Blood splattered across my face. Its warmth dribbled down to my lips as the sound of the bullet echoed in my ears. Was I dead?

  I opened my eyes to blue flashing lights.

  “Get down on the ground!” a voice yelled in the distance. I behaved accordingly and lay flat on the ground next to the dead leader. I looked up and saw the few mercenaries who’d been chasing me on their knees, surrounded by a fleet of FIB agents. I thanked God. I was saved.

  One of the agents walked up to me and, to my surprise, slapped on a pair of handcuffs.

  “Wait, what?” I yelled.

  “I’m innocent! I haven’t done anything!” I implored.

  “Sir, you have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law…”

  Great. I was going to prison — and had no money to afford a decent attorney.

  The metal door clanged shut behind me as I was thrown into my holding cell at Rockford Hill Police Station. I lay down, contemplating my actions. Prison was my worst fear. I had promised myself I’d rather die than go to such a place.

  A policeman walked over to me, baton in hand. He was clean-shaven and didn’t seem to have any hair under his cap.

  “You are permitted to use your daily phone call.”

  “I’m fine,” I answered. Who would I possibly call?

  “Very well, sir.”

  He started to walk away when I recalled my last conversation with my old friend Lucas.

  “Wait! Actually, I’d like to use that call.”

  He cuffed me through the bars and escorted me to the phone. I picked it up in an awkward manner, my wrists still restrained, and dialed: 1397-0501-89.

  The phone rang a couple of times.

  “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “Hey Lucas. It’s Tom.”

  “Tom?! You’re alive! That phone call had me trippin’.”

  “Yeah, well… I’m in a bit of a situation.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah. I’m currently in a holding cell in Rockford Hill Police Station.”

  “Oh shit!”

  “It might be a little too much to ask, but… would it be possible for you to bail me out? I’ll pay you back.”

  “The only issue is I’m a wanted man. I step foot in Los Santos, I’m cooked. Plus, my money ain’t exactly legal.”

  “That sucks. Well, I guess I’ll just have to go through the system.”

  “Yeah… I’m sorry, man. Wish I could do something. Actually, I have an idea—”

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  The line went dead. The officer informed me that my time was up.

  What was that idea? I went to sleep that night wondering what my life behind bars would look like. I closed my eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.

  “Psst… pssst… Tom, wake up!” a voice whispered.

  I sat up on my rather uncomfortable bed. “Who’s there?” I asked.

  “Yo. It’s Lucas.”

  “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

  “I’m breaking you out.”

  “What the fuck? No. Are you mad? How did you even get here?”

  “This is Rockford Hill — everyone’s got bail money, security’s a joke.”

  Lucas pulled an explosive device from his black backpack.

  “This is mental. You’ll kill me with that!”

  “Don’t worry. Just hide behind the bed and cover your ears.”

  Lucas set the device on the lock. It let out a soft hiss: pffffff, followed by a sharp, piercing explosion. Lucas kicked the door open, handed me a balaclava, and greeted me with a fist bump.

  This was the first time I’d seen him in a year. He was dressed in black cargo pants, a grey camo hoodie, and a custom mask that completely covered his face. He reached into his bag again and handed me an SMG.

  I refused. “I don’t use guns, man. I promised myself that.”

  “Fair enough. You’ll have to stand behind me then.”

  Alarms started blaring. We had seconds before the place was swarming with cops. We sprinted out the side entrance, where Lucas’s grey Jester was parked. I got into the passenger seat.

  “No, no — Tom, you’re driving.”

  I slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was cool and refreshing. I fired up the engine and took off.

  “Where we going? I can’t exactly go home.”

  “It’s cool. I got this all planned. Hit the freeway — we’re going to Paleto Bay.”

  “Paleto Bay? That’s a mad town. Full of crazy rednecks.”

  “We need to lay low. If we stay anywhere near the city, we’re fucked.”

  We drove into the night along the West Coast. My hands felt naked and vulnerable without my gloves. Even though this car was fast and comfortable, I didn’t feel confident behind the wheel. It didn’t roar like my Shafter. The image of it lying wrecked on the roadside flashed in my head. That hurt.

  My sadness turned to anger. That last job might cost me my freedom — my life.

  After a long drive, the lights of Paleto Bay finally came into view. It looked calm. Peaceful. We pulled off the freeway and grabbed food at a burger joint. Our first night was spent at Lucas’s place on 4584 Procopio Drive. It was a small, cozy spot. I crashed on the sofa, hoping for better days to come.

  The sun rose. A new cycle began.

  We wandered the streets of Paleto Bay. The people weren’t the kindest, but the peace — the silence — was something else. Mount Chiliad loomed in the southeast, as if watching over us, shielding us from Los Santos madness.

  Our plan was to lay low for a week, then move somewhere else in Blaine County. Somewhere quieter, with fewer eyes. We kept our heads down, hoods up. Barely talked to anyone.

  A week passed. Lucas and I caught up. I’d stayed in the getaway driver lane. He’d started running a small drug operation in southern Blaine County.

  The next day, we got ready to move. Lucas stored the Jester in his garage. We took a blue Sultan instead, with him driving this time. We headed south toward Sandy Shores.

  The trip was long and nerve-wracking. We avoided the main roads, driving along the Zancudo River, past Calana Bridge, and finally hugging the edge of the Alamo Sea.

  We stopped at the Yellow Jack Inn, just off the airfield. The place looked like a dump. I was ten feet from the bar and could already hear a brawl.

  We walked in and were greeted by an old lady.

  “Hello boys. Take a seat. Start a fight and my men will cut you.”

  We sat at a crooked table — one of its legs looked ready to snap. I ordered a house burger and whiskey. Lucas got a steak and a pint.

  The patty was overcooked. The whiskey left my mouth drier than before.

  “Where we staying?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a small house next to a ranch in Grapeseed.”

  “Sounds good. You know the people who own it?”

  “Yeah — the O’Neil brothers.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Just some inbred rednecks.”

  “They farm?”

  “No. They run most of the meth in the area.”

  “You cool with them? With your own drug business and all?”

  “Yeah, we got a deal. I handle weed, they stick to meth. Though lately… there’s been a bit of beef.”

  “Beef? With who?”

  “This guy Trevor. He’s starting his own company — T.P.I. Says he’s gonna take over the local meth market.”

  “Does that endanger us?”

  “Nah. Well, actually… if he gets meth, nothing’s stopping him from taking over weed too.”

  “Oh shit. He got a gang?”

  “Not really. Just a couple guys — Wade and Ron. Don’t seem like much of a threat.”

  “Right.”

  “Although Trevor… he’s mental. The other day someone saw him smash a guy’s head in on the side of the road. Walked off with bits of brain stuck to his boot.”

  Lucas stood up and stretched.

  “Anyway. We should get moving. Tomorrow’s a big day. I’ll show you around my little empire.”