The events of the past decade had left Paul jaded and cold. His wife had left him and gained custody of their kids, his house was foreclosed upon, and he had lost a leg to an improperly treated bullet wound. He needed a win, he needed to taste victory, Mr. Ghoul was not going to slip through his fingers again. Deep down he knew the right thing to do was to save the children, but he just couldn't lose this opportunity. Not again. Not this time.
Paul, still faint from the blow to the head, staggered through the debris of the station, grasping the note tightly in his hand, his other hand leaning on his prosthetic leg. The ringing in his ears, the cries for help, the screams of agony, it all felt so surreal to him. Paul weakly pushed open the station's front door and shambled over to his car. He patted himself down, struggling to find his keys. "Damn it, " he yelled, "not now!" He remembered now that Joe had made off with his keys.
Paul felt his hip, making sure he still had his sidearm. He felt he had two choices here. To wait for a taxi. Or grand theft auto.