By the time I woke up the next day, the sun was high in the sky, filling my hotel room with it's brilliant glow. Yawning, I rolled over and squinted at my bedside clock. 10 o'clock. Shit. My meeting with Cortez was in 20 minutes. I'd have to move fast. Yawning, I managed to get myself in a sitting position, feeling the full effect from last night's party at the Malibu, shaking it off as I stumbled into my Hawaiian shirt and acid wash jeans. Outside, the world was milling by; the sounds of Vice rising up through my apartment window. Breakfast was a strong coffee. I'd have to get something else later after my "appointment", or at least hold off until lunch. Swiping the keys to the Ferrari of the glass coffee table, I pulled the front door closed behind me and walked down the stairs, through the reception area and out onto the strip.

Outside, the warm sun made me feel like going back to bed; the light sea breeze and deep blue sky topping another beautiful day in Vice. Dodging the crowds of surfies, babes and bladers going by, I crossed the road, deactivated the 308's alarm and slid into it's leather front seat, gunning the engine. For a dreary moment I sat there with the engine running, taking in the scene around me. The pastel colored hotel and café strip, with it's crowded sidewalk and outdoor tables packed, the busy street with it's endless line of Jeeps and expensive foreign convertibles, the beach to the far right beyond the palm plantation. On closer inspection, I could make out sun bakers already basking in the sun. A beautiful day. Tuning the car's radio to Flash FM, I merged into the traffic, Bryan Adams blaring through the sound system.