Author's Note: Thanks to ExomTaoLover and the latest Guest review.

I apologize for the delay in the update. Life has been busy of late, and this chapter took a little longer than I expected to develop. I'm debating whether or not I want to renege on my earlier decision to exclude slash content; at this point, it really doesn't contribute anything to the plot, but it might later in the story. If I did include slash, it would be dub-con content.

This chapter contains violence, vulgar language, and sexual references. You have been warned.

Edited 3/5/2014

Chapter 21: Yay Yay Ka Boom Boom

Sweet's POV:

Sweet sprinted down the corridor of his cellblock, with Augustus close on his heels. The cellblock was twelve dismal cells long and its floor covered in black dust that created friction on Sweet's shoes. Beside the guards' station, a black phone hung on the wall like a guiding star in a pitch black night. A bald Black man, about Sweet's height and Augustus' build, leaned against the wall on his closely monitored phone time.

Sweet approached from the man's back and tapped him on his shoulder. "Aye homie, I gotta make a phone call."

The prisoner dismissed Sweet with the wave of one hand. A White prison guard monitored the prisoner's call from a chair in front of him. He chuckled at Sweet being dismissed. "Phone use is a privilege, scumbag," the guard scowled.

Sweet threateningly stepped from the other prisoner's shadow toward the guard. "Yeah? This asshole is denying me the right to use my privileges."

"Take one more step, scumbag asshole, and I'll be denying you the right to use the bathroom standing up. How does that shit sound?"

Sweet let the guard approach with two bold steps. He was shorter than Sweet, but he didn't have the muscular frame of Augustus. The guard's waistline was pudgy and almost non-existent. Augustus jogged up behind Sweet and tapped the other prisoner on his shoulder.

To keep the guard distracted, Sweet replied, "That shit sounds fucked up. And I feel obliged to do something about it."

He kept his attention to Augustus' whispered transaction with the other prisoner. "What you gonna do about it?"

The phone clanged when it hit the receiver on the wall behind him. "Aye homie, I'm through wit' the phone." The other prisoner walked off, without giving a second look to the guard, Augustus, or Sweet.

Sweet grabbed the phone and blatantly ignored the guard's loathing look. He dialed a collect phone number and hastily demanded to be routed by rattling off the destination number too rapidly for even Augustus to grasp. After five rings, Sweet hung up the phone and attempted a second call. The second call was ignored. Sweet hung up and requested a collect call again.

"Hey," the prison guard interrupted, "this ain't your house phone. Using the phone is a privilege."

Augustus pulled Sweet back. "Man, it's almost lights out. What'd you need to call your brother about?" he asked when they were out of the guard's earshot.

"That chulo motherfucker, Cesar Vialpando, the one who tried to have us killed just a few minutes ago?"

"What about him? You know who he is?"

Sweet's stomach knotted up. 'My whole fuckin' life's been about Grove Street Families. I ain't gave a shit about my real family, even when Brian ended up dead. CJ's been tryin' to be the nigga I wanted him to be since moms' funeral. I can't lose my little brother.'

"Cesar is my sister's boyfriend and my little brother's road dog."

They entered their jointly shared prison cell. Augustus restrained his reaction until the door closed. "Oh shit, are you serious?"

"Yeah, they don't know he's double dealin'. I gotta find a way to protect 'em."

Augustus clapped Sweet on his shoulder. "Don't worry, homie. We gonna make sure the Johnson family sticks around for a long time."

CJ's POV:

Carl sped through Financial and into Carlton Heights. He grinned triumphantly as "Guerillas in tha Mist" blasted through the speakers on his bike. 'Just took out those San Fierro Rifa motherfuckers; Grove Street is coming back! Johnson boys can't stay down, bitch ass tricks!' In case any police pursued him, CJ did his best to lose them on Windy Windy Street amid the neighborhood's palatial homes. He was passing his safe-house when the phone rang.

Cutting into the alley where he'd helped Wu Zi Mu cut down the Da Nang boys a few weeks earlier, CJ parked his bike. "Speak on it."

"I just heard about the work you put in at Pier 69. Good job."

"Officer Hernandez, I appreciate the compliment. Now what the fuck do you want?"

"Meet me at the Wanton Palace in Chinatown in five hours. You're not done taking out the Locos yet."

Five Hours Later…

Dressed nattily in his gray Victim suit and gray Zip boots with a Zip Blue watch and a silver L.S. chain from Suburban, CJ strode into the Wanton Palace. It was just around the corner from CJ's gun cache in his safe-house and across the street from Wu Zi Mu's betting shop. In the event of a police raid or similar attack, CJ would have the upper hand. Plus Cesar knew his location, and CJ had brought along his Desert Eagle.

In the city of sharp dressers, Officer Hernandez was inconspicuous in khakis and a collared white shirt. Being Hispanic in Chinese gang restaurant made Hernandez stand out horribly more. CJ sat across from the cop. "What do you want, Officer Hernandez?"

The cop slid a map of San Fierro across the table to CJ. Marked on the map by a red circle, there was an area of Doherty not far from the Driving School. "The Locos have a crack factory located here. And it's your job to destroy it." He tapped the red circle on the map.

"How the hell am I supposed to do that? Only been there once, weeks ago."

"Listen up, boy…"

"Don't tell me like you're Tenpenny. I ain't his bitch, and I ain't your bitch."

"I need you to do something I can't do."

"Bullshit, I'm supposed to risk my life because some weak cop aint't got the nuts to do it?"

"If the Locos' crack lab stays in business, where's their poison going, CJ? Huh? It goes to Grove Street, where you're from. It goes to the Varrio, mi casa. Your neighbors and friends; they're all gonna stay on the white if you don't have the balls to finish what you started."

"This wasn't my responsibility in the first motherfuckin' place. Y'all the ones who are supposed to protect and fuckin' serve." CJ groaned. "So what you want me to do?"

"You've got friends all over, CJ. That Asian Triad owns an illegal shop on the other side of the city, building and assembling car bombs over in Financial. They do good business with gangs. And your homeboy, Cesar, might be useful in driving; I know he does illegal street races."

So you want me to risk my homie's life too?"

"I want you to do what's right, CJ. Cesar gets that."

CJ ran his beefy, callused hand over his low-cut hair. He'd gone with Cesar to get the cut at a barbershop called Gay Gordo's in Kings. They had laughed together over the advertised haircut: the Cesar.

"Nah, I'm gonna do this solo, or I'm not doing it at all."

"Doesn't matter to me. Just do it." Hernandez slapped a piece of paper onto the table. "That's the address of the car bomb place. You know where the crack lab is."

CJ slipped the paper into his front left pocket. A few second after Hernandez walked off, CJ followed ou the restaurant and hopped into blue-and-white striped Banshee, which he had stolen right after the shootout at Pier 69. The car purred as he steered it through Carlton Heights and into Financial. His phone rang as he pulled into the garage.

"Speak on it."

"Aye CJ, where you at, homes?"

"Gotta take care of some business."

"Bien. Aye, you heard from Kendl lately?"

"Nah, not since last Tuesday. Why?"

"It's…it's nada. Don't worry about it."

"Nah, man, tell me. We hermanos, remember?"

A Latino man in a gray one-piece jumpsuit waited inside the loading dock.

"You know the casa where Kendl was staying?"

"Yeah, over in Paradiso?"

"Yeah, some hijoputa busted in there last night and killed her two roommates."

CJ exited the car and stepped outside the bay. "What? Where's Kendl?"

"Don't know, but the choatas lookin' for her too."

"Shit!" CJ slammed the side panel of the Banshee in his rage. "We gotta find Kendl. I can't lose my little sister too. I just can't, Ceese!"

"I know, CJ. I already called my homies from the varrio. They gonna keep an eye out for her."

From inside the loading dock, the mechanic leaned out and called, "Aye, chicken shit, you comin' to buy something or not?"

CJ whirled on the mechanic and brushed back his untucked shirt just enough to reveal his 9 and the Tec-9 tucked into the waistband of his pants. "Aye, dumbass, I'm handling some business here. So wait!"

He returned to his phone conversation. "Look, Ceese, I gotta handle some shit right now, but I'm gonna get at you when I'm done."

"Ok, CJ. You be careful man."

When Carl hung up, his palms and his face were filmed with sweat. He started pacing outside the garage. 'I can't lose my cool right now, now even over Kendl. Shit's about to pop off, and my crazy ass sister….She'd better be ok. If there's a God, and You hear me, make sure my sister is ok, until I find her.'

He returned to the garage. A blue and gray Tampa waited for him. "So what's this shit, and how's it work?"

The mechanic opened the driver's door and pointed to a red lever beside the steering wheel. "Pull that to arm the bomb."

He shut the door and slapped the hood. "You've got forty-two kilos of explosives in here, but you need to park near the flammable chemicals for maximum destruction."

The mechanic opened the rear driver's side door. A pump-action shotgun, an AK-47, two pistols, and a Tec-9 rested on the gray imitation wool. "They have security guards. Use these to take them out. Any questions?"

CJ pushed the driver's seat back into place, reached into the backseat, and placed the Tec-9 in his lap. "Naw, I think I can manage."

He turned the engine over, backed out the garage, and drove toward the crack lab. He didn't look at the address; the crack lab was easy to find and easier to reach. Doherty's traffic was reduced to mere foot traffic. A whitewashed wall enclosed the perimeter taller than three men standing on each other's shoulders, and two machine-gun wielding guards were posted beside the heavy steel gate that provided the lone access through the wall.

The guards glanced suspiciously at CJ when he crept by them. At the end of the block, CJ executed a U-turn, turned off the safety on his Tec-9, and hopped onto the curb. Pedestrians scattered as the car blazed its trail down the sidewalk. One of the guards ran off terrified, while the other frantically fired his gun at the car. CJ ducked behind the steering wheel, kept his foot on the gas, and forced the guard to jump out the way. Executing another U-turn, CJ leaned out the driver's side window and fired three rounds into the guard's chest. He shifted the car into reverse, plowed over the other guard, and parked the car at the driving school.

CJ reversed the car through the panicked plug of pedestrians to the crack factory's entrance just as the gate opened. Four other guards appeared on the other side of the gate. He shifted the Tampa into drive and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The bomb car blasted through the gate and plowed over one guard while bullets pinged off the car's body. CJ let off a few shots in retaliation, but he had a single-minded goal.

He steered around a pile of cargo trailers to the crack factory's lone loading dock with a ramp leading directly into the building. The entrance was hardly as wide as the Tampa. 'Shit, Hernandez, I might be a real good driver, but this shit is gonna be hard to get into.' CJ reversed, shifted again, braked, then slammed his foot on the gas to make the ramp and turned left to reach the heart of the building. The steel panels of the car squealed against the tight brick walls as CJ plunged the car deeper into the building.

Chemicals and cocaine crowded the tables in the next wing of the building. About a dozen crack workers were caught off guard by the car's appearance, and only a few were armed. CJ plowed through the tables indiscriminately. Small fires erupted where two or more ill-matched chemicals met and burned together. Bodies crunched against the front fender of the car, and blood smeared the windshield. The passenger's side window shattered and bullets ripped through the back window of the car. CJ fired back with his own rounds from the Tec-9. 'Shit, y'all bitches really gonna die over some yay that ain't even yours?'

Finally he reached the chemical storage room. CJ parked the car directly beneath the two steel silos, armed the bomb, and jumped out the car. Bullets with his name on them sprayed into the chemicals area and ripped up the car. Another fire sparked. CJ checked the clip on his handgun and his automatic. 'Sixteen bullets, d-.'

Still crouched behind a stack of boxes, CJ called out, "Aye, you stupid bitches, y'all about to set this place on fire anyway! Do your dumbasses a favor and get out!"

The shooters hesitated. That was exactly what the husky Black gangsta needed to open fire. He emerged from the boxes sheltering him, aimed, and began letting out bullets like he was breathing from the gun in either hand. There were four mask-wearing shooters in the chemicals lab, and CJ made sure to severely—but not lethally—wound them. While they groaned in agony, CJ stole their clips and replenished his own guns.

A cheesy-looking Mexican man in a gold chain ran into the room and blocked the exit door. CJ aimed his semi-automatic and pumped the Mexican's chest full of bullets. Sprinting through the loading dock, CJ took down two other lackeys before he ran from the building.

Three other shooters awaited CJ outside the building. He took cover behind the brick wall beside the loading dock as the shooters riddled the wall with bullets. A turquoise Voodoo screeched to a halt outside, packed with two more dope dealers. The husky gangsta glanced at his watch. 'Shit, I got ten seconds before I'm crispy chicken!'

CJ took a deep breath, turned, and sprayed the five dope guards and their car. Four of them took cover, but one took a bullet through the nose and collapsed to the ground, dead. CJ used the distraction to take off running. He took shelter behind an industrial-sized Dumpster filled with used bottles, dirty rags, and corroded metal. Just as the guards recovered and pursued CJ, the crack factory exploded.

The heat from the blast and the sudden discharge of light made CJ cower and shield his eyes. The factory guards screamed from the other side of the Dumpster. CJ chanced a glance around the bin and spotted two of the guards running as their skin and clothes melted under the flames dancing across their skin. The other three had successfully taken shelter but still had burns from the magnitude of the blast. CJ put them out of their misery with five quick shots to their skulls, ran to their bodies, picked up their guns, and scoped out an exit route. The nearest one was the gated main entrance.

'Damn, the assholes locked the main gate! Guess I gotta take their car and jump that ramp!'

He pulled the dead driver from his seat behind the wheel of the Voodoo and sped toward the half-finished building on the other half of the property. CJ reversed, braked, and slammed on the gas all at once. As the car accelerated up the ramp, CJ's heart pounded wildly in his chest. It practically stopped during the half-second between the car leaving the solid surface of the ramp and the car's wheels touching the street.

Pedestrians screamed and ran in their terror. Police sirens added to the cacophony in the air.

'I gotta get the fuck outta here.' CJ sped through the streets of Doherty to the Pay 'n' Spray up the street from the garage. A short Black mechanic was working on another car in the main loading bay. His nametag read Rocky. He knew CJ well enough.

"You need some more work, Mister Johnson?"

CJ exited the car with a groan. His whole body seemed to ache. "Yeah man. Just another paint job, gotta have a fly ride, you know. And could you hurry it up? I got a hot date tonight, and I really want to impress her."

"Mister Johnson, are you bleeding?"

That was all the warning CJ had before he lost consciousness.