Bite the Bullet - Saints Row

4: The Real Deal

"Listen ta' me very carefully."

I smoked like a fucking chimney, reloading my revolver and yelling over the hemi upshifting. "If ya' do what I say, you'll be fine, a'ight? But, ya' gotta' follow my orders, else—well, I don't think I gotta' spell it out. This ain't like shootin' fuckin' targets ." He nervously glanced my way, rolling his fingers on the shifter. "Bullets start flyin', and they don't always hit the bad guys; they hit other people, too—people that ain't got nothin' ta' do with it. We can not let that happen."

Descending the cliffs, we sped down the dirt paths until he found the paved road again, the Encanto district largely unchanged from our leisurely cruise a few hours ago. Now, grilled food and muddled music filled the streets, dogs barking at our tires at each dysfunctional stoplight. My head throbbed with every beat of over-amped bass.

"...Ya' heard Julius." I recapped, cradling my forehead under a cloud of smoke. "He's sendin' us ta' take out some VK. They're dangerous; cut open Stilwater, and it's gonna' bleed Vice Kings. Outta' the three, we got 'loud,' 'proud,' and 'connected.' Take a guess which one they are. Ben King's busy tryin' ta' stay important, so I doubt he even fuckin' knows his boys are pressin' here to begin with. He follows the money, and you tell me how much dough's sittin' in government housing and purgatorial construction, huh? Nah."

Richard Hughes saw a fucking gold mine.

"In the past, I'd just say we beat the shit outta' 'em and send 'em home. But, times have changed—Stilwater's changed, and the cops are backin' 'em." A single strip of molten sunlight streaked over the new guy's pensive brow when he looked at me. "...They fucked with our friend. They ain't walkin' away."

"...And when they retaliate?" I leaned closer to hear, and he swallowed tensely. "...What then?"

I sucked in another drag like it was my last breath. "Easy," I exhaled, studying him. "We fuck 'em up 'til they either stay down, or nobody's left. It's war, man. We're in it."

The toll of the evening bells reverberated over parking lots and barrel fires. 'Home's' signature indigence returned, cracked sidewalks bathed in warm sunshine, cranes and half-finished infrastructure cluttering the horizon and shoreline. I tipped out the window slightly and tossed my cigarette, while the new guy carefully steered hand-over-hand. The water tower and other destitute complexes caught my eye; if they were gathering near the shop, that was the best place to start.

"...Somethin' tells me after last week, they ain't so keen on bein' outdoors. Movin' this whole operation inside, probably. Pull up there." I directed, pointing at a large storage unit surrounded in brick apartments, situated only a block away from the church. One of SPD's detectives busted a couple of those units eight months ago, but after the contents of his harddrive ended up on the news, he transferred to Chicago, and the case was thrown out. He was lucky that was all that happened. "...They'd be just ballsy enough."

He took us around the corner, Henrik's Drugstore and Sam's Autobody shop crushed between two foreclosed boutiques. I reached out, tapping the new guy on the arm and pointing. An obnoxious yellow convertible—roof down, recent model—sat parked in the shade of a lone tree. Bingo. "We go in there? We're fucked. It's a dead end. We come in from that road, we're dead. We try ta' hit those units, we're double-dead. We gotta' smoke 'em out, somehow."

"Let's torch the car." He said, bluntly.

"...Damn, man. I was just gonna' suggest we order 'em a pie, or somethin'.' He squinted at me. "...I'm joking. It's a defense mechanism. Keep drivin'." I scoped the garages as we passed, but couldn't find anything remarkable, so the convertible really was shaping up to be our best option. "...But, I like how you think. Go park behind the dumpster, over there. I got an idea."