Just. Imagine Geoff’s been off on business for a couple of weeks, nothing too serious but he’s taken Jack along for backup and his crew’s been running ragged recently anyway so he thinks what the hell, let them all have a bit of a holiday. There’s still some background stuff to be done, of course, gotta keep things running, have to maintain their presence in the city, but for the most part the FAHC are on break.
The majority of the crew are thrilled – Support work pretty much 24/7 so there’s no chance in hell they are squandering their rare chance to sleep in and laze about, but not everyone can handle being footloose and fancy-free. Honestly Geoff couldn’t say he was surprised to hear the FAHC were making unauthorised messes in his absence, not when he left the Lads alone with Ryan, a choice which is always somehow ten times worse than just leaving them wholly unsupervised.
Hearing about a series of little heists isn’t alarming exactly, not half as concerning in itself as the overly aw shucks tone of their explanations when he calls, the assurance that they’re just blowing off a little steam, nothing to get worked up about boss, honestly. Like he could ever possibly fall for that, knowing what an utter calamity his people can be, the inevitable nightmare of this group in particular. Like half of the support crew haven’t been sending him updates, less helpful informants than gleeful reminders that they’re not on the clock and won’t be playing clean-up.
Perhaps Ryan’s little jobs - and they are his, Geoff knows that bastard is leading the charge, more Lad than Gent the second nobody’s watching, christ - might seem somewhat aimless and unconnected to an outsider but neither Geoff nor Jack miss the locations of their hits, the items reported stolen, the way their unruly little miscreants are obviously gathering supplies for something bigger. Lord knows they couldn’t just behave their damn selves while daddy’s off doing business, can’t even contain themselves to a few quiet jobs to pass the time, oh no. With the absolutely surety and sinking dread of weary parents worldwide Geoff knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that his overgrown, over-armed, entirely irresponsible pack of brats are gearing themselves up to make one hell of a scene.
And yet, no matter how many unofficial reports he’d read, how many spies he’d had keeping tabs, despite all the wild and unpalatable guesses he and Jack had made, nothing quite prepared them for what they witnessed when they rolled back into Los Santos three days ahead of schedule. The thick black smoke is visible from miles away, and the sirens hit them like a wall of sound from the moment they pass into the city limits - Los Santos is in utter chaos.
There are cars and people scattering in every direction, at least three different buildings are entirely engulfed in flame and even as they watch a police helicopter plummets from the sky. A familiar purple and orange eyesore of a Technical lays abandoned, overturned and blocking half the bridge, and even without that telling evidence the clear culprits of this mayhem are all too easy to see the moment they hit the main drag. Jack parks in the shadows, tucked safely out of the way, and without discussion the two settle back to watch the drama unfold.
It seems the boys have gotten their hands on not one but two mini-guns, Ryan and Michael straining under the considerable weight as they advance down each side of main street, gleeful cackles audible even over the waves of pure destruction they’re unleashing, killing everything in sight. A second later the doors of the bank slam open as Gavin and Jeremy barrel out, both weighed down by enormous backpacks straining to contain everything they’ve stuffed inside. The four converge and, taking full advantage of the momentary quiet calm of the now empty street, slip down a convenient alley and disappear. For a moment Geoff thinks that, despite the sheer amount of heat they’d brought down upon themselves, this little heist may not be quite as ridiculous as he’d feared, which is of course when they promptly reappear on motorbikes.
Gavin’s out in front and immediately turns what must be the wrong way, quickly herded back into line by Ryan, flooring his bike and circling Gavin’s to get him turned around like biggest, scariest evolution of a sheepdog. Jeremy is clipped by a panicked civilian in a soccer-mum van of all things, overcorrecting and catching his fall in an easy roll before bouncing back onto his bike while Michael paused to take lazy pot-shots at the fleeing driver. Having come to a complete stop Ryan’s now flapping his arms in exasperation, Gavin’s eating, leaning over his handlebars to offer Jeremy some P’s&Q’s, and just like that they’ve lost their lead, LSPD reinforcements pouring down the boulevard. Finally, finally, the idiots start moving, still laughing like hyenas as they take off, tearing down the road and out of sight with what looks like every remaining officer in Los Santos hot on their tails.
In the secluded safety of their parked car Geoff sighs. He rubs a hand across his closed eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, tries to shake the growing tension out of his shoulders. He thinks of civil business meetings, of beachside holidays and little paper umbrellas, of crews with strict, obedient hierarchy and adults who actually behave like adults. He turns to look at Jack and she looks right back, wild grin already stretching across her face as she revs the engine, raising her eyebrows at him in question, as though she’d even listen if he said no. As though Geoff’s even capable of walking away, of giving in to the temptation to turn around and take those last three days of serenity, as though Geoff’s not just as eager to gatecrash this getaway. He groans his acceptance, she laughs through his bluff, and with a screech of rubber on asphalt they leap into the fray.
