Author's Note: Thanks to ExomTaoLover and a guest for the latest reviews of this story! I really hope the upcoming chapters will be everything you guys have been looking forward to. As this story has been getting a very positive response, I've decided to post another San Andreas story…but I'm not sure when or what it will be about. It might be a sequel to this story, not sure yet.

Since Thanksgiving is approaching, I guess this is as good a time as any other for an update. The plot will continue to thicken, and I hope you all are looking forward to the Las Venturas/ Bone County chapters!

Warning: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence, vulgar language, poorly used language, and non-canonical character deaths. You have been warned.

Enjoy and review.

Sweet's POV:

The behemoth ignored Augustus' small frame and lumbered toward Sweet with a sinister sneer on his grotesque face. Even as the taller Black gangsta balled his hands into fists, Augustus stepped fluidly into the giant's path. Before he could react, Augustus had planted his left fist into the Goliath's gut, and followed up with a right hook and left jab. The giant stumbled backward, stunned by Augustus' series of blows.

Then the other Hispanic gangstas entered the fray.

One rushed Augustus, swinging wildly; when his left hook missed, he attempted to follow up with a right jab. Augustus effortlessly avoided both swings and entered between outstretched arms to respond with a dizzying headbutt. Sweet observed the giant starting to recover, and a second Hispanic rushing forward. 'If I let this nigga get killed the way he's trying to get killed, I know I'm next.'

With a towel still in his left hand, Sweet charged a third Hispanic gangsta. The impact of the tackle drove the gangsta's tall, slim build back into the wall; it was hard enough to clack his teeth together. Sweet ignored the battery of the Hispanic's fists upon his back and drove his right elbow into the Hispanic's jaw. A few of his teeth popped loose from the gangsta's mouth.

Someone grabbed Sweet's right shoulder and yanked him backwards. His back absorbed the bruising collision with the row of dryers, and Sweet's face suffered a cracking encounter with a meaty fist. Sweet staggered but did not fall to the floor. The mountainous gangsta loomed over him and planted his foot into Sweet's stomach. Sweet blocked the next punch with his left arm and crippled the Hispanic behemoth with a punch to his family jewels.

When the agonized gangsta retaliated with another right punch, Sweet caught his fist in the wet towel. He deftly wrapped it around the giant's wrist. "Got you now, motherfucker!" he crowed.

Sweet used the towel to steer the gangsta's fist into the glass door of a dryer. The glass shattered immediately and sliced the gangsta's fist into bloody ribbons of shredded skin and exposed knuckles. He bellowed in enraged pain. Sweet added to that cry by slamming his fist into another glass dryer door. While the mountain of a man clutched his bleeding hand, Sweet used the dryer door as bludgeon against his head. The giant collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

When he turned his attention to Augustus' battle, three of the gangsta's assailants were sprawled on the floor. Their wounds ranged in severity from an exposed shattered kneecap to a shiv through a man's frontal lobe. Augustus advanced on the fourth Hispanic, who was already bleeding from his stump of a left ear and limped on a left leg that looked like it was twisted at an inappropriate angle. There was no mistaking the terrified expression in his eyes.

Augustus stepped on the Hispanic's right foot and seized him by his throat, pinning him to the laundry room wall. "Who sent you, wetback son of a bitch?"

"Tu madre, pendejo."

Augustus's free hand darted for the inseam of the gangsta's standard issue prison jumpsuit. Sweet winced at a muffled popping sound and the tortured cry of pain that followed. "Talk about my mama one more time, motherfucker, and I'll crush your other nut too. Then I'll rip your fuckin' dick off and force feed it to your dumb spic ass. Comprende?"

The Hispanic gangsta nodded. "One more time then: Who sent you?"

"Cesar sent us," the Hispanic gasped. "Cesar Vialpando sent us."

"Cesar Vialpando, that chulo motherfucker from Varrios Los Aztecas?" Sweet asked.

The Hispanic laughed. "It don't matter if his flags is yellow, blue, or brown, nigga. His money is green. Green always talks."

Augustus released his grip on the Hispanic's throat and his privates. Before the Hispanic could relax, the shorter gangsta drove his fist into the gangsta's throat, killing the Hispanic with a sickening crunch of bone and connective tissue. Augustus turned to Sweet. "Who the fuck is Cesar Vialpando?"

Cesar's POV:

Crouched on the tar-coated, gravel-strewn rooftop of the Second National Bank of San Fierro, Cesar waited watched Pier 69 through his sniper rifle. Besides the high-powered rifle, Cesar was equipped with a box of ten rockets, a rocket launcher, two mini sub-machine guns, and an AK. Each of the guns had a full-clip of ammunition and three more clips on a belt around Cesar's waist. He counted his equipment again, for what seemed to be the fifth time.

'Maybe I went overboard. Como puedo shoot an SMG and a rifle together?' Cesar laughed to himself. 'CJ might need 'em. I'll just wait. Locos ain't here yet either.'

As if on cue, Cesar spotted CJ speeding down Esplanade South on a midnight blue FCR-900. CJ's gray Zip Shirt was unbuttoned and flapped in the wind created by his speeding. Cesar didn't focus at all on the glimpse of his best friend's chiseled torso. 'I'm puttin' all that bulls- behind me. The next time I see a naked Johnson, it better be named Kendl.'

CJ parked in front of the bank, which had closed only half an hour earlier. Cesar watched the husky Black search the desolate sidewalk in a moment of confusion before he called out, "Aye CJ! Come on up the back way!"

The Azteca warrior was proud to see CJ was equipped with an AK-47 and had two extra clips squeezed between his belt and the waistband of his jeans. "I see you brought your own party, homes."

CJ was fixated on Pier 69. "They got here yet, or we still gotta wait on 'em?"

"Nobody's at Pier 69 yet, homes, and it's going to be nighttime soon. Are you sure the Locos said four-thirty?"

"Yeah, that's what they said when they called Jizzy's phone."

Cesar peered through the scope of his rifle again. A few cars were parking in front of Pier 69's entrance; nothing was new about visitors at the popular tourist attraction. But Cesar noticed purple shirts and purple bandanas exiting the cars. Each carried a mini-SMG in one or both hands. "Mira, we got Ballas on the pier!"

Carl studied the scene. There were no less than twenty Ballas spreading to cover the pier, and another twenty climbing to the second level of the shops. Within seconds, a brown Tahoma pulled into the parking lot of the Well-Stacked Pizza. Three more Ballas exited the car, along with the last person either CJ or Cesar wanted to see. "Ryder! Fuckin' shermhead asshole! Hangin' with the Ballas like they was lifelong pals."

Glancing over his shoulder, Cesar caught a glimpse of CJ's grim expression. "You want me to blast his ass, CJ?"

"No, wait. The Locos ain't here yet, and we gotta cap them too."

"There's the Triads now." Three silver Admirals pulled into the parking spaces to the right of the Pier, and the Chinese-American gangstas in their trim black suits exited the cars. Crouched low to the ground, the Triads began to make their way to the roof of Pier 69. "Aye CJ? The Triads might get caught by the Locos if they ain't careful."

Gunfire drew Cesar's gaze across the street again. The Ballas had unleashed a storm of bullets upon the Triads, who were exposed in their position atop the roofs. "We gotta take those chotas down before they take out the Triads!"

Cesar aimed at one of the Ballas, still sitting in the getaway cars. The report of the rifle pierced the late afternoon air, and the bullet found its way into the Ballas' throat. Cesar reloaded, shifted his sight, and fired. His bullet drew a spray of red mist from a Ballas' chest. With ruthless accuracy, Cesar sought out another target and cut short the man's life. 'Come on, pendejos, even you not so estúpido to miss a motherfuckin' sniper.'

While CJ joined Cesar in picking off the Ballas, bullets began to eat into the brick below Cesar. The purple gangstas had found him. Cesar rolled onto his stomach. CJ emptied his chamber and turned with his back to the edge of the roof. Both gangstas were sheltered by the decorative cornices. "Alright, Cesar, we gotta take these motherfuckers out before the Locos show up."

"How they gettin' here?"

"Jizzy didn't tell me."

CJ tossed aside his sniper rifle, picked up the AK-47, and began rapidly firing across the street. Cesar heard the panicked screams of the pedestrians in the street below. 'Policía should be coming soon, and they gonna fuck everything up.' He rejoined the fray, taking down a couple more Ballas. Then, from the corner of his eyes, Cesar spotted three approaching Tahomas speeding down Esplanade. "CJ, we've got three Ballas' cars, on your left!"

Cesar began firing on the Ballas' cars. One Tahoma veered across two lanes of oncoming traffic and crashed into a car dealership. Another was riddled with so many bullets that it exploded. The third sped toward Pier 69. Cesar shot out the tires on the driver's side and splattered the driver's brains on the windshield with three precise shots, and the car slammed into another Ballas' car. "Nice work, Ceese!"

The two gangstas exchanged celebratory high fives. Cesar spotted the black helicopter approaching on the horizon first, heading straight for Pier 69. "Shit, CJ, it's the Locos! They gonna see the dead Ballas! We gotta shoot down that chopper, before they get away!"

"With what? Ain't no AK gonna reach that far!"

"Get the rocket launcher; I'll take care of the Ballas!"

While CJ loaded the rocket launcher, CJ shot down the oncoming Ballas and kept one eye on the helicopter. It hovered over the roof of Pier 69 and a figure leapt from the helicopter. With the rocket launcher ready, CJ stepped to the edge of the roof and aimed it at the black copter. "Good night, motherfuckers," he whispered.

Big Smoke's POV:

"So what you tellin' me is, this new coke is gonna hook these motherfuckers faster and harder than ever before?" Ryder asked.

"It's all very technical. There are facts and figures and reports. You know all you need to know," Toreno explained briskly.

Big Smoke, T-Bone Mendez, and Mike Toreno were aboard the black helicopter flying into San Fierro. When they were crossing Red County, Ryder had disembarked from the chopper, citing "personal reasons." Twenty minutes later, he called and announced he was driving into San Fierro. The Syndicate would convene at Pier 69 in less than three minutes.

"So we gonna make a shitload of money, huh?"

Big Smoke groaned. 'I'm hungry and this dumb motherfucker wanna ask stupid ass questions. If he wasn't so fucked up in the head, I might feel sorry about killing the kid.'

"Yeah," Toreno confirmed, "we make a shitload more money, and we're gonna split that shitload five ways."

"We'll discuss that when we land."

"Chea, I see you motherfuckers now. Oh shit!" As the helicopter approached the roof of Pier 69, brilliant flares of gunfire lit up the autumn night and the street in front of it. "This shit smells like Grove Street again!"

"Rapa, I'm gonna fuckin' slaughter those pendejos."

The helicopter hovered over the pier, and T-Bone jumped out. He rolled across the same rooftop as a gang of well-dressed Asians. Before they could turn around, T-Bone had gunned down every last one of them and was running toward the edge of the two-story tall roof.

"I guess this is my exit, too." Toreno ended his call with Ryder and flung the phone out the window into the bay below. With a half-hearted salute, the alleged businessman jumped out the helicopter, his arms spread as though he intended to fly to the bay below. Big Smoke's eyes followed Toreno's descent to gauge his own exit.

That's how he saw the rocket streaking toward the helicopter, only seconds away.

"Holy motherfucker."

CJ's POV:

"Got that motherfucker! Whoo!" CJ cheered in celebration. The impact of the rocket reduced the midnight black helicopter to a fireball sinking into San Fierro Bay. CJ offered Cesar an open palm for a high five.

"Bien, CJ, good job! Let's go make sure the Locos are done for, yeah?" Cesar hoisted his rifle to his shoulder and sprinted down the stairs, the remaining mini-SMG's tucked into his belt. CJ paused for a moment to study the wreckage of the helicopter floating on the bay's otherwise placid surface.

'Can't believe we took down the motherfuckin' Loco Syndicate. First these bitches then those bitch asses Tenpenny and Pulaski; I'm comin' for all you motherfuckers!'

As CJ raced down the stairs, he emptied his spent AK-47 cartridge and picked up another from his belt. There was no point in bringing the rocket launcher or rockets; the ammunition was too heavy. Cesar stood on the median of Esplanade, spraying down Ballas across the street and causing traffic to go crazy around him. CJ flanked him and took out a car driven by the blue bandana-wearing San Fierro Rifa before it hit Cesar. "Good lookin' out, homes."

"No problem, Ceese."

Side-by-side, the two gangstas sprinted across the street into the heart of the Pier 69 tourist attraction. Random gunfire and clouds of smoke bombs created an atmosphere like a war zone around them. CJ could make out shapes within the smoke but not faces. He sought shelter beneath the pier's second-floor walkways and so did Cesar across from him. "I'm going up higher, see if the view is better," CJ whispered.

"Alright, homes, but be careful."

CJ climbed the stairs to the roof of the shops. Shrapnel was strewn across the roof from the impact of the rocket on the helicopter. The tar-covered roof sizzled and smoked where flaming chunks of metal had landed. Four dead Chinese Triads were sprawled across the roof with their guns still in their hands and their blood mingling with the tar. CJ respectively stepped around their bodies, crouched, and prepared to face the Ballas in a shootout. He watched Cesar and the remaining Triads make their way through the shopping center, blasting Ballas every few feet. 'That's my boy Cesar right there!'

Four gunshots rang out, and the four Triads flanking Cesar went down. Before a fifth bullet could snatch Cesar's life, CJ reacted instinctively and fired on the vague, smoke-concealed source of gunshots. Even from his perch atop the roof, a man's painful grunt could be heard. Through the smoke and decorative foliage of Pier 69 he stumbled backward with three bloody bullet wounds in his torso.

T-Bone Mendez slammed in the railing that barricaded the end of the pier from the bay. His micro-SMG dropped to the concrete pier, and he gasped for breath. 'I got that motherfucker good!' CJ jumped off the roof and landed just in front of Cesar, in a crouch. "Donde esta the Triads, everybody else?" Cesar asked.

"Ballas killed most of the Triads. The ones we got left is on the roof. This motherfucker here might be our only problem." CJ pointed the barrel of his rifle at T-Bone. "But we took down the rest of his funky ass crew, ain't that right?"

T-Bone laughed hoarsely. "Pendejo, you ain't killed our my fuckin' greatness. Cocaína y dinero, that's what makes these streets motherfuckers. Do you hear me?"

"Yeah, we hear you loud and clear." Cesar pulled the trigger of his automatic at the same time CJ squeezed the trigger of his AK-47, ending T-Bone's words permanently. He tumbled into the calm waters of the bay below.

Ryder's POV:

"Get the fuck out the car, bitch! Now!"

The blonde woman in the driver's seat of the Banshee shrieked and frantically waved her hands in the air. "Please don't shoot me! Don't shoot me!" She ran across the Esplanade.

'Bitch, you ain't worth wasting my bullets on.' Ryder tossed his pump-action shotgun into the passenger's seat, hopped into the driver's seat, and whipped the car down Esplanade. 'Motherfuckers think they goin' shut down my shit? Fuck that. I'm takin' what matters most to them, see how they like it!'

He swerved erratically through the rush hour traffic. If any driver was going less than 60 mph, Ryder deliberately sideswiped the car. He hopped the curb a couple of times and sent pedestrians diving to the far side of the sidewalk. Ice Cube rapped about a good day he'd had. 'Shit yeah, I'm about to have a good day too. Soon as I get to this bitch's house.'

Speeding up the hill to Paradiso, Ryder pulled out a blunt entwined with the sweet aromas of wet and marijuana from his shirt pocket and a cigarette lighter from the right front pocket of his jeans. He put the blunt to his lips, lit it, and began to inhale while still speeding. The bud calmed Ryder's edginess while the wet heightened his sense of awareness and strength. He stopped at a red light across from a diner, took a deep hit, and pulled out a piece of paper from his left front pocket. 'Bitch, when I get to you, you gonna wish you had killed me back in LS.'

When the light turned green, Ryder sped the rest of the distance. The house was contemporarily styled, but had the accents of 1960s art deco exterior. The front yard was well tended. Two cars, a white hearse and a blue, red, and gold monster truck, were parked in front. Ryder parked the car in the grass and scoped the front door. In the increasing darkness, an upstairs bedroom light and the living room light provided proof people were home.

Ryder grabbed his shotgun, loaded seven shells, and walked up to the front door of 482 Paradiso Drive. He politely rang the doorbell.

"Yo, who is it?" a woman's cool, raspy voice demanded.

In response, Ryder pumped a shotgun into the lock and kicked in the door. "Shit, you just kicked in my fuckin' door man! Are you fuckin' crazy?" the raspy woman screamed. Ryder locked eyes with her, as she stood boldly indignant in the living room. He studied her wide hips, tanned skin, and full breasts sitting proudly in a tight black top; her hair was dyed half-blonde, half black.

Ryder licked his lips. 'I could have some fun with this bitch.' "Where the fuck is Kendl?"

"She doesn't live here anymore!"

"Bitch, don't lie to me!" Ryder snatched the woman's hair in his left hand. Ignoring the desperate flurry of her slaps, the Black dragged her to the other side of the living room and slammed her face against the wall. He shoved her backwards, and her head struck a decorative mirror, cracking the glass.

Ryder seized her throat in a chokehold and pulled her to her feet. Her pink tongue stuck out, and her hands sought purchase on Ryder's arm. "Tell me where she is bitch, or I'ma choke your ass to death."

Footsteps thundered on the stairs. "What's going on?...Oh God, Michelle!" An Asian woman, obviously the half-blonde's roommate, gasped.

Before the Asian woman could move, Ryder dragged Michelle to the foot of the stairs. "Where's Kendl Johnson?" The Asian woman whimpered. Ryder studied her petite frame and the tightly fitting exercise suit she wore. 'I don't give a fuck if the bitch is in shape, I'll kill her ass too.' "Where's Kendl?"

"Michelle, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Katie. Just go! I can handle this on my own!"

"Wanna bet?" Ryder lifted his shotgun, and blasted apart Katie's lower left leg. She collapsed on the stairs, and both women screamed in terror.

"Katie!" Michelle lashed out her right leg at Ryder. The Black shoved her backwards, pointed the gun, and obliterated her face without flinching.

"Michelle! Oh God, Michelle!" Katie began crying and retching in her prone position on the stairs.

Irritated by her emotional reaction, Ryder marched up the stairs, kicked Katie in the chest, and pressed the still-hot barrel to her forehead. "Bitch, you better stop cryin' or I'll give you somethin' to cry over. You oughta be glad I blasted on your girl and not you."

"Please, don't kill me, please!"

Ryder pumped out the shell that had killed Michelle. "Where is Kendl?"

"She…she doesn't live here anymore." Katie clutched the remains of her leg to staunch the blood flow. She whimpered again as her own sticky blood flowed between her fingers. "Kendl moved to Las Venturas about a week ago."

Ryder's trigger finger began to itch. "Any idea where I can find that bitch?"

"No," Katie whispered, "she didn't tell me anything. Please don't kill me, please."

"Why shouldn't I?" Ryder squeezed the trigger.