Chapter 45: Making Trouble
"You watch the shop here for now, I'm going out for a drive."
After a quick greeting to Jin, Tommy strode out of the burger shop. Jin was used to her boss being constantly mysterious, disappearing for periods of time. She didn't delve deeper; a boss had his own affairs, and she didn't need to know everything. Of course, if she knew what Tommy i had been doing recently, she would be genuinely horrified.
Points:800
He was only one good job away from his next lucky draw.
Franklin was stunned. He never imagined that Tommy would hide such an arsenal in the trunk of a modest Prius. What appeared before him were two beautifully designed long guns with resounding reputations. One was a military-grade HK416 assault rifle, with a 5.56mm caliber, capable of a maximum firing rate of 900 rounds per minute. The other was an M4 Super 90 shotgun, firing 12-gauge shells, known for its utterly reliable performance and durability.
Upon seeing these two lethal tools, Franklin's eyes lit up. Caliber is justice, and range is truth. No man could resist such a temptation. Seeing Tommy pick up the sleek HK416, Franklin excitedly rubbed his hands, thinking the combat rifle was for him.
He was completely mistaken.
Tommy rummaged through the box and found a small pistol tucked into a crevice, handing it to Franklin. "Here, take this. This one is for you."
"Oh, man, no, don't do this…" Clasping the palm-sized Beretta 21A pocket pistol, Franklin's face was etched with sheer disdain. Tommy had equipped himself with the stylish, powerful HK416, but gave him such a tiny thing. The difference was too vast. Not even considering the shotgun left in the box, the Glock pistol that had just been pointed at him would have been better.
"Alright, you're the boss, you call the shots," Franklin conceded, considering his status as a hopeful employee. Small is small, but at least it's a pistol, fully functional, and it can still fire bullets, which is enough.
Seeing Tommy Vercetti already walking away, Franklin quickly picked up his pace and followed him into the church ahead.
The church's layout was simple, no different from others in New York. The people inside seemed to be devoutly worshipping, praying for God to forgive their sins. From the outside, it was entirely unremarkable. But if one looked closely, they would notice that the worshippers' demeanor was subtly off, out of place with the solemn environment. The unique, almost identical tattoos on their hands clearly hinted at something else entirely.
Seeing new arrivals, the priest immediately stepped forward to greet them. But Tommy didn't waste a single word. He immediately pulled the assault rifle from beneath his long suit coat and began to spray bullets wildly, methodically targeting the men disguised as worshippers.
Tommy Vercetti didn't even use a full magazine; he just pulled the trigger in short, controlled bursts, instantly and brutally eliminating the Russian Gang members hidden within the church.
"Holy crap!" Shocked by the raw, brutal scene, Franklin couldn't help but curse. Wait, didn't we agree to collect a debt? Why are you shooting already? He had thought Tommy was just going to scare the deadbeat with the gun, but he never expected him to actually open fire. Without even a word of greeting, he had slaughtered everyone in the church.
Only a fortunate priest, who miraculously survived the initial barrage, lay wailing on the ground, clutching his injured leg.
"You killed them all?" Franklin asked, aghast.
"Wrong. It wasn't me who killed them, it was the bullets," corrected. Unlike Franklin's genuine shock, Tommy's expression was completely normal, as if he had just completed a simple, minor chore.
Ignoring Franklin, who was still reeling, Tommy strode over and kicked the priest writhing on the ground. He pointed the muzzle of the HK416 directly at the man's head and said in a low, dangerous voice: "Call someone."
"What?" The priest didn't just not hear clearly; he fundamentally didn't understand. Not only had this lunatic not run after massacring the place, but he was demanding the priest call for reinforcements. At over sixty years old, the priest had seen many situations in the underworld, but in all his years, this was truly the first time he had witnessed such arrogant, brazen confidence.
"I'll say it one last time: call your boss. If they don't arrive within thirty minutes, I don't need to tell you what will happen to the things in the underground vault, do I?"
"Okay, okay, I'll call right now!" Looking at the cold black muzzle of the gun, the priest promptly caved, trembling as he pulled his phone from his robe pocket and called his superior, relaying everything that had just happened verbatim.
On the other end of the phone, the Russian Gang boss, Vigo Tarasov, who received the news, was instantly furious, cursing repeatedly in Russian. He couldn't help but be enraged. If it were just a few dead subordinates, that would be no big deal. But the underground vault hidden beneath the church contained a large amount of the gang's criminal data; if something happened to that, his entire operation would be ruined.
"Damn it! When did I provoke such a lunatic!" Vigo swore, his voice thundering through the phone to the church on the other side.
Tommy snatched the phone from the priest's hand, put it to his ear, and coolly greeted the person on the other end.
"Vigo Tarasov. Where's your clever scheme? Did you think I would take that dirty, unlaundered money and quietly slink away with my tail between my legs?! No, you were wrong, terribly wrong! Now, I'm going to take back what belongs to me, what belongs to Tommy Vercetti!"
"Tommy Vercetti, dirty money…"
At first, Vigo didn't quite understand. But a flood of memories rushed into his mind, allowing him to immediately put all the pieces together. He finally figured out what was going on.
"Damn it! That damned little punk will be the death of me sooner or later!" Vigo shouted into the phone. He remembered everything. Hiring the hitman was something he had entrusted to his incompetent son, Iosef, and the payment had been prepared long ago—all a test so his good-for-nothing son could take over his business in the future. But now it seemed that idiotic punk had completely messed things up, daring to be clever and secretly pulling a trick, using a pile of unlaundered dirty money as the hitman's payment.
"Does that damned little punk have shit for brains? How dare he, how dare he do that?" A hitman fights for his life, and you only pay him with a pile of useless paper that can't be spent? Are you really not afraid of being killed by the hitman in return? Anyone with a bit of sense wouldn't do such a thing. But his idiotic son, Iosef, did exactly that.
And the bad news didn't stop there. Vigo had just hung up the phone and was about to leave when his cell phone, which he had just placed on the table, rang again. The caller this time was a car dealership owner with whom he had a close, necessary relationship. In the call, the car dealership owner revealed some even worse news: his restless, foolish son, Iosef, had stolen a luxury car from someone else and brought it to the shop for modification. The dealer had refused to work on the car and even slapped Iosef. Not for any other reason, but simply because the owner of that luxury car was no ordinary person; it was John Wick, once a prominent figure in the assassin world, known universally as the "Baba Yaga" or the "God of Killing."
Hearing this catastrophic news, Vigo Tarasov's hand went limp, his phone dropped to the ground with a clatter, and he stared blankly ahead, completely numb with despair.
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