CHAPTER TWO: 6 AM

That parking lot was probably in the top ten of worst places Jael had ever been in his entire nineteen years of shitty San Caetano life. So naturally, here he was again the next day, in the same parking lot, next to the same parking space where he’d sat in his own puke while delirious from blood loss. There was even still the same discarded napkin Yusnavi had thrown out the window the night before, balled up next to where the truck would’ve been. The air was crisp like the first bite of a fresh taki right when you crack open the bag. Or maybe, the air was normal and Jael was just hungry.
He’d come here for an important cause, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t be back in this fucking shithole. As soon as Esmeralda dropped him off home and he was back to his senses, Jael realized his half-concious self threw a whole fucking 500 dollar hoodie out of a window for basically no reason. He was half-tempted to break curfew, reopen all his wounds, and potentially get hunted down like an animal by the MilPol just to get it back last night, but he forced himself to go to bed and wait til morning.
Jael got up at what he liked to call “the ass crack of dawn,” threw on the same oil-stained AD Family Motors jumpsuit he worked in, grabbed whatever cold coffee sludge was left in the pot, and burst out the door of his shitty apartment block to book it back to the shitty parking lot. With every random person he slammed into on the street and every “Watch it, pendejo!” he internally cussed himself out for never learning any teleportation magic.
“Just one fucking stupid portal spell would be nice right now.” He dodged a trash can on the sidewalk and nearly tripped over his own shoelaces in the process. “I don’t even gotta be fuckin’ good at it, if I could just get ahead a few extra feet that’d be nice, y’know?!” he ranted to himself. “ARROMBADO!” he yelped, narrowly jumping out of the way of an old lady dragging a cooler of pupusas behind her. He was so absorbed in his own mental bitching, he almost didn’t see her. Jael kept running, the old lady cursing at him in the distance. “Perdon!” he yelled behind him, even though he doubted the lady could hear him anymore.
The sun hadn’t even fully come up yet, but The Ridge was awake already, teeming with life. In his whole shitty nineteen years of life, The Ridge was the only place Jael really knew. Those lifeless, gray apartment blocks and the graffiti covered concrete walls made him feel more at home than any other part of SanCae ever could. Uniformed men flocked up and down the street in droves, some in the fluorescent yellow of a construction vest, some in dirt stained overalls, and some in jumpsuits not unlike his. Paleteros, eloteros, and street food vendors of all kinds were setting up and already beginning to litter the sidewalk. The bus stops were surrounded with people, crowding around each other like penguins seeking warmth.
Jael cringed at himself as he side-stepped another pedestrian. "I hope I don’t run into a fucking federal," He thought, trying to ignore the feeling of his lungs starting to burn. “Eso es lo único que me falta…”
“Oye guey, necesitas rai?” came a bubbly shout next to him, interrupting his thoughts.
Jael turned and almost tripped over his own laces again. He really should’ve tied them before he left the house.
There was Miguel, cruising by on his same shitty bright red Italika Vort-X 300R. Even from the sidewalk, Jael could hear the music blasting from the stereo he’d hooked up to the motorcycle. Jael cringed hearing the familiar beats of Tokischa. It was too early in the morning for Tokischa. His mousy brown hair was just as unruly as it always was. There was a mischievous sparkle in his caramel brown eyes. He greeted Jael with an equally mischievous smile. You almost couldn’t tell he was chased down and nearly murdered by police less than twelve hours prior.
Jael waved him down and Miguel pulled over on the road next to him. He patted the seat behind him. “Get on, mi pana!”
Jael reluctantly jumped behind Miguel. Normally, he tried to avoid riding with him whenever possible. Miguel liked to drive like he was immortal, and he wasn’t above weaving between cars and taking less-than-safe (or less than sane) routes. He revved the engine of the bike, and Jael felt the motor roar to life underneath him. The bright red Italika purred like a content cat and he suddenly remembered how Miguel always talked about potentially modding it illegally. Cold sweat ran down his back.
His friend looked back and smirked at him. Jael’s mind instantly returned to the night before. The image of his friend panicked beyond consolation, covered in Angelico’s sticky blood flashed in his mind while shaking like a leaf in a storm. “So where to, guey?” Miguel chirped, messing with the volume of the stereo as he said it.
“How are you alive?” Jael sputtered out. He didn’t even realize what he was saying until he’d already said it. Miguel stopped and turned to look at Jael again, giving him a baffled look. He raised an eyebrow back at him. He just stared at him like that, with those huge brown doe-like eyes. He even tilted his head a bit to the side, like a confused puppy.
And then his face broke into a grin and he started to laugh. “Puta madre, Jael, you sound like Lupita. It was just a Curse of Disorientation. I got it cleansed, so it’s all good now.” Miguel responded with a reassuring smile. He turned back to the stereo, flipping through the playlists on his phone. “Yeah, the MilPol were on my ass, but those dumb fucks couldn’t hurt me if they tried!”
“Besides, it wasn’t as bad as what they did to Angelito,” he muttered. All the glee seemed to disappear from his voice as he said it, evaporating into the smoggy San Caetano air around them. Jael’s smile faded from his face as well. For a second, everything was quiet, as quiet as you could get with the Ridge during morning rush hour. Miguel finally spoke up after what felt like hours, voice shaky.
“Te lo juro Jael, a la próxima me lo van a pagar caro esos cabrones.”
With that last sentence, Miguel finally took off with a whoop, zooming off onto the street. Jael clung onto him for dear life as he did, his heart rate instantly rocketing as Miguel started weaving through traffic immediately, dodging trailers and trucks alike.
In five of the most nerve-wracking minutes of Jael’s life, they were back at the worst parking lot in the Ridge. As soon as they arrived, Miguel almost launched Jael off of the bike as he swung into a parking space. That was already a great start to this already shitty pre-work parking lot adventure. And now here he was. The same shit-ass parking lot from last night. While Jael desperately searched for his hoodie, at first combing the parking lot up and down, then ducking under parked cars, and even poking through trash cans as he got more desperate, Miguel scrolled through his phone absentmindedly, paying him no mind as Jael felt like he was slowly and slowly becoming more feral.
After looking through the third trash can, he finally gave up, groaning in annoyance. “FUCK. HIJO DE LA CHINGADA, ¡SE ME PERDIO ESA MIERDA!” he yelled, kicking at the trash can to emphasize the final word.
Welp. Here he was. Not only was he in the world’s stupidest parking lot for no reason, he also just lost a 500 dollar hoodie for no fucking reason.
Jael huffed and stormed off back to where Miguel was leaning on his bike, grumbling and cursing under his breath all the way as he went back. He needed a cigarette, or a chela, or both.
“You look happy,” Miguel remarked as Jael stomped over. He huffed dramatically, crossing his arms like an angry little kid. “Don’t even start,” he snapped and Miguel laughed. He slid in next to him, leaning on the bike with him.
“So, you wanna go now?” Miguel asked and Jael opened up his phone and shook his head no. “It’s still six am. We’ve got time,” he remarked and shut off the phone.
So now it was back to standing around awkwardly and feeling like an absolute dumb fuck while Miguel scrolled through social media. He fiddled with his uniform. He hated this jumpsuit. It was free, but he still hated it. It was two sizes too big on Jael and it had the name “Eduardo” permanently embroidered on. His mom once offered to sew another nametag reading “Innocencio,” his first name. So, Jael decided to just suck it up and deal with people calling him Eduardo all the damn time. He hated being called the wrong name, but he hated being called Innocencio even more. “Fuck kind of gangster is called Innocencio…,” he thought to himself.
Again, he got too absorbed in his mental bitching and spaced out. He didn’t even realize he’d been staring at Miguel the whole time and he was giving the same confused puppy look again. “Do I got something on my face?” he asked.
“No. No, it’s fine, I just-” he sputtered out. Miguel kept looking at him weird. Again, Jael thought back to the night before. Miguel was currently wearing the same shitty mechanic uniform as him but Jael couldn’t stop picturing him covered in Angelico’s blood, devastated as he screamed over the phone outside Doña Concha’s house.
“Was Doña Concha mad? Y’know, when you showed up at her door with Angelico?” Jael asked, tentatively. He didn’t even mean to ask. The question just slipped out of his mouth. Miguel’s face went from concerned to dry in an instant. “She already hates everyone in Los Santos and I was banging at her front door in the middle of the night, screaming my head off. What do you think?” he asked, sarcasm lacing his words. “Well, it’s like I said. She opened her door ready to cuss me and my mother out and she saw Angelico and…,” Miguel shrugged and leaned back, putting both his hands behind his head. “Eh. It was surprisingly easy to confront Doña Concha. At least compared to-” he shuddered. “...Angelito’s grandma.”
“Angelico’s Grandma?” Jael asked. His curiosity was piqued.
Miguel gave Jael a grim nod. He started sweating, like the memory itself was enough to make him nervous. “After Doña Concha healed him up, I had to sneak him back into his house.” Miguel paused. He turned to look at Jael, staring at him right in the whites of his eyes. With a dire tone in his voice, he asked, “Have you ever tried to jump a fence while an old Asian lady chases you down with a broom?” Whatever Jael was expecting Miguel to say, that definitely wasn’t it. “Um, can’t really say I have, guey,” he sputtered, bewildered.
Miguel started pacing back and forth in front of him. “I don’t know how the hell she moved so fast?? I mean, that lady looked like she had to be at LEAST eighty years old?! But nah, she was across the backyard in like three seconds ready to beat my ass with the fucking broom. And oh holy SHIT, did that old bitch have an arm!”
The shrill shriek of harsh radio static interrupted Miguel’s ranting. He jumped and Jael rolled his eyes. “Ah great, another fucking emergency broadcast,” he thought as the music cut out. “San Caetano Military Police is currently engaging with insurgents once more in the Las Palmeras neighborhood. Due to the ongoing tensions within, all entry and exit into Las Palmeras has been blocked off until SCMP resolves the situation. Please, adjust any routes and travel time accordingly. God Bless the New Patriots Party,” a deep, monotone voice droned over the speakers.
Miguel’s eyes widened in shock and horror at the broadcast, like the announcer just punched his grandma in front of him. “Ah no mames, guey! Según yo que me iba a comprar una torta de La Fonda Carmelita hoy!” Miguel cried out in disbelief. Jael rolled his eyes.
“Ay, tu solo piensas en comer, cabrón!” He stuck a single cigarette between his teeth, fiddling in his pocket for the lighter.
“Y tu solo piensas en fumar, enviciado!” Miguel shot back. “No que tu mamá te iba a partir la madre la próxima vez que te veía con esa chingadera!?”
Jael sighed and gave up on the lighter, muttering a simple fire incantation. The tip of one of his fingers lit up with a tiny tongue of flame and he lit the tip of the cigarette with it, Miguel fuming as he did. He slowly looked around, exaggeratedly craning his neck in all directions like a nosy tia. He turned to Miguel and shrugged. He shot him a sleazy smile. “Y tu viste que mi mama esta aqui o que?”
Miguel rolled his eyes and glared at him. Now it was his turn to pout like a toddler having a tantrum. They stood there for a while, Jael slowly savored his cigarette while Miguel pouted. Then he spoke up again, looking back at the radio. “Did they say which group it was in Las Palmeras?” he asked, looking over at Jael again.
“Nah, they just said insurgents. You know the cops always shut the fuck up about this shit anyway,” Jael fiddled with his curly hair. He really should’ve brushed it before he left the house this morning.
“It’s in Las Palmeras, so I’m thinking it’s the New Popular Army again.” Miguel spoke up, scrolling through his phone and typing furiously. No doubt he was probably looking through social media like a chismoso to see who it was.
“Really, because I figured it was the Cali-National Liberation Front? Aren’t they the ones always starting shit in Las Palmeras?”
“Dude, where the fuck have you been?!” Miguel asked and stared at him. “Didn’t you fucking hear they got their shit handed to them and now most of them got their asses locked up?!” He paused. “...and that’s the lucky ones.”
“What the fuck, when the hell was this?”
“Last Tuesday!”
“I thought that was the Anarchist Front guys!”
“No! Why the fuck did you even think-” Miguel cut himself off. He covered his face with his hands and let out an exasperated groan. “Ay Kobra, si seras. What the fuck are we gonna do with you?”
Jael clicked his tongue in annoyance and he threw the spent cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his shoe against the asphalt. There was yet another awkward pause between the two men. But then Miguel spoke up again, “Did you hear? El Padre’s gone.”
Jael’s eyes widened. Now that was a bomb. El Padre, the notorious dealer who practically had half of SanCae in the palm of his hand, with supposed ties to El Cartel del Diablo. “El Padre? No fucking way, what the fuck happened to him?”
“What do you think happened to him?”
Jael already knew what Miguel was going to say before he even said it. The military police got to him.
“Está en el bote o qué?” Jael asked, hesitantly.
Miguel looked grim and shook his head. “From what I heard, they broke into his penthouse last night. Kicked down the door and beat him to death in front of his woman. Marielys from the gas station told me she has a friend who works housekeeping in his building. She could hear her screaming almost ten floors down.”
Miguel continued. “Milpa sent her to el bote though. Probably so she wouldn’t tell,”
Jael didn’t even know what to say. All he could do was stare at the air in front of him. There wasn’t anyone the San Caetano Military Police couldn’t touch. Not even the big guys with cartel cash were safe. It was supposed to be a reassuring thought. But Jael knew San Caetano MilPol didn’t give a shit about protecting him or any other vato in The Ridge.
Jael loved The Ridge. It was the only place in this shitty city that he’d ever known. When the 2024 incident happened and the New Patriots took over, they made all these bullshit promises about changing America for the better and protecting “every single patriot.”
Well, they got one thing right. They sure as fuck changed shit in Jael’s life.
Jael had gone seventeen years without ever seeing a dead body laying in the streets until the 2024 incident. Now it felt almost strangely normal. Dead bodies laying in the streets, mass arrests, the constant screams of people being assaulted, unending corruption from their so-called “protectors”, houses and businesses burning without explanation or investigation if the “security fees” weren’t paid. All of that had become part of Jael’s new “normal" and he hated it.
“They’re lowering curfew again on Friday, I heard. They’re making it 11 now. 12 for first-class.” Miguel started again.
Jael clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Se pasan.” The sun was slowly starting to come up over the city skyline. They’d have to start getting to work soon. At least they’d see Levi, Jadi, and Leo there. Holy fuck! They’d have a hell of a story to tell Leo on lunch break.