his subordinate and ‘technical consultant’ Ron—a skinny guy with thick glasses who talked like a machine gun.
“Trevor!
Trevor!
You’ll never guess what I found out!” Ron’s voice trembled with excitement.
“Did you fucking win the lottery?”
“Better than winning the lottery!
Remember that thing in North Yankton nine years ago?
Your partner Michael Townley?”
Trevor sat up straight, Ashley’s hand slipping from his shoulder.
His eyes suddenly turned as sharp as a rattlesnake’s in the Desert.
“I remember.
He’s dead.”
“No!
“I was recently hacking into the FBI database looking for business leads, and I accidentally stumbled upon a witness protection program file.
Michael Townley, alias Michael De Santa, living on Tower Street in Rockford Hills, Los Santos!
Alive!
With a wife and kids!
He’s even been on TV!”
Trevor fell silent.
Ashley sensed the shift in the atmosphere and cautiously asked, “Trevor…?”
Trevor didn’t answer.
He stood up, walked into the trailer, and opened an old metal cabinet.
Inside was a neatly folded leather jacket—a birthday gift Michael had given him nine years ago.
He had never thrown it away, taking it out once a year, each time telling himself, ‘He’s dead, let it go.’
Now someone was telling him Michael wasn’t dead and was living like a respectable man.
Trevor took out the leather jacket and smelled it.
The scent of leather was still there, but faint.
“Ron,” his voice was terrifyingly calm, “send Michael’s address to my phone.”
“Sent!
Also his wife’s, daughter’s, and son’s social media accounts!
His son’s a loser, his daughter wants to be a star, his wife is with a yoga instructor—”
“ENOUGH!!
You have one hour!
Send me the files!
Otherwise, you’re my dinner tonight!!!”
It was a bit tight—he’d gained twenty pounds in nine years—but he still buttoned it up.
Ashley stood at the door, her face pale.
“Trevor, you look terrifying.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve always been terrifying.” Trevor walked up to her, looking down.
“Tell Johnny I’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“To ask him why he went to Los Santos.” Trevor grinned, a smile like a beast baring its fangs.
“Maybe he went to see Michael.
Maybe he knows something I don’t.
Either way, I need to have a chat with him.”
Ashley took two steps back, turned, and ran.
Trevor didn’t chase her.
He returned to the sofa, snorted the remaining two lines of powder in one go, and then looked up at the Desert stars.
“Michael,” he muttered to himself, “you owe me an explanation.
If the explanation isn’t good enough, I’ll take your life.”
The night wind blew, making the flag beside the trailer flap loudly.
The flag bore a skull and two crossed swords, with a line of text below: [Philips Brothers Enterprises—We do everything.]
For nine years, Trevor had been in the ‘we do everything’ business.
Drug dealing, robbery, arms trafficking, kidnapping, extortion…
He’d become the most feared lunatic in the Blaine County Desert.
But there had always been a void in his heart, a void shaped exactly like Michael Townley.
Now the void was filled—not with flesh, but with the fuse of a bomb.