The next day, the interviews continued.
The “female pilot” Lester mentioned arrived half an hour earlier than agreed.
She wore an old flight jacket, Ray-Ban sunglasses, had short hair, a lean build, and walked with purpose.
Her name was Michelle “Mickey” Harris, thirty-four years old, a former Army aviator who had been flying news helicopters for a TV station after retiring until she was fired for “arguing with the boss.”
“What did you argue with your boss about?” Michael asked.
“He wanted me to fly into a hurricane for footage; I told him that was a death wish.
He said, ‘Fly or get out,’ so I said, ‘Fine, I’m out.'” Michelle sat in the chair, legs crossed, chewing gum.
“What models have you flown?”
“Black Hawks, Apaches, Little Birds, and civilian Ecureuils.
What are you planning to hit?
If it’s a rooftop escape, you need a model with precise hovering; if it’s a long-distance transfer, you need range.”
Richard scribbled quickly in his notebook.
This person was a professional, straightforward, and didn’t waste words.
“If we need you to fly low-altitude in the city center to avoid radar, can you do it?” Richard asked.
Michelle glanced at him, blew a bubble with her gum, and let it pop with a’snap.’ “I’ve flown lower than that in Iraq.
The question is, how much are you paying?”
Michael held up five fingers.
“Fifty thousand?”
“Fifty thousand.
For one mission.”
Michelle thought for a moment.
“One hundred thousand.
I’m taking the risk of crashing.”
“Seventy-five thousand.”
“Eighty-five thousand, plus you cover the repairs if the bird gets damaged.”
“Deal.” Michael reached out his hand.
Michelle shook it; her grip was stronger than Michael’s.
“Second condition,” Michelle said, letting go of his hand.
“Don’t make me hurt anyone.
I haven’t done that since I came back from the military, and I don’t want to go through that again.”
“We’ll try our best,” Richard said.
Michelle stared at him for two seconds, nodded, and left.
Lester said through the earpiece, “I checked her background; it’s clean.
She earned a Distinguished Flying Cross in the military but never got promoted because she talked back to her superiors.
Reliable.”
Richard wrote down the second name on the list: Michelle “Mickey” Harris — Pilot.
In the afternoon, the third candidate arrived.
He went by “Big Frank,” but not because of his size—he was actually thin and small, like an old monkey.
Frank was in his fifties, face full of wrinkles, missing two fingers (“Blown off”), but his eyes were bright, and he spoke in a measured way, like a retired elementary school teacher.
“What do you want to blow up?” Frank sat in the chair, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, didn’t light it, and just gave it a sniff.
“A vault door,” Richard said.
“How thick?
What material?”
“We don’t have the blueprints yet.
But we estimate a steel-reinforced concrete structure, at least twenty centimeters.”
Frank thought for a moment.
“Then you’ll need a shaped charge.
You can’t use too much explosive, or you’ll blow the money inside to bits.
You can’t use too little, or it won’t open.
I need to see the blueprints first to calculate the dosage.”
“You served in the military?”
“Navy.
EOD.
Retired later and did demolition for construction companies.
Then…” He smiled.
“Custom explosions for some ‘private clients.'”
“For example?”
Frank didn’t answer, just tucked the cigarette back into his pocket and stood up.
“Contact me when you have the blueprints.
My quote is twenty thousand, including labor and materials.”
“Twenty thousand?
That’s a bit steep,” Michael frowned.
“It’s not.
I mix my own explosives—stable, quiet, and directional.
If you use cheap stuff, it’ll be loud, and the cops will be there in five minutes.
Use mine, it’s quiet, and you’ll have time to run.” Frank walked to the door and looked back.
“Besides, I never fail.
If I fail, I’ll do it again for free.”
“By the time you do it again, we’ll probably already be in prison,” Lamar muttered.
Frank smiled and left.
Richard wrote down the third name on the list: Frank “Big” Russell — Demolitions Expert.
In the evening, the three of them returned to Michael’s house for a debriefing in the kitchen.
Amanda De Santa wasn’t there (she went to her sister’s), Jimmy was upstairs gaming, and Tracey was in her room livestreaming her dancing.
Only the three of them were downstairs, plus Lamar (who had monopolized all the Coke in the fridge).
“That’s three,” Franklin said.
“We still need one more.”
“An inside man,” Michael said.
“Someone who can blend into Merryweather.”
The photo showed a white male in a security uniform, in his forties, balding, with a dull expression.
His name was “Donald Pierce,” the current security supervisor at Merryweather.
“This guy is the inside man?” Richard was incredulous.
“He owes gambling debts,” Lester’s voice came through the phone’s speaker.
“Two hundred thousand.
If he helps us get the vault blueprints and shuts down the internal surveillance for ten minutes, we help him pay his debt and give him another hundred thousand.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
“Trustworthy people don’t become moles.
But desperate people do,” Lester said.
“He’s already agreed.
Tomorrow afternoon, he’ll leave the vault blueprints under a red pickup truck in the Merryweather parking lot.
You go pick them up; don’t make direct contact with him.”
Michael frowned.
“Sounds like a spy movie.”
“Los Santos is essentially a spy movie, just with unprofessional actors.”
The next afternoon, Richard and Franklin went to retrieve the blueprints.
The process was surprisingly smooth—the red pickup was parked in a corner of the lot, with a manila envelope taped underneath.
Inside were detailed structural diagrams of the vault, surveillance camera positions, and the security shift schedule.
“That easy?” Franklin was a bit skeptical.
“Maybe we’re just lucky.” Richard tucked the envelope into his inner jacket pocket.
What he didn’t know was that the parking lot surveillance camera had recorded the entire process.
And that footage was seen by an internal security analyst at Merryweather.
That analyst didn’t call the police; instead, he made a phone call—to someone in the Desert.
“Trevor, someone’s planning to hit the Merryweather vault.
Do you know a Richard guy?
Short, drives a beat-up pickup?”
Trevor was eating instant noodles; when he heard this, he stopped his fork.
“Richard?”
“I don’t know the name.
But if you know him, you might want to warn him—Merryweather isn’t to be trifled with.”
Trevor hung up the phone and stared blankly at his noodles.
Then he laughed.
“Interesting.
Michael’s going after Merryweather?
Then I’m getting a piece of that action too.”
He picked up the phone and called Franklins Assistant: “Check something for me.
Besides the FBI’s black money, what else is in that Merryweather vault?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because I’m going to take it before Michael does.”