My boots were starting to wear out. My beard, which I usually kept clean-shaven, was growing out of control. I hadn’t showered in days—maybe even weeks. I’d completely lost track of time.

  Sandy Shores was a complete shithole. The people were delusional. I hadn’t been able to hold a proper conversation with anyone.

  Do you know what solitude does to someone?

  I was hallucinating. Talking to myself. I was sleeping rough. My bank account was frozen—I couldn’t go back to the city.

  Lucas had saved me from imprisonment. He gave me a second chance at life. I couldn’t give up on him. I had to find him.

  As a human being, I was broken—physically and mentally. I drowned in my tears every night.

  As I strolled down East Joshua Road, I looked up at the sun and the endless blue sky, trying to escape my thoughts. That’s when I heard it—screams, off to my left.

  I snapped to attention. A group of three men were surrounding an older woman. She clutched her red handbag, terrified, as they shoved her around.

  “Oi, fuck off, dickhead!” one of the men shouted when he saw me approach.

  “What do you degenerates think you’re doing, going after an old lady?” I barked back.

  “Please help! They want to take my money!” she pleaded, her voice trembling.

  With what little strength I had left, I stepped in and slammed my fist into one of the men’s jaws. Pain exploded through my knuckles—I felt something crack.

  He hit the ground hard, but I didn’t have time to breathe. The other two tackled me to the pavement. Fists flew. I felt each one, and then none at all. My body went numb.

  Was I dead?

  A gunshot snapped through the air.

  Blood and brain matter splashed across my face. A second shot rang out. The third man dropped to his knees before collapsing into the dirt—his face inches from mine.

  I couldn’t move. My vision blurred. Then a small figure appeared above me, holding a massive pistol.

  “Oh shit, Tom!” the voice gasped. “It’s me—Andy. Remember me? I work for Lucas. Actually, speaking of Lucas... where is he? I heard his house burned down. I thought he just took some time off.”

  I tried to speak, but only mumbles escaped.

  “You don’t look too good, mate. Let me take you back to my place.”

  The next thing I remember, I was lying on a worn-down sofa. I forced myself upright.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Hey, how you feeling?” Andy asked.

  “Better,” I said weakly. “Who were those guys?”

  “Oh. The Lost MC.”

  “No way,” I muttered.

  “Yeah... Why do you seem so surprised?”

  “They’re the scum who took Lucas. After the house burned down, they kidnapped him.”

  Andy froze. “Wait—what? I thought he just disappeared.”

  “No. They dragged him onto a plane. Where do they live?”

  “They’ve got a caravan site out at Stab City, just off Joshua Road.”

  “Right. Can I borrow a ride?”

  “Whoa, calm down, Tom,” Andy said, holding up a hand. “There’s about thirty of them there. Even if you caused chaos, they’ve got another clan in Los Santos. You’d be dead in hours. Just sit, have some breakfast, and let’s think this through.”

  I took a breath, then nodded and sat at his small wooden table. Off-brand Cheerios and a glass of fresh orange juice.

  As I ate, I told him everything—my days as a getaway driver, the prison escape, how Lucas saved me.

  “Any idea where they might’ve taken him?” I asked.

  “Nah. I mean, I don’t really know the Lost MC,” Andy said.

  “Do you think he’s still in the country? I mean... they used a small red and white plane. Could hold five people max.”

  “Yeah, they wouldn’t have gone far with that. They’re still in San Andreas. Probably hiding out in the city.”

  “We should go.”

  “You know I can’t. The cops would be on me in seconds.”

  “I could go alone. As a mediator. Try to negotiate.”

  Andy raised an eyebrow. “That’s risky.”

  “It’s the only shot we’ve got.”

  He hesitated, then stood, cleared the table, and pulled out a map of San Andreas.

  “We’ll need a plan.”

  Some time later, we had one.

  I’d park just off the Los Santos freeway in Andy’s white Sultan, ready to drive off with him—and hopefully Lucas. Andy would walk into the hideout completely unarmed and try to talk to the Lost MC.

  The Sultan wasn’t as powerful as my old Schafter V12, but it handled beautifully. I drove us to the city’s northern edge. Andy got out. I gripped the wheel.

  “Good luck,” I said.

  He nodded once, then walked into the night.

  Twenty minutes passed. Nothing.

  Twenty-five. Still nothing. My hands clenched the wheel. Sweat soaked my palms.

  At 29 minutes and 27 seconds, I looked back, expecting Andy to be running toward the car.

  But there was only darkness.

  Thirty minutes.

  I heard Andy’s voice echo in my memory: “If I’m not back within 30 minutes, you leave.”

  I put the car into gear.

  Then I stopped.

  Fuck this.

  I spun the wheel and turned around. Pulled up right next to the hideout. Popped the glove compartment. Grabbed Andy’s pistol.

  I hated guns. But I didn’t have a choice.

  The place was empty.

  Two buildings stood on either side. One was glowing faintly. I crept toward it, gun in hand.

  No sounds. I put my ear to the door. Silence.

  I slowly pushed it open.

  Empty.

  What the fuck?

  At the back of the room was a smaller door. I approached, opened it cautiously.

  Pitch black.

  I felt along the wall and found a light switch. I flipped it.

  What I saw made me puke.

  Bodies. Suspended from the ceiling with chains. Some rotting for years. The stench hit like a punch to the face. I covered my nose and forced myself to look.

  None of them looked like Lucas or Andy.

  Then I tripped.

  A red and white sneaker.

  Andy’s sneaker.

  Suddenly I heard it—breathing. Painful, laboured. Coming from behind the wall.

  I stepped back and threw my weight through the thin drywall.

  Fell through.

  Andy lay curled on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Hands clutched his stomach.

  “Tom? What the fuck are you doing here?” he whispered. “I told you to leave. Now we’re both dead.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m getting us out.”

  “You’re mad.”

  I moved closer. “Let me see.”

  He moved his arm away, revealing a horrific gash across his belly. His intestines spilled through his hands. I almost threw up again.

  Then a voice boomed from above.

  “What the hell is going on down there?!”

  “Hide!” Andy hissed.

  I slid under a crate just as the man stomped into the room. I could only see his boots.

  “What happened here?” he growled. “Trying to escape?”

  Andy muttered something weakly.

  Then I saw the man crouch. A glint of metal—he pulled a knife from his boot.

  I heard the slash.

  Andy’s body hit the ground.

  Blood gushed across the concrete.

  The man turned and yelled toward the door.

  “I think we got an intruder! Get the hostage out of Los Santos!”