Kapitel 51: Chapter 51: "The Protector"

"What the fuck is this maniac writing about?", you look at the article.

"This Sentinel again. Who do you think you are? Some kind of justice protector jackass?", sacarsm permeated your voice. Anger boiling and your temple throbs.

You storm into your mansion, the Sentinel article about the North Point Mall chaos still fresh in your mind. You push open the door to the bar area, where Lance and two of your bodyguards are lounging, drinks in hand.

Lance looks up as you enter. "Hey, Tommy. What's got you so riled up?"

You slam the article onto the bar, causing the glasses to rattle. "This crap," you growl. "Some hero wannabe homework. And did you hear about the Café situation?"

Lance shrugs nonchalantly. "Yeah, I heard. They claim they're already protected by some local thugs."

Your anger flares. "And you didn't think to handle it?"

Lance takes a sip of his drink, looking unfazed. "I figured it wasn't a big deal. We can deal with them anytime."

You lean in close, your voice low and dangerous. "Fuck anytime, We're dealing with it..... right now. You two, with me."

Your bodyguards, who had been quietly nursing their drinks, stand up immediately, ready for action. You lead the way to the car, a sleek, black Glendale car parked just outside the mansion.

As you drive towards the Front Page Café on Ocean Drive, the tension in the car is palpable. The café comes into view, its neon lights casting an eerie glow in the night. The building is a classic example of art deco architecture, with its pastel-colored facade and geometric patterns. Palm trees line the street, and patrons sit at outdoor tables, oblivious to the impending chaos.

You park the car a short distance away, stepping out with your bodyguards in tow. As you approach the café, you spot two armed thugs guarding the front stairs. Without hesitation, you draw your gun.

"Take them out," you command, and your bodyguards move in sync with you.

The fight is swift and brutal. You fire a shot that hits the first thug in the chest, sending him sprawling. Your bodyguards handle the second thug, a quick exchange of gunfire ending with the thug lying lifeless on the pavement.

The café patrons scream and scatter, some ducking for cover under the tables. You stride up the steps, your gun still in hand, and push open the door. Inside, the café is bustling with activity. The décor is a mix of retro and modern, with chrome fixtures and vintage posters adorning the walls. The air is thick with the smell of coffee and pastries.

The owner, a middle-aged man with a balding head and a sweaty face, sees you and his eyes widen in fear. He tries to retreat, but you grab him by the collar and shove him against the counter.

"Why haven't you been paying for protection?" you bark, pressing your gun to his temple.

The owner raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please, don't shoot! I just... I just needed protection!"

"From who?" you demand, your voice cold and menacing.

"DBP Security," he stammers. "They promised us safety. Said they could protect us better than you could, especially after Diaz's death."

Your eyes narrow. "And you believed them?"

The owner nods frantically. "There was a journalist from the Sentinel here, talking about it. They said you wouldn't be able to protect us anymore."

Your grip tightens on his collar. "Where's this DBP Security now?"

"They're at their headquarters, near the docks," the owner sputters. "Please, just let me go."

You release him, shoving him away. "Get out of my sight."

With a determined stride, you head back to your car, your bodyguards following closely. The drive to DBP Security's headquarters is filled with silence, the weight of your anger heavy in the air.

You arrive at the rundown building, its exterior reflecting years of neglect.

The DBP Security headquarters, located in Washington Beach, Vice City, is an imposing structure designed to intimidate. The building has a rugged, utilitarian appearance, its exterior walls made of reinforced concrete that seems to absorb the harsh glow of the streetlights.

Large, dark-tinted windows line the upper floors, giving the building a foreboding presence. The DBP Security logo, prominently displayed above the main entrance, is stark and unwelcoming, adding to the building's aura of inaccessibility. The ground floor appears to be a shopfront for security items, its windows covered with metal grilles and displaying various security gadgets and equipment.

Adjacent to the building is a small parking lot, filled with security vehicles and marked with strict, no-nonsense signage warning against unauthorized parking. The lot is bordered by a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, adding an extra layer of security to the premises. Air conditioning units jut out from the upper walls, humming quietly in the night air.

"Alright, boys, stay sharp," you say, turning to your two bodyguards. "We go in hard and fast. No one gets out alive."

They nod, determination etched on their faces.

Without hesitation, you burst through the doors, guns blazing. The cacophony of gunfire shatters the quiet night, echoing through the building's hollow halls. The guards inside scramble to respond, their movements frantic and uncoordinated in the face of your relentless assault. You take down one guard after another, your bodyguards providing cover as you push forward.

"Move, move!" you shout, ducking behind a pillar as bullets ricochet off the walls. "Don't let them regroup!"

Bullets fly, and the acrid scent of gunpowder fills the air, mixing with the faint smell of mildew and decay. The dim lighting flickers as you advance, the sounds of struggle and desperation growing louder with each step. You move with precision, your bodyguards expertly covering your flanks.

"Boss, we got more coming from the left!" one of your bodyguards yells.

"I see them," you reply, taking aim and dropping another guard with a well-placed shot. "Keep pushing!"

The remaining guards, realizing they're outmatched by only 3 person, bolt for the exits, their escape route leading them to PCJ 600 motorcycles parked just outside.

"They're running!" your second bodyguard shouts.

"Not for long," you growl, sprinting to your car and leaping inside. The chase is on.

Engines roar to life as the guards speed away, tires screeching on the pavement. You weave through traffic, your contact lenses displaying vital information: your current weapon, remaining bullets, health, and a minimap showing your position and the fleeing guard.

"Hang on!" you shout to your bodyguards as you take a sharp corner, the tires squealing in protest.

The chase leads you to the southeastern tip of Ocean Beach, a desolate area where the streets are empty, and the ocean's roar is the only sound. You push your car to its limits, closing the gap between you and the last guard. With a calculated move, you force him off the road, sending his motorcycle skidding across the asphalt.

"You're not getting away that easy," you mutter, jumping out of your car and rushing to the downed guard.

The guard tries to scramble to his feet, but you deliver a swift, punishing blow that knocks him out cold. You haul his unconscious body into the back of your car, the weight of his defeat evident in every limp movement.

"Let's get him back to the mansion," you say, climbing back behind the wheel. "I want answers."

Once you arrive at your mansion, you drag the unconscious guard inside, the opulent surroundings a stark contrast to the grim reality of the night's events.

"Get him tied up," you instruct your bodyguards, your voice cold and commanding. "We're going to find out exactly what the hell is going on."

One of your bodyguards grins. "This is going to be fun."

As you hang up, you turn to the bound guard, your eyes narrowing with resolve. "Wake him up," you order. "Time to get some answers."

The guard groans as he regains consciousness, his eyes widening with fear as he takes in his surroundings.

"Welcome back," you say, your voice dripping with menace. "Now, you're going to tell me everything I want to know. Or things are going to get real unpleasant, real fucking fast."