Trevor didn’t go back to the Desert.
He checked into a motel in the Los Santos Industrial Zone, room 207, with a window facing an abandoned gas station.
The motel owner was an Indian man, who took cash and asked no questions.
Trevor buried Johnny’s head in the empty lot behind the gas station, then showered for three hours until the water heater broke.
For the next three days, he did something that surprised everyone—nothing at all.
He didn’t look for Michael, didn’t bother Michael’s family, and didn’t even cause trouble in Los Santos.
He slept during the day, went out for burgers at night, and picked up a gossip magazine at the convenience store on his way back.
Room 207’s table was piled with fast-food boxes and cigarette butts, and the air was filled with the stench of “I’m contemplating life.”
Franklins Assistant called three times a day.
“Trevor!
When are you coming back?
No one’s in charge in the Desert!
Those Mexicans are starting to sell stuff on our turf!”
“Let them sell,” Trevor lay on the bed, staring at a water stain on the ceiling.
“I’m on vacation.”
“Vacation?!
You’ve never taken a vacation!
The last time you said you were on vacation was eight years ago, and you ended up blowing up a school bus—there were no kids inside, but you still blew up the school bus!”
“That bus was too noisy.”
Franklins Assistant took a deep breath and changed his strategy: “Trevor, there’s a big deal.
A boss from C-country wants a large shipment—not drugs, but fake brands.
Bags, watches, perfumes.
The quantity is huge, and the profit is high.
But the other party wants to talk face-to-face, and they want it fast.” Find the original chapter at g.com.
Trevor sat up.
Not because of the money, but because the words “C-country boss” reminded him of Richard—that fearless C-country kid who stood between him and Michael, not backing down even with a bloody nose.
“C-country boss?
What’s his name?”
“His surname is Declan, and his name is Walter.
He’s said to be involved in international trade but doesn’t have his own channels here in Los Santos.
He needs someone to help him with ‘customs clearance’ and ‘distribution.'”
“Sounds boring.”
“Two million in profit.”
“Doesn’t sound so boring anymore.” Trevor stood up, picked a relatively clean shirt off the floor, and sniffed it.
“Alright, I’ll go back.
But I have a condition—I’ll choose the meeting place.
The Desert, my turf.”
“Of course.
I’ll reply to him right away.”
Trevor hung up and stood by the window, looking out at the gray Los Santos.
This city made him uncomfortable—too clean, too orderly, everyone seemed to be in a box.
He hated boxes.
He picked up his phone, hesitated for three seconds, then sent a text message to Michael:
[I’m back in the Desert.
Don’t get too excited.
I’ll be back anytime.]
Michael didn’t reply. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Trevor tossed his phone onto the bed, grabbed his car keys, and walked out of room 207.
As he passed the front desk, the Indian owner called out, “Sir, do you need to extend your stay?”
“Keep it.
I’ll be back in a few days.”
“Then you need to pay—”
Trevor slapped a crumpled bill on the counter and left.
He drove the gray sedan along the highway towards the Desert.
The Los Santos skyline grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, finally disappearing below the horizon.
Trevor rolled down the window, letting the wind blow on his face.
The Desert air was hot, dry, smelling of dust and death—he liked that smell.
Meanwhile, Franklins Assistant was busy in his trailer preparing negotiation materials.
He opened an encrypted folder on his computer, which contained all the information about Walter:
Name: Walter
Age: 42
Nationality: C-country
Background: Owner of a trading company in Guangzhou, rumored to have a gray background.
Operates an “import and export company” in Los Santos, but actually deals in counterfeit smuggling.
Recently targeted by C-country police, wants to transfer some business to the United States.
Demand: Needs a “safe passage” from Los Santos Port to the interior, and a “trouble-tolerant” distribution network.
Franklins Assistant looked at the words “trouble-tolerant” and smiled.
“Trevor is the least afraid of trouble.
He is trouble itself.”