"Of course. How could you trust my business venture if you did not see that your merchandise was being well taken care of? Mister Slice, if you would be so good as to lead the way..."
The henchman grunts, and you wonder how much the hulking brute has in common with humanity's primitive ancestors.
The walk is an exhaustive one, though labyrinthine corridors that descend into the bowels of the complex, boiler-suited flunkies at every junction and doorway. No wonder Halstead chose to downsize his operations in this way; were this building to be 1:1 scale it would be one of the wonders of the world!
Then you're arrived. The storage facility stretches back a considerable distance, and even though its silo'd bays are mostly empty, each of the dozen could hold several missiles. Looking down from the handrailed walkway, the nearest is loaded with crates.
"Finest cocaine," Halstead says. "But we offer services to all businessmen. Weapons, drugs, personnel, slaves... We don't discriminate here."
"Good to hear," you mumble, absently snapping photographs with the camera concealed within your collar.
"You seem distracted..." Halstead says, and you are halfway through concocting a cover story when the earthquakes begin.
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