The next night, Trevor drove his rusty, beat-up truck to The Lost MC clubhouse.
It was a hideout converted from a disused warehouse.
Over twenty motorcycles were parked outside, and the deafening sounds of heavy metal music and clinking bottles came from within.
Everyone looked at him as Trevor pushed the door open.
Johnny Klebitz sat at one end of a long table, surrounded by a few close associates.
His expression changed when he saw Trevor.
“Trevor, what are you doing here?
Our business is settled.”
“Settled?” Trevor walked slowly over, tapping the beer bottles along the way, making a clinking sound.
“Then what were you doing in Los Santos yesterday?
Who did you see?”
Johnny’s eyes darted away.
“None of your business.”
“None of my business?” Trevor stopped in front of Johnny, smiling down at him from his height.
“You know what I hate most in my life?
I hate people keeping things from me.
Especially things about Michael Townley!”
Johnny abruptly stood up, his chair tipping over backward.
His men rose too, some reaching for the guns at their backs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Trevor.
Michael Townley is dead.
Died nine years ago.”
“Is that so?
Then what was that FBI file I saw last night, written by a ghost?” Trevor pulled a printed sheet from his pocket and slammed it on the table.
It showed Michael De Santa’s driver’s license photo, complete with address, phone number, and family details.
Johnny glanced down, his pupils contracting.
“You fucking knew!!” Trevor’s voice began to tremble—not with fear, but with rage.
“You knew he wasn’t dead.
You went to Los Santos to find him, didn’t you?”
Johnny was silent for three seconds, then sighed.
“Yes.
Someone told me he was in Los Santos.
But I didn’t find him, I swear—”
“You swear?
Hahahahaha!!” Trevor laughed, a sound that made everyone’s hair stand on end.
“If your swearing meant anything, I’d be President of the United States by now.”
He drew a large Hunting knife from the small of his back, its blade gleaming coldly under the lights.
Johnny’s men pulled their guns, but Trevor was faster—he stabbed the knife into Johnny’s abdomen and gave it a vicious twist.
“Gah!
You psycho!” Johnny screamed, collapsing to his knees, blood streaming down the knife handle.
“Anyone shoots, I’ll cut off Johnny’s head and shove it down his own throat!” Trevor scanned the room, his eyes bloodshot.
No one moved.
The Lost MC members had seen Trevor go crazy before, but never to this extent.
Trevor pulled out the knife.
Johnny collapsed into a pool of blood, convulsing.
Trevor crouched down, grabbed Johnny’s hair, and lifted his face.
“Any last words?”
“Go…
go fuck yourself…” Johnny spat out a mouthful of bloody foam.
Trevor nodded and brought the knife down…
Women in the club screamed and ran.
A few MC members tried to rush forward but were stopped by a single glare from Trevor.
“Who else wants to die?!” Trevor held up Johnny’s head, shaking it at everyone.
“I’m in a bad mood tonight, don’t make me kill more!!”
No one spoke.
Trevor threw Johnny’s head onto the table, wiped his knife on his own vest, then turned and walked out of the clubhouse.
The night air outside was cold.
He took a deep breath, feeling the fire inside him not extinguished, but burning even fiercer.
“One,” he muttered to himself.
“One more to go.”
His next target was the O’Neil brothers—a pair dealing in meth, also his competitors in the Desert.
They had always wanted to take over Trevor’s drug routes.
Trevor had ignored them before, but tonight he needed to vent.
At 2 a.m., Trevor drove to the O’Neil brothers’ farm.
The brothers ran out of the burning building, one shirtless, the other in his underwear.
“Trevor!
Are you insane?!” the older brother, Elwood, shouted.
“I’m not insane!
I’m just taking out the trash!” Trevor aimed a shotgun and blasted Elwood’s knee.
The younger brother, Willy, turned to run but was shot in the back, collapsing to the ground.
“You wanted to steal my business, and you helped Johnny look for Michael?
Who the fuck gave you the nerve?!” Trevor walked up to Elwood, pressing the gun barrel against his forehead.
“We didn’t help Johnny!
We don’t know any Michael!”
“Then you deserve to die even more, you clowns!
Daring to operate in the Desert knowing nothing?”
A gunshot.
Elwood fell beside his brother.
Standing in the firelight, looking at the two corpses, Trevor suddenly felt empty.
Killing hadn’t made him feel any better.
He was still furious, still wanted to scream, still wanted to find Michael, grab him by the throat, and ask him why.
He pulled out his phone and called Ron.
“Ron, find me the best route to Michael’s place.
From the Desert, the fastest way, what time to leave to avoid traffic!”
“You’re going to Los Santos?”
“Yeah.
I’m going to visit an old friend.”
“Trevor…
are you sure?
Los Santos has a lot of cops.”
“Cops?” Trevor laughed.
“Let them come.
I’ll take them out too!”
He hung up, jumped into his truck, and drove off into the Desert night.
Johnny’s head was in the backseat—he’d forgotten to throw it out, but couldn’t be bothered to stop now.
After all, he’d need a ‘greeting gift’ when he got to Los Santos.