The Last Favor
"T," Michael said flatly. "You're not supposed to be here."
Franklin just shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "So… no more favors?"
Michael tossed the reel out.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
The Los Santos sun hung low and heavy, bleeding orange and red across the Del Perro Pier. Michael De Santa sat on a bench, an untouched glass of bourbon sweating in his hand. The amusement park's shrieks and the distant wail of sirens had become his white noise.
By the time they reached the IAA plaza, the Banshee was a wreck, Franklin's suit was torn, and Michael had a gash across his forehead. But they had the reel. Grand Theft Auto V
They fought their way back up, floor by floor, a three-man hurricane of violence. On the roof, the Marmont helicopter was waiting, rotors already spinning. Franklin took the controls. Trevor manned the minigun. Michael sat in the back, clutching the metal canister like a newborn.
And three criminals, drifting through it all, finally free.
Michael snatched it from him. "It's leverage. And leverage is the only currency that matters." The Last Favor "T," Michael said flatly
Trevor stared. Then he howled with laughter—a raw, genuine sound. "You magnificent bastard."
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.