I hit the streets of Los Santos a little over two years ago. I loved driving through the city and adventuring across the wilderness of Blaine County. I quickly became an extremely adept driver and knew San Andreas like the back of my hand. I knew every street, every back alley, all the fastest routes. I formed a small crew with some friends—our only objective was to make money. A lot of money.

  While they handled the shooting and stealing, I stayed behind the wheel, where I felt most comfortable. I was basically the getaway driver. I knew exactly how to position the car to limit damage from enemies or cops. I still remember the first time we made money. I purchased my very first car, the Benefactor Feltzer. I adored its sleek, muscular design—the engine roared like a beast set free.

  Our little posse started making serious money. But as the cash flowed in abundance, we no longer relied on one another. We could all acquire our own jets, supercars, yachts... The very thing that brought us together started to tear us apart.I, who once could barely pay my daily mechanic bills, was now flaunting wealth in every part of my life. I owned two mansions in the Vinewood Hills, a custom-made apartment in the Eclipse Towers with a view over the entire city. I had every supercar imaginable. I even bought the gold Luxor.

  What a waste of money it all turned out to be.

  After a few months of buying every new vehicle that hit the market, my bank account started dropping. Fast. I had no steady income, and my lavish lifestyle began to crumble. Before I knew it, I couldn't even afford to pay my bills. Submerged in debt, I was forced to sell off my assets. The people who hung out with me for my riches disappeared. I was alone again—no home, no cars, nothing.

  My old crew continued to hustle in the corrupt corners of Los Santos. Each of them was living out their passions above the law. But I... I wanted to find the thrill again. This time, without money clouding my every thought.

  I asked myself: What started my criminal career? What gave me goosebumps?

  Ah yes—driving. That’s what I missed. The thrill of speeding through the night while choppers and cops swarmed in pursuit.

  So I searched online for a car that fit the dream. It had to be fast, sturdy, and able to carry four people. A few hours of research led me to my next love—the Benefactor Schafter V12. I took it for a spin along the West Coast, and as I stared into the distance, an idea struck me like a flash of lightning.

  I would become an independent getaway driver.

  No guns. No drama. Just my beautiful car and my sleek, custom-made brown leather gloves. It sounded crazy, but it worked. I ended up doing 54 getaway drives—with only three failures. My plan was to complete exactly 55 jobs. So, when the final call came, I said yes.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  It was a two-man crew. Unlike most jobs, I was told upfront—they were out for revenge. Their target: a rival crew that had done them dirty.

  There I was, parked in a small alley on the corner of Popular Street in South Los Santos. Midnight struck. They had three minutes before I’d take off without them. Distant gunshots cracked through the air. I figured the hit had gone down.

  Left hand on the wheel, right hand on the gear stick—I was ready.

  I spotted two silhouettes sprinting toward me. As they got closer, I saw the red stain of blood soaking their grey shirts. The job had gone south. They dove into the car, yelling for me to drive. Both were injured.

  I floored it.

  The Schafter roared into third gear, hitting 60mph in seconds. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw an entire fleet of cars behind us. That’s when I got mad.

  They had only paid for a basic drop-off—no shootouts, no chase.

  I shouted over my shoulder, told them to get out. They refused. One of them pulled out an SNS pistol and pressed it to my temple.

  Great. My last job was going to be my worst.

  Keeping my eyes on the road, I switched the radio to Lab FM. "Fetti" by Curren$y and Freddie Gibbs came on—mellow enough to help me focus.

  I raced through La Mesa and headed toward West Vinewood. Its narrow streets and dense traffic were perfect for a car with acceleration like mine. The sun was setting. I flicked off my headlights to blend into the night.

  My plan was working. One by one, the enemy cars began to fall behind.

  Then it happened.

  Just as I took a sharp right into a tight alley, a civilian car blindsided me. My body slammed against the seatbelt. The world spun. My Schafter flipped—metal screaming, glass shattering. It tumbled across the street, finally coming to a stop on its side.

  I crawled out. Dizzy. Bleeding. The car was totalled. My passengers—motionless. No signs of life.

  Sirens and engines echoed in the distance. I looked up and saw two large 4x4s still chasing. I ran.

  Down a narrow alleyway. I knew they’d have to ditch their cars to follow, buying me precious seconds.

  Bullets ripped through the air around me. My lungs burned. My legs were jelly. This was it.

  The end of my legacy.

  The one and only getaway driver—about to die in a nameless alleyway.

  I slid behind a crate and crouched, catching my breath. Waiting for the inevitable. Images flickered through my mind: joyrides along the coast, narrow escapes, that first job with my crew.

  Yes, I was going to die. But I had lived.

  My pocket buzzed. My phone.

  I answered.

  “Yo, who's this?”

  “Hey T, it’s Lucas. Remember me?”

  “Yeah! We used to roll in the same crew. You were the pilot, I was the driver.”

  “That’s right. Long time no see. How are things?”

  “Well, to be honest, mate—you’re probably the last person I’ll ever talk to.”

  “What do you mean? You about to off yourself?”

  “No, no. I’ve got five guys spraying me down with carbines.”

  “Oh, shit! Where you at?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s too late. Anyways, it’s been nice hearing from you.”

  “Wh—”

  I hung up.

  Gently, I placed the phone back into my pocket.

  I ripped off my white T-shirt and waved it in the air.

  From the other end of the alley, I heard: “Come out with your hands up!”

  I rose slowly, hands behind my head.

  Their leader stepped forward, pistol aimed at my face, finger tightening on the trigger.

  BANG.