Chapter 5- Hittin' the Pipe

The streets were choked with purple as the majority of the 3rd Street Saints might was gathered at each of the three entrances to Sierra Point and the military base that island held. All around there were the pre-dawn sounds of war. Chambers being opened, cleared, and cleaned. The cacophonous clattering of magazines slammed into handles, clips hammered into barrels, and grenades rolling into one another as they were spread onto makeshift tables for Saints gangsters to snatch up like free samples at Freckle Bitch's.

"We're gonna blast this mother fucker!"

"Show him what we got…"

"Watch me yo, I'ma cap like thirty or forty luchas by myself, dawg!"

The Ebonics-riddled bravado was as thick as mud in between the Saints ever expanding street team. Most of these guys (and girls) joined up right after the Drake Peppermill saved the Magarac. I'm just glad we got the Armory surrounded. He thought to himself as he waded through the purple sea of back claps, fist bumps, and gang sign throw ups of his crew. Drake tried to convince himself there was a good chance they'd succeed on this front, but ever since he lost Gat, he'd never been able to fully commit to any idea of certain victory.

"Yo, Boss, over here, got something to show you."

Pierce. Pierce Washington was one of Drake's favorite pickups from the Stillwater days. A friendly challenge to fuck up some Ronin gained the Saints Boss a solid lieutenant and a legitimate friend. "There you are mate, what's up?"

"I know you're itching to get started, but check this shit out!" he slammed his fist on a foot locker set on a Jersey barrier between them. The lid popped open and inside, Drake saw a sight that almost made his mouth water.

"Satchel charges. There's got to be what, 50-60 in here?" Drake's face was Christmas morning.

Pierce hammered on a second case at his feet. "Buck twenty all told." He flashed his highly commercialized smile. "You ready to fuck up some Luchador shit?"

Drake reached over and clasped hands with his friend. "Fuck yes." He hopped up on the Jersey barrier and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Saints, we're taking this island out, along with ANY living creature on it! If they ain't wearin' purple, you dress'em in red!"

The mob cheered as one. "HELL YEAH!"

"If any of you takes out Killbane before I get to him, I'll give you the deed to Technically Legal. How's that sound?" Drake stood with fists on hips. "All right then, grab your gear and let's go!" Drake hopped down and climbed into the modified Bulldog Humvee Pierce had idling nearby, standing himself up in the turret while Pierce drove.

"You sure you don't wanna drive Boss; it's kind of your thing." Pierce tossed a look at Drake, an honest question then.

"Not today Pierce, today I'm cutting bitches in half." He pounded on the roof, "let's ride!"

"You said it Boss." With that Pierce sped off into the fray and the battle for Sierra Point began in earnest.

Not since he and Shaundi charged the Armory shortly after they arrived in Steelport had Drake seen the military island so well populated. Luchadores wearing combinations of their trademark wrestling gear and Steelport National Guard uniforms lined the streets, buildings, towers, and barricades. Drake picked the row of enemies in front of the speeding truck and opened fire. A burning rain of spent shells poured over the roof of the truck and ricocheted off into the blur of passing scenery. Fountains of blood erupted in the wake of Drake and Pierce's passing.

"Head for the training hangar Pierce, same one you picked us up at way back." He yelled over the din. Thinking back to the Gangstas in Space shoot, Drake thought that it was the best building to stage a siege as opposed to a blockbuster movie.

Shit, with any luck Andy Zhen might be hanging around scoping out a sequel; maybe I'll shoot something first.

An abrupt swerve from the driver told Drake the message had been received. Unfortunately, Drake's suspicion of where Pipebomb might be hiding was confirmed by the wall of humanity that caused Pierce to slam on the brakes, nearly launching the Boss into the row of Brutes slowly turning their Mini-Guns in the direction of the screaming tires.

Drake cried out for Pierce to get out of the Humvee as he pulled himself up and over the turret, rolling into a crouch behind the vehicle and drawing his twin .45 Shepherds. Pierce dove in beside him as the unmistakable revving sound came to a crescendo as the high caliber slugs began ripping apart sheet metal and glass, on their way to the duo.

"BOSS, WE GOTTA MOVE! THOSE BRICKS ARE TEARING UP MY HUMVEE!" Pierce shouted between guarded shots at the Brute-wall.

Drake spied around the bumper for something he could blow up. His stormy blue eyes were obstructed by a large box strapped to the Humvee.

"Shit." Blow up. "Pierce, the Satchel Charges!" Drake thumbed at the payload of explosives strapped to the rear of the quickly eroding vehicle. They both spun around and began unloading the two cases from their brackets.

"Aw, fuck man!" Pierce's hand shook slightly as he handled each charge as if it could blow at any second; which it certainly could have. "Boss, what exactly are you planning to DO with all this shit once we unload it?"

"The plan is to cover the backside of this truck with about half of the charges. Then, I wire them together while you take cover behind…that wall of sandbags just there." One tattooed finger pointed at a low wall thirty feet behind them.

"I'm likin' this plan!" Pierce began setting the charges while Drake wired one to the next in a sort of daisy chain.

"Then, I push the rolling bomb into the wall of Brutes, join you behind the wall, detonate the charges, blow them all to Hell, and we press on towards the hangar. It's cake, mate."

"Cool. Well, it looks like I'm just about done now and you can get on with that wiring shit soooo, can I tuck a nut and get behind that wall?" The seedlings of fear crept into his voice as Pierce slowly stepped backwards towards his goal.

"Sure thing." Drake sneered. "I'll be back there in a nip, sweetheart." Just hope this plan really works, otherwise it's an awful waste of some beautiful plastique.

With the last charge wired, Drake got a low stance and gave the Humvee a mighty push. All the while, the percussive rattle of mini-gun fire pounded in his ears reminding him why he was exerting so much effort. "Chew on this, you lousy sods!" The rolling bomb picked up a bit of speed with Drake's final shove and he used the momentum to dash and then leap into position next to Pierce, who already had his favorite K8 Krukov cocked, locked, and ready to go.

"All good Boss?"

Drake raised his fist to show the detonator he held his thumb poised over. "Let's wish'em a Happy St. Crispin's Day!"

He depressed the button just as the bomb collided with the knees of the Brute wall. In an instant, a huge fireball consumed the wall and both Pierce and Drake were able to identify the oversized body parts that came raining down on the street. Pierce retched as a gigantic tongue landed on his forearm.

"C'mon mate, we properly kicked the hornet's nest now; we gotta move!" Drake shouldered a rucksack full of the remaining satchel charges and hurdled the sandbags before hitting the pavement at a sprint towards the hangar.

"Why do I always gotta get the filthy shit on me?!" Pierce shook off the charred lump of flesh and followed after Drake.

As the pair moved down the street, they paused sporadically to dispatch wave after wave of pistol-packing Luchadores foot soldiers, Specialists wielding GL20 Grenade Launchers, and the occasional rogue Brute armed with a Flame Thrower or mini-gun. Pierce had his Boss' back in earnest, joining in Drake's guttural Death scream, when the blood-crazed leader wasn't laughing his ass off, or throwing Schwarzenegger-worthy one liners at his meteorically increasing body count.

"BOSS," Pierce threw a short elbow at Drake's back to catch his attention, "BOSS, LOOK OVER THERE, THE HANGAR!"

Drake tore his eyes from the smoking barrels of his twin .45 Shepherds and felt his rapidly pumping blood roar to boil. Two hulking figures were running out towards a lone S.T.A.G. Condor in the yard. .Way. He shoved the sack of explosives at Pierce and took off like a bolt from a crossbow. While sprinting, Drake threw fists, elbows, and flying knees at the blur of red and green faces that attempted to obstruct his progress. An overturned truck became a Launchpad as Drake buried a booted foot in the kidneys of a turned Luchadores and hurdled over the ten foot tall brick wall. As his feet touched down, Drake's eyes scanned the distance between himself and his targets. Not even ten yards, mate. You're mine. Time lurched as he drew both his pistols and took aim at the now scuffling men fighting over the closest cockpit seat; it would not bear them both.

With a violent shove, Killbane put his associate on his plus-sized ass and climbed into the airship. Drake swore the unmasked bastard winked at him from afar. The thrusters fired up in a burst of blue flame and Drake knew his window for a shot was closing fast. Robbed of his primary target, he set his sights on the kneecaps of the now upright Pipebomb Perez, and squeezed the triggers. The behemoth fell to his shredded knees and only held himself up with quavering arms. He looked up in dismay at his departing General as he flew off due West.

Drake took two vain shots at the Condor before walking up to the kneeling Pipebomb and burying a snap kick in his ribs, rolling him over to his back. Pipebomb roared in pain and made an attempt to rise, which Drake rebuffed by pistol whipping him across his masked face.

"Where is he off too?" Drake seethed through clenched teeth as he pressed his boot to where the man's right kneecap should have been. Another wail.

"AAHHHH! He's off to see the fucking Wizard, that's where!" Pipebomb had a thick, unmistakable Mexican accent; and he spat when he talked. A lot.

"Oh, a bloody comedian are we now?" Drake sneered and ground his boot into the gory mess beneath it. Pipebomb grunted awfully, but would not yield.

Just then, Pierce and the Saints cavalry rolled up, securing the yard with an execution that would have impressed the Boss, had he been able to look away. "Where's Killbane? Is THAT Pipebomb Perez?"

"Si, Moreno mami. ARGH el sabado…." Pipebomb's cry of pain was cut short as Drake stomped on the tattered appendage and then shot him in the gut.

"Yes Pierce, this is him. Killbane flew off before I could take him out, so Pipebomb here was just about to tell me WHERE mister Pryor is heading before he bleeds out under my heel!"

"Besame culo cabrón!"

"Then how about we have a look at your pretty face before I blow your brains into salsa!" Drake reached down and ripped the sacred mask from Pipebomb's head, exposing a nondescript Mexican face with a ridiculous black handlebar mustache and rather thick eyebrows. His bland brown eyes darted between Drake's face and Pierce's with wild rage and anger. Both men were swiftly reminded of how Killbane reacted when he was done the same way back at Murderbrawl, also by Drake's hand.

A spark flew in his mind. He knew where Killbane was going now and he needed to move fast.

"Pierce, call Tobias and get him over here yesterday!" Drake's face was a barely tempered fury.

"Sure thing Boss, what do we do about this guy? I mean, he hasn't told us shit." Pierce pointed at the squirming hulk beneath the Boss' boot.

A pair of shots rang out simultaneously, and Pipebomb's chest blossomed red.

"What guy?" Drake gave a disgusted look at the dead man's mask before stuffing it into his back pocket. "Have Jake's crew clean this place up and then move all of our arsenal in here. I'll let Mayor Reynolds know the Saints are taking over Sierra Point from now on."

Pierce's face was a combination of compliance and concern. "Whatever you say Boss, but um, what about Killbane?"

Drake took a deep breath in and out and cracked his neck audibly. "He's going to the 3-Count Casino, Pierce. I should've fucking seen this coming."

"Why there? Killbane knows we got it locked down."

"No, Angel de la Muerte, his old nemesis has it locked down with only a handful of Saints to run basic security. I pulled everyone else here for this shit."

"But why—" Pierce began before Drake fixed him with a meaningful sapphire glare that somehow cleared the affable lieutenant's mind. "Oh shit, he's getting his mask back!"

"Right, and you remember Murderbrawl; I gave Angel his one on one shot at him and he blew it. I had to take Pryor down myself. As fucking always."

Pierce looked like a whipped little boy. "I'll go call Tobias and then get this place locked down, Boss."

Drake watched him walk away as he prepared himself for the showdown to come. That was assuming of course, that Eddie Pryor didn't live up to his nickname before the Saints could get there. He pulled out his phone and hit a speedial number before laying the device against his ear. It rang twice before the familiarly gruff voice answered.

"He's coming, isn't he?" Angel growled the rhetorical question.

"Yeah, we're on our way though."

Angel sighed aloud. "Don't worry about it Boss, this is what I want. I'm ready."

The line went dead. Drake said a silent prayer to whoever was up there.

"Just give me time; please."