Chapter Text
"You sure this is a good idea?" Michael asked, uneasy.
"I wanna see that motherfucker myself," Trevor growled. "See what he’s hidin’ under all that shiny bullshit."
Obviously, Michael hadn’t brought his black Obey this time. He’d "borrowed" a Voltic from some poor bastard on the street instead.
They sat inside it, parked outside Cranley’s mansion, waiting.
"But he’ll recognize you," Michael said. "Your face."
"So what?" Trevor snapped. "He doesn’t have a clue who did it. And even if he did—like you said. He doesn’t fuckin’ care."
"Look, let’s just head back to my place," Michael tried again. "I really don’t think this is smart."
"I thought you said you wanted to help me," Trevor hissed. "Because this? This ain’t help. This is just whining about what might go wrong."
As if on cue, movement stirred near the gate.
"See?" Trevor muttered. "That fucker’s leavin’ any minute."
A bald security guard approached the car. He leaned down to the window as Michael rolled it open.
"You can’t park here," the man said firmly. "This is a restricted area."
Michael shifted in his seat, trying to block the view, but Trevor leaned out anyway.
"Relax!" Trevor hollered from the passenger seat. "My buddy here’s just showin’ me directions to the best brothels around. I ain’t from here!"
The guard scoffed.
"Yeah, I get it. But Mr. Cranley is about to leave. We need this area clear."
"Roger that!" Trevor snapped, giving a sharp salute, an evil grin on his face. "We’re gone in a few minutes!“
The guard stepped back.
"No," Michael said tightly frowning. "We’re leaving now."
He was already gripping the wheel, ready to pull out—but Trevor stopped him, a low, guttural growl bubbling in his chest.
Then, the gate opened.
A tall man stepped out—white hair thinning on top, weathered face, slow and deliberate movements. An expensive black suit clung to him, a polished watch flashing on his wrist.
Trevor’s eyes locked on him.
That’s him. The devil himself.
"What is going on here?" Cranley asked sharply.
His expression and tone were stern, but that trademark wide smile was still plastered on his face.
"These gentlemen are leaving," the guard replied.
Cranley nodded and glanced toward the car.
Trevor stared at him, brows furrowed low, jaw clenched hard, a low growl still bubbling deep in his chest.
A slick, polished bastard—just like he’d imagined. Not a trace of worry. Not a crack in the shine.
Trevor knew that a man whose daughter had been missing for weeks should’ve looked different.
At least something. Concern. Fear. Anything.
Not all this smoothness and smile.
He wanted to get out. Slam him into the wall and. Ask him what the fuck he was thinking. About myself. About everything.
Id he even missed her.
If he even remembered what she looked like.
He wanted Cranley to feel it.
Her fear.
Her tears.
The pain in her voice when she heard his fake, smiling bullshit on TV.
But before Trevor could even move, Michael floored it.
The car bolted down the road.
Only when Michael was sure that they’re not tailed did he pulled into his driveway in Rockford Hills.
"The fuck were you thinking?" Michael snapped.
Trevor’s eyes were dark like a stormy sky.
"That fucker…" he growled. "Always a white-haired fucker."
He slammed his fist into the dash.
"Now he knows our faces," Michael muttered. "Real great."
"I don’t fuckin’ care," Trevor barked. "You saw him! He doesn’t give a single shit about his daughter!"
"Or maybe he doesn’t interrogate strangers outside his gate," Michael shot back. "People grieve different—"
"No," Trevor cut in "He cares about himself. I heard him."
"He’s got people looking for her. Constantly."
"Yeah, for the cameras," Trevor snapped. "I know he doesn’t give a shit."
Michael sighed. "That’s…possible."
Trevor squeezed hie eyes shut, tilting his head to the side.
"You didn’t see it," he muttered. "You didn’t see her break when he said her name with that fake fuckin’ smile. Fake fuckin’ concern. Fake fuckin’… aaargh, everything."
Michael stayed quiet.
"So, what’re you gonna do?" he asked finally.
"I’m heading back to Sandy Shores," Trevor said. „I’m done waiting. I’ll handle it myself."
"And Willy?"
"Fuck Willy!" Trevor shouted as he shoved the door open and climbed out.
Michael followed, slower.
Trevor was already heading for his truck when he stopped and turned back.
"Look bro," he said gruffy. "Thanks. For everything."
"You sure you don’t wanna crash here for a couple more days?" Michael asked. "Let the heat die down?"
"No."
Michael pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded.
They said their goodbyes. Michael reminded him—again—that he was just a phone call away.
Trevor climbed into his Bodhi, fired the engine, and tore onto the Los Santos Freeway.
The drive felt endless. Trevor overtook car after car, maybe clipped one—he didn’t even register it. Insults flew, middle fingers followed, but he didn’t give a shit. He just stomped on the gas harder.
As soon as he left the highway, he cut left and screeched into the Yellow Jack Inn’s lot within a minute. Some fancy illegal races were going on nearby, engines roaring, sand swirling thicker than usual.
He stormed inside.
Everything was the same as always. Rebel Radio blared from the jukebox, the place was packed with drunk locals, and Janet stood behind the bar, polishing a glass.
"Trevor, hey," she greeted him casually.
"Take me to your cellar. Now," he barked.
She froze, visibly tensing.
That was all it took.
He knew immediately.
Something’s wrong.
"Should I repeat myself?" he growled, his voice dropping, dangerous now.
"Come with me," she said quietly, already moving, letting him behind the bar.
They headed into the staff room.
"Out with it," Trevor snapped.
"She’s not here."
"What the fuck do you mean, not here?!” Trevor roared.
"I—"
The blood surged hot through his veins. His brow knotted low, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. Janet stayed where she was, watching him pacing, tension thick in the room.
He stepped toward her. She pressed back against the wall, her breath catching.
Janet had handled plenty of drunk hillbillies. She’d seen fights, even deaths, in this place. Fear wasn’t new to her.
But Trevor?
That was different. Almost everyone was scared of Trevor Philips.
Almost.
"I’m not gonna ask again!" he shouted.
"I-I don’t know! Ask Willy!"
"That motherfucker!" Trevor snarled." I knew it!“
"Knew what, exactly?"
The calm voice came from the doorway.
Trevor snapped his head around.
"The fuck are you doing here?!" he spat.
"The same as you," Willy replied evenly, leaning against the frame. "You couldn’t keep your word. So, neither did I."
"I just went to check on her," Trevor growled.
Willy hummed. "So, you don’t trust me." He shrugged. "Guess that goes both ways. That’s why I moved her somewhere a little more… remote."
The calm in his voice lit a fire under Trevor’s skin. His hand drifted toward his piece. Willy just folded his arms and chuckled.
"That won’t help you. You kill me, you’ll never know where she is."
"Fuck you!" Trevor snapped, shoving past him and heading for the exit.
He stormed out of the Inn.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Janet," Willy said politely, tipping his hat with a thin smile.
„You didn’t give me a choice," she replied flatly.
And she hated herself for it.
"Be grateful you still have this place of yours, okay, honey?” Willy said, sharper this time.
Janet just looked away, jaw tight, saying nothing.
"Motherfucking fuck!" Trevor screamed as he climbed into the Bodhi, slamming his fist into the steering wheel.
Then, he floored it. The truck tore off, down the road.
His eyes flicked everywhere, scanning instinctively. His mind raced. He knew where Willy’s place was—but he also knew that Willy was smart.
Too smart.
She could be anywhere in Blaine County. Or anywhere in San Andreas.
The only thing Trevor clung to was the hope that she’s still alive.
He texted her. Once. Twice. Again. But no answer.
"Ron!" he barked into his phone.
"Yes, boss?" Ron replied instantly.
"I need the most remote places you can hide a person. Now."
"…Is this about the girl?"
"Mmmrgh! Don’t ask stupid fucking questions!" Trevor growled.
"O-okay! On it! Right now!"
A message buzzed in almost immediately.
Then another.
From: Ron
Call Maude. She’ll tell ya more.
Instead of that, Trevor tore straight toward Grapeseed. Maude’s lonely trailer sat at the end of a cracked road, swallowed by desert and silence.
Maude and Trevor had been good friends for years. He’d done more than a few jobs for her, and she knew criminals, junkies, and crooked government bastards across San Andreas better than anyone alive.
As always, she sat outside at a plastic table on plastic chair, her notebook open in front of her.
"Maude!" Trevor called the moment he climbed out of the truck.
"Trev! My dear!" she hollered back, grinning as she shoved a few strands of short black hair away from her face.
He strode up to the table and planted his palms on its filthy space.
"Maude, sweetheart. I need your help."
"Course you do," she said calmly. "Talk to me."
Trevor laid it all out. The deal, Willy. The girl.
Maude didn’t interrupt—she just started searching the moment names were mentioned, fingers moving fast.
"Hmm…" she murmured. "Not an easy one. But yeah…Willy Faunderbelt. Lotta crimes, slipped through every single one,“ she snorted. "Slick bastard. How’d you—"
"Trust him?" Trevor cut in. "Yeah. Bullshit. Learned that the hard way." His jaw tightened. "There’s a young girl’s life on the line here."
"I know," Maude replied evenly, adjusting her grayish-white tee. "You already said that."
She tapped her notebook.
"Your boy Ron was right. There’s a place in the mountains—near Mount Gordo. Belongs to Faunderbelt. I’ve got it on the map."
Trevor leaned in.
"It’s remote," Maude continued, "but don’t waste time. Words travel fast. And don’t expect him to be alone—he might have guards."
"Okey-doke," Trevor said immediately. "Thanks, Maude. If you need any bastards clipped you’ve got my number."
"Always," she mumbled with a small smile.
The location pinged onto his phone and Trevor really didn’t waste a second. He tore ff toward the mountains. The terrain turned rough fast—steep, sandy, unforgiving. Even the Bodhi struggled. The engine revved, coughed, protested—but Trevor pushed her anyway.
After a brutal climb, he finally reached the edge of the forest and parked. The truck wheezed even after he killed the engine. Heat rolled off the hood, metal ticking as it cooled.
"Good girl," he muttered, stroking the hood affectionately.
The license plate read "Betty"
He popped the trunk and pulled out gear from the black cases inside. Hidden stashes. Always ready.
"Let’s find ya, Emily," he whispered, almost like a prayer.
And the hunt began.
But this time, it wasn’t about elks.
And the danger wasn’t just some mountain lion.