The wait felt eternal. The minutes ticked by, measured by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of industrial sewing machines from inside the factory. Megan sat in her car, the engine off, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. The Tailgater was parked a few spaces away, a mute testament to the conspiracy unfolding behind the factory's grimy walls.
The initial rush of the chase was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow dread. What was she doing? She'd stalked her father across Los Santos, driven by a cocktail of shock, morbid curiosity, and a spoiled child's urge to grab the biggest secret in the room. But for what? To confirm what she already knew? To hold it over him? The image of Jay Norris's head exploding replayed behind her eyes, merging with the memory of Martin Madrazo's silver bat.
Then, a different thought surfaced, cutting through the fear like her Elegy slicing through a corner. It started as a spark, fanned by the bitter wind of her own boredom and the tantalizing, forbidden scale of what she'd witnessed.
He's doing this to pay off Madrazo. $2.5 million.
And if there was a score big enough to cover that… there would be more. Much more. Her mind, usually calculating race lines and party schedules, began crunching different numbers. Not just a few grand for a new car mod or a shopping spree. Life-changing money. Take-the-money-and-vanish-from-this-awful-family money.
But it wasn't just the money. It was the thing itself. The secret her father had carried for years, the thing that made him flinch at certain sounds, that gave him a past weightier than his present midlife crisis. This was it. The source code of all his dysfunction. The adrenaline that made a life of poolside ennui seem like a death sentence. She'd chased thrills on dirt bikes and in street races, but this… this was the ultimate race. No rules, no checkered flag, just survival and a payout.
A slow, wicked grin spread across her face, erasing the fear. The decision crystallized, hard and clear. She didn't just want to know. She wanted in.
No more hiding. No more eavesdropping from behind potted plants.
With a new, terrifying resolve, she turned the key. The Elegy's engine purred to life. She didn't slink away. She pulled forward smoothly and parked right next to the black Tailgater, her vibrant yellow car a blatant, shouting declaration next to his somber sedan.
Her heart wasn't pounding with panic now; it was hammering with intent. She got out, the factory door looming before her. She pushed it open.
The humid, fabric-dust-choked air of the main floor hit her. A few of the Latina seamstresses looked up, their hands never stopping their work. One opened her mouth, likely to ask who she was or tell her this area was off-limits.
Megan put a finger to her lips. "Callate," she whispered, the single word of Spanish she'd picked up from Ava delivered with a commanding intensity. The woman blinked, glanced at the closed office door, then just shrugged and returned to her sewing machine. These women had seen stranger things; a determined, tattooed rich girl was the least of their worries.
Megan moved to the office door. The window in it was the clouded, reinforced glass you couldn't see through. She pressed her ear against the cool surface.
Lester's voice, reedy and meticulously analytical, filtered through. "...pump a little knockout gas through the air system… pest control van… carbine rifles… LSPD tactical vans… hacker… subway tunnel…"
The jargon was both alien and thrilling. This was real. This was granular, dirty, magnificent planning.
Her father's voice, gruff and decisive: "Alright, I want my guy, Franklin, on the getaway. He can handle a bike."
So, the black guy from the driveway was in. Muscle, or driver? Driver, it seemed.
Lester assented, then posed the crucial question: "So, how do you wanna do this? Run in through the front door, or try to play it smart?"
"Let's do it quiet," Michael said.
"Ah, you've grown wise and cautious in your age. Okay. Select personnel with that in mind. As ever, the better they are, the bigger the cut. Now, the driver, they'll source the bikes, lead you out through the tunnels…"
The driver.
That was her cue. The opening.
Megan didn't knock. She didn't announce herself. She simply turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping into the cramped, paper-strewn office.
The conversation died instantly. The atmosphere, already thick with clandestine tension, froze solid.
Her father and Lester standing in front the planning board. Michael's head snapped up, his face cycling through expressions too fast to catch: shock, confusion, dawning horror, and finally, a furious, paternal authority.
Lester jerked back as if shocked, his glasses glinting, his mouth a perfect 'O' of alarm. He looked from the intimidating figure of Michael to the young woman in the doorway, his brain clearly struggling to compute her presence.
Megan stood there, in her baggy t-shirt and shorts, her arms covered in tribal ink, her posture not defiant, but assured. She met her father's widening eyes, and before he could summon a shout, a lie, or an order to get out, she spoke. Her voice was calm, cutting through the silence like a knife.
"You need a driver who knows the subway tunnel dig site off the Del Perro Freeway like the back of her hand," she said, her gaze unwavering. "One who can handle a bike better than your 'guy Franklin,' and who already knows the score."
The silence in the office wasn't just an absence of sound; it was a vacuum, sucking the air from the room. Michael De Santa's face, initially pale with shock, flooded with a dark, furious red.
"What in the absolute fuck are you doing here, Megan?" His voice was a low, dangerous growl, the paternal mask incinerated by sheer, panicked rage. He took a step towards her, his bulk blocking the planning board behind him. "How did you—? How long have you—?" The questions tangled in his throat, each one more damning than the last.
Lester, meanwhile, let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to deflate his entire stout frame. He slowly took off his thick glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as if fighting off a migraine. "Oh, Michael," he murmured, his voice dry as dust. "You said the family wasn't a variable. You assured me."
"She's not a variable, she's a goddamn catastrophe!" Michael spat, his eyes never leaving Megan. "You followed me? You little brat! This isn't one of your street races! Get out! Get the hell out of here right now!"
Megan didn't flinch. She held her ground, her own anger rising to meet his. "Or what, Dad? You'll ground me? Cut off my allowance?" She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "The only allowance you're getting soon is from Martin Madrazo's collection agency."
The name hung in the air like poison gas. Michael's furious bluster stalled. Lester's eyes, now small and watery without his glasses, darted between them.
"You think I don't know?" Megan pressed, her voice dropping, becoming colder, more precise. "I was there. By the pool. I saw the bat. I heard the price tag. Two point five million." She took a step forward, now standing squarely between the two men, the schematics and maps on the planning board a chaotic backdrop to their confrontation. "So this," she gestured vaguely at the board, "is the down payment. And you're in here picking a crew."
"That is none of your business!" Michael roared, but the force was gone, replaced by a defensive, cornered heat.
"It is my business!" she fired back, her voice rising to match his. "Where's my trust fund, Dad? The one built on all this?" She swept her arm out, encompassing the dingy office, Lester, the whole criminal enterprise it represented. "The nice house, the cars, the whole pathetic Vinewood performance—it all came from this, didn't it? And now you're back in the game. And if this goes south and you're dead in some alley, what do I get? Nothing. Mom gets the life insurance and blows it on a boy-toy. Jimmy becomes someone's prison bitch. I get evicted." She took a final, decisive step, locking eyes with him. "I want my cut now. And I earn it driving."
The ultimatum echoed in the cramped space. Lester had quietly put his glasses back on, watching with the analytical detachment of a scientist observing a volatile chemical reaction. Michael's jaw worked, his hands clenching and unclenching. He looked from his daughter's determined, fearless face to Lester's resigned one. He saw no give in either. Denying her was impossible; she knew too much. Kicking her out risked her running her mouth in a fit of spoiled rage. The only path that controlled the variable was to incorporate it.
A long, tense silence stretched out. Finally, Michael exhaled, a sound of pure, furious defeat. "Goddammit," he whispered, then louder, a snarl directed at Lester. "Fine. She's in. As the driver. But she gets a rookie cut. And she does exactly what she's told, or so help me God…"
Megan's heart hammered a victory beat, but she kept her face a stoic mask. She simply nodded, stepping back to examine the planning board as if she'd been part of the team for weeks.
Michael, needing to reassert some semblance of control, turned back to the board, his finger stabbing at a name. "Norm Richards. Gunman. Asks for 7%. He's an idiot, but he's cheap. We're going quiet with the gas, so we don't need crowd control, just someone to look intimidating and handle the bags."
Lester nodded, making a note. "Adequate for the parameters."
"Hacker," Michael continued, pointing to another name. "Paige Harris. 15%."
Lester chuckles, "Oh, she's good. Feminine touch."
"She'll give us the window we need."
They fell into a rhythm, the professional discussion a wall against the familial bomb that had just detonated. Megan listened, absorbing it all: the vault layout, the gas canister placement, the alarm systems.
As they seemed to reach a consensus, she cleared her throat. "So," she said, her voice cutting through their logistical bubble. "How much is my cut?"
Both men turned to her. Lester paused, adjusting his glasses. He looked her up and down, not as a daughter, but as an asset. An unknown quantity. "Given the risk profile, your inexperience, and the fact you're… insisting your way onto the crew…" he said, his tone clinical. "Four percent."
"Four?" The word exploded out of her. "I'm one of the best drivers in this fucking city! I'm the champion of the streets and the dirt roads! I know every alley, every tunnel, every…"
"You may be able to outrun a rival in a Civic," Lester interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp. "But how is your composure when the LSPD has a helicopter on your six and patrol cars are boxing you in? When bullets are pinging off the bike frame? When the plan goes to shit—and it always goes to shit somewhere—can you hold your nerve? Can you think, not just react? Or will you panic, crash, and get us all killed or arrested with no fucking money?"
The questions were cold. They weren't about skill; they were about mettle. The smug retort died on Megan's lips. She just stood there, fuming, her cheeks flushed. The frustrated, wordless grumble that escaped her was pure, unadulterated Michael—a sound of entitled grievance meeting immovable reality.
Sensing the fragile truce, Michael muttered something about finalizing the gas canister source and stalked out of the office, the door slamming behind him with finality, leaving Megan alone with Lester.
The air shifted. The paternal fury was gone, replaced by a dry, pragmatic pressure. Lester gestured her closer to the board. "Alright, rookie. Your tantrum's over. This is what you're buying into for your four percent." He walked her through it again, slower, his finger tracing the escape route. "Your job starts before the heist. Tomorrow, you go to Portola. You look at the construction site, the access roads, the entrance to that new subway dig. You figure out what bike you think is best—something fast, agile, but sturdy. You memorize it. Every pothole, every blind corner, every possible choke point. You are the exit strategy. You are the lifeline. You fuck up," he said, turning his watery eyes on her, the weight of decades of near-misses and catastrophes in his gaze, "and we don't get a do-over. We get a funeral, or a life sentence. Understood?"
The scale of it, the weight of it, finally landed. This wasn't a game. Her four percent was a wager on her own nerve. She met his gaze, the spoiled brat receding, replaced by something harder, more focused. She gave a single, sharp nod.
"Okay."
Without another word, she turned and left the office, the eyes of the seamstresses following her this time with a new, wary curiosity. She walked out into the La Mesa afternoon, the sun glaring off the yellow paint of her Elegy. She didn't feel triumphant anymore. She felt the cold, precise grip of the clock starting its countdown. Tomorrow, she had reconnaissance. She had to choose a bike. She had to become a lifeline.