Three days after the mission was completed, Michael thought he could have a few days of peace.
He was wrong.
That afternoon, he had planned to watch an old Western in the home theater, drinking beer and pretending he was still a man.
But Jimmy had occupied the theater to play games, Tracey was practicing dance in the living room at maximum volume, and Amanda De Santa said, “I’m going to the supermarket to buy things.” The high heels and dress she wore when she went out were clearly not prepared for buying milk.
Michael followed her out.
Not to catch her in the act—that’s what he told himself.
It was just “coincidentally on the way to the bank.”
He drove, following Amanda De Santa’s white SUV, all the way to a villa at the foot of Vinewood Hills.
There were several luxury cars parked at the villa entrance, and there was a swimming pool in the courtyard.
Lying by the pool was a man wearing only swimming trunks—it was Amanda De Santa’s “tennis coach,” an Italian named Fabian, muscular, with hair fixed like a helmet with hair gel.
Amanda De Santa got out of the car, Fabian greeted her, they embraced, and Fabian’s hand lingered on Amanda De Santa’s waist for too long.
Michael sat in the car, the veins on his hands gripping the steering wheel bulging.
“Calm down,” he told himself, “calm down.
Michael, you are a mature man.
You can handle this like an adult.
For example—go back and find a lawyer, get a divorce, and split half the property.”
Then he saw Fabian kiss Amanda De Santa.
Michael’s sanity snapped like a rubber band being pulled too hard.
He pushed open the door and strode toward the villa.
Fabian saw him first, his face turning pale.
Amanda De Santa turned back, her expression changing from surprise to fear, and then to the anger of “why are you here.”
“Michael, it’s not what you think—”
“Then what is it?
Is he doing yoga with you?
The kind where you take off your clothes?”
Fabian raised his hands: “Michael, listen to me, we were just—”
Michael punched Fabian in the face.
The Italian fell backward, crashing into the swimming pool, splashing water all over Amanda De Santa.
Amanda De Santa screamed, and Michael turned back to the car and started the engine.
He didn’t notice Fabian crawling out of the pool, rushing into the villa, and dialing a number.
Michael had driven less than two blocks when a black SUV appeared in the rearview mirror.
Then four.
“What’s going on?” Michael frowned.
The phone rang.
Franklin’s voice: “Michael?
Did you just beat someone up at an Italian’s house?”
“How did you know?”
“Because Lamar saw it on Twitter—someone took a video, and it’s been retweeted three thousand times.
That Italian is named Fabian, and he’s not just a regular tennis coach, he’s the brother-in-law of gang leader Martin Madrazo!”
Michael’s brain went numb.
Martin Madrazo.
One of the biggest drug dealers in Los Santos, controlling half the city’s illegal business.
He killed without blinking, and even the FBI couldn’t touch him.
“Fuck!”
The SUVs behind started flashing their lights, and someone leaned out the window, holding a gun.
Michael swerved, turning into a small road.
The SUVs followed closely, gunshots rang out, and bullets shattered the rear windshield.
While driving, he dialed Richard’s number: “I need help!
I’m being hunted by Madrazo’s people!”
Richard’s voice came from the other end of the phone, sounding like he was eating something: “You hit Madrazo’s brother-in-law?”
“How do you know too?”
“Lamar posted the video in the group.
Big brother, your movements were too standard; I suggest you don’t use a right hook in the future, it’s easy to expose your fingerprints.”
“Is this the time for jokes?!”
“No.
Where are you?”
Michael glanced at the road sign: “Vinewood Hills, almost at the observatory.”
“Drive to the top of the mountain, there’s a villa under construction there.
Find a way to lead their cars into the construction site; the terrain is complex, they won’t be able to catch you.”
He drove into the construction site, weaving between steel bars and cement pipes, and two of the following SUVs were indeed stuck.
But two more followed, and bullets hit the car like hail.
“And then?!”
“Then—do you see that big yellow crane?
Drive under it, then make a sharp turn.”
Michael did as he was told.
One SUV followed too closely and hit the base of the crane, the hood smoking.
The last SUV came around and blocked his path.
Michael closed his eyes, preparing to meet the bullets.
Then he heard the roar of an engine—a beat-up pickup truck rushed into the construction site and slammed directly into the side of the SUV.
The SUV was knocked sideways five or six meters, nearly flipping over.
Lamar poked his head out of the pickup truck and shouted: “Michael!
Get in!”
Franklin was guarding with a gun in the backseat.
Richard was in the passenger seat, waving at Michael: “What are you stunned for?
Run!”
Michael jumped out of his car and dove into the back of the pickup.
Lamar floored it, and the pickup fled the scene at a “top speed” of twenty kilometers per hour—that was as fast as this piece of junk could go.
“Thank God!
You guys came just in time!” Michael said, panting.
“Richard said you were in danger, so we came.” Franklin put away his gun, “But you’ve made a big mess of this, Madrazo won’t let it go.”
Michael leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes: “I know.
That asshole will want me to pay, or pay with my life.”
“Maybe both.” Richard said.
“Can you not say cold-blooded things?”
“I’m telling the truth.
Madrazo, this guy has been in Los Santos for twenty years, his biggest trait is—holding a grudge.”
Michael sighed.
His life had upgraded directly from “mid-life crisis” to “might be offed by a gang at any time.” Amanda De Santa called after seeing Twitter, and the first sentence wasn’t “Are you okay,” but “Do you know Fabian’s nasal bone is broken, he has to go to the hospital.”
Michael hung up the phone, covering his forehead helplessly.