The man walked out of the room at a steady pace. I stayed on the floor, stunned by what I'd just witnessed. Outside, I could hear engines revving and voices shouting—vehicles pulling away, leaving the hideout.

  Once the noise faded, I summoned the strength to crawl out from under the crate. I couldn’t bear to look at Andy’s corpse. With a tear sliding down my cheek, I left the room.

  Outside, the cool night air hit me. The hideout was empty. Silent. I looked out across the Los Santos skyline, realizing just how hopeless I was. This city was a graveyard, and Blaine County? A damn asylum with the doors ripped off.

  I walked over to Andy’s car, slid into the seat, and started it up. I didn’t have a destination—just rage. Pure, molten rage. My veins felt like they were about to burst.

  I screamed. Loud. Long. I slammed my foot down on the gas, the speedometer hitting 128 mph as I was thrown back into my seat. My vision blurred. Lights flashed past. The world spun like I was in orbit.

  I let go of the steering wheel. For a moment, I imagined myself floating through space. Free. Liberated. No chains. No worries.

  Then—

  CRASH.

  I slammed into the back of an SUV. My body tore through the windshield.

  Agony. Every nerve screamed.

  Both cars had landed in a ditch off the freeway. I forced myself up, staggering toward the SUV. The windows were covered in blood—I couldn’t see inside.

  I wrapped my sleeve around my fist and shattered the back-left window. Moonlight spilled in.

  What I saw broke me.

  A baby, limp in a car seat, its tiny arm barely attached.

  The driver’s neck bent in a way no neck should bend.

  The passenger—a woman—her blonde hair soaked in blood.

  I stumbled back, horrified.

  I had killed a family.

  Sirens screamed in the distance. Blue lights flashed.

  I ran.

  I ran like hell, feet slipping beneath me, lungs on fire. Every breath felt like it might be my last. I crested a hill near the freeway and saw lights in the distance—a house. A stable.

  Two men in blue polos walked toward me.

  “Hey, hombre, what’s your business here?” the first asked, thick Hispanic accent.

  “I... I’m lost. Where am I?” I stammered, still shaking.

  “This is La Fuente Blanca. Homie, if you don’t leave, I’ll shoot you.” They reached for their holsters.

  “I don’t mean any harm! I’ve been running from the cops. I’ll leave—”

  A man stepped out from the main building. Mexican complexion, grey slicked-back hair, unbuttoned white shirt under a navy vest.

  “Javier! What’s going on?” he called.

  “This gringo’s running from la policía! Just showed up.”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  “Bring him in. We’ve got room for a guest.”

  They led me inside, sat me at a long wooden table.

  The man addressed me directly. “So what happened?”

  “I crashed into a car. I... I lost control.”

  “So you killed some people. You a getaway driver?”

  “No! It was an accident!” I protested.

  “Yeah, yeah. But you’ve done jobs before, right?”

  I hesitated. “Used to. My last job in Los Santos went south... got chased by a gang and ended up in prison.”

  “That was you? The moron in the black Benefactor?”

  “Eh... probably.” I started to panic. “I had nothing against you guys. Just doing my job.”

  He grinned. “Relax, amigo. I’m Martin Madrazo, leader of the Madrazo Cartel. This is my wife, Patricia.” He gestured toward a red-haired woman who looked dead inside.

  “We were impressed by your driving. So here’s the deal—you drive our truck on the next job.”

  “Or else?”

  “You die.” He laughed. “Not many options, huh?”

  He clapped his hands. “My cousin will show you to your room. By the way, what’s your name, hombre?”

  “Tom.”

  “Nice to meet you, Tom. Let’s hope we get along.”

  The next morning, I was served breakfast and told to get the truck ready. It was a white van with a mounted turret—something that could rip a man in half.

  Madrazo took shotgun. His cousin manned the weapon. I followed directions, heading out onto Senora Road, flanked by two more vans full of armed cartel members.

  I asked, “So, uh... who are we hitting?”

  “The Lost MC. They tried to rob one of our drug stashes. Time for payback.”

  “Oh. They hit my friend’s weed farm a few weeks ago.”

  “Lucas is your friend?” Madrazo frowned. “Hmm. This just got complicated.”

  I stayed quiet after that.

  We reached Hookies, a seaside restaurant that fronted as the Lost’s meth distro spot.

  “Alright, Tom. Drive by slow so my boy can light ‘em up.”

  I obeyed. As we rolled past the terrace, the gunman opened fire—full minute, non-stop. Bodies hit the deck. Blood soaked the wood.

  “Soldiers—go!” shouted Madrazo.

  The vans emptied. The cartel stormed the place.

  Moments later, a voice: “Madrazo! There are no drugs!”

  “Fuck! They’re one step ahead. Let’s move!”

  But another voice chimed in. “Wait! Come see this!”

  We followed him to the kitchen, then into the freezer room.

  The freezers were packed. Not with meat. Not with fish.

  Organs. Human organs.

  “What the fuck is this?” yelled Madrazo.

  “Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

  “Organ trade,” he growled. “They’re harvesting poor people.”

  I shivered.

  “San Andreas is an ugly place, gringo. People will do anything for money. Vamos. We’re not done yet.”

  We headed east, toward Stab City.

  “Tom, stop here,” Martin ordered, pointing to a spot near Alamo Sea.

  He handed me two explosives.

  “What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “See that white caravan? That’s where Johnny Klebitz lives. Blow it up.”

  “Why me?”

  Madrazo pressed a knife to my throat. “You wanna piss me off?”

  I stepped out and made my way toward the caravan. The sun was setting.

  As I planted the explosives, I heard voices. I pressed my ear to the wall.

  “Your friend’s not coming. We control the weed trade now. You’re useless. One more night, then you're dead.”

  Lucas.

  Shit.

  I disarmed the explosives and sprinted back.

  “Why do you still have them?” Madrazo barked.

  “Lucas is inside. I can’t do it.”

  “I don’t give a fuck! You’ve got one minute or I slit your throat!”

  I ran. No plan—just rage.

  I kicked the door in. Lucas was on the floor, barely conscious.

  “Lucas! It’s me—Tom!”

  He blinked, barely able to form words, but managed a smile.

  “I’m getting you out of here.”

  I scooped him up, left the explosives behind, and ran.

  Behind us—boom.

  The warmth of the fire hit my back.

  Madrazo was in the car.

  “Thanks, Tom. You’re free now.”

  He sped off with the rest of the cartel.

  “Fuck you, Madrazo! I’ll kill you!” I screamed into the empty road.

  We were alone.

  I carried Lucas to Sandy Shores, reaching a broken-down liquor store—Liquor Ace.

  Inside, I laid my jacket down and let him rest.

  All night, I stayed by his side.

  By morning, he could sit up and even hug me.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “You saved me.”

  He cried.

  Later, I explored the store. I heard something humming—mechanical.

  I found two freezers.

  More organs.

  I shut them and walked back downstairs. Lucas saw the look on my face.

  “What’s wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “Two more freezers. Full of organs.”

  “Yeah,” he coughed. “The Lost make big money off that shit.”

  “Why are there so many?”

  “Government’s cutting funding. Poor folks in Los Santos can’t afford food. Parents sell pieces of themselves to feed their kids.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah.”

  A vehicle pulled up outside. Footsteps.

  The door swung open.

  A bald man in a green apron stepped into the light, orange sunglasses reflecting the sunrise.

  “Oh boy, looks like we’ve got some more organ donors. Trevor’s gonna be happy.”