The city pulsed like an infected wound. Tommy Vercetti had seen it all—cocaine cowboys, crooked lawyers, Cuban hitmen. But nothing prepared him for the payphone call from an unknown number.
“Thmyl lbt,” whispered a voice thick as peat smoke. “Say it, Vercetti. Or the city burns.”
He turns up the radio. “Billie Jean” drowns out the ghosts.
“Lady,” he said. “In Vice City, we don’t do curses. We do bullets.”