Michael leaned out the window, pistol in hand. "Just drive, kid. And try not to hit a hot dog stand this time."
It tumbled end over end, glinting in the dusk light, before smashing onto the rocks of the hillside below—a cloud of silver shards and magnetic tape, scattering like ghosts into the dry Los Santos wind.
"Old man, you look like shit. Get in. We got company."
Michael leaned back, closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, smiled. Grand Theft Auto V
The target: the IAA building, downtown. The plan: steal a Marmont helicopter from the roof, extract the reel from a locked evidence vault on floor 47, and escape through the sewers. The real plan, Trevor's plan, was to set off the fireworks early.
"No more favors. Just the quiet life."
He tapped out a reply: "Who's driving?"
Below, a police cruiser skidded off the road, chasing a ghost. Ahead, the Vinewood lights flickered to life—a city of illusions, built on lies and gold.
The next ten minutes were a ballet of chaos—bullet casings dancing on asphalt, the percussive thump of a grenade launcher, Trevor cackling as he jumped from the moving car onto the hood of a pursuing cruiser, punching through the windshield to grab the driver.
Michael sighed, the weight of a dozen past lives pressing on his shoulders. He wasn't the bank-robbing ghost he used to be. He was a movie producer now—well, a producer with a very particular set of skills involving high explosives and patience. Michael leaned out the window, pistol in hand
A moment later, a bright yellow Banshee 900R screamed around the corner and slid to a halt, inches from the boardwalk railing. Behind the wheel, Franklin Clinton leaned out, grinning.
Franklin flew low, skimming the rooftops, heading toward the hills. "Where to, M?"