Chqpter 2

Brandon parked the car in front of the criminological research center's laboratory with a screech of tires that sent a couple of pigeons fluttering away. The building was a gray, three-story mass, with sliding windows that looked like dead eyes staring into nothingness. Brandon got out of the car and walked toward the entrance, feeling the sticky heat of the street fade as he crossed the threshold.

Inside, the air conditioning hit his face like a cold slap, but even that couldn't calm the rage consuming him from within.

The hallway was silent, interrupted only by the echo of his footsteps as he walked.

As he made his way to Michael's office, he glanced sidelong at the silhouettes of other investigators behind their office doors, moving at a frenetic pace, trapped in an endless cycle of work.

Brandon stopped in front of Michael's office, knocked on the door without waiting too long, and heard his friend's affable voice inviting him in.

Brandon pushed the door open—it creaked in protest at its lack of care—stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

Michael was there, seated in his chair behind a desk cluttered with papers and folders, wearing that white lab coat he always had on when working. His glasses were pushed up onto his forehead, and in his hands, he held a document he seemed to have been examining carefully.

"Here. This is what I found—it was at the restaurant scene," Michael said, extending his hand to hand over a document and a bag.

Brandon took it without a word, his eyes scanning the written lines as if he could find the answer he was desperately seeking right then and there.

"What does this mean, Michael? And why is this address in the document?" Brandon asked after reading the paper. It was the address of the man his mother had gone out to the restaurant with the night she was killed.

"It's the analysis results from a piece of evidence I found at the restaurant where your mom and your fiancée were murdered," Michael replied, looking at Brandon and awaiting his reaction.

Brandon grabbed the bag and held it up to the light. It looked like a hair, but not just any hair. It was too big, far too big to belong to a rat.

"Giant rats? La Ronda?" Brandon muttered.

He remembered the sample he'd taken from the window. He pulled it out and tossed it onto Michael's desk.

"Do you think they could be related?" Brandon murmured through gritted teeth.

"I don't know, Brandon, but if you give me three days, I can—"

"Do it!" Brandon interrupted. "I'm going to check out that place."

Brandon walked to the door of Michael's office, grasped the knob, and turned it.

"Brandon, wait," Michael said, standing up. "Just don't ruin your career, man."

"I don't give a damn about my career," Brandon growled, his right hand instinctively moving to the gun at his waist. "He—or they—are going to pay for what they did."

He left the office without looking back, leaving Michael with a look of distress on his face. Outside, the sun continued to punish the pavement, but Brandon barely noticed.

He got into the car, started the engine, and pulled a cigarette from the pack he kept in the glove compartment. He lit it and took a long drag, letting the smoke escape slowly through his nose.

"Margarita, I'll make whoever took your life pay soon," he murmured, as if she could hear him from somewhere.

As he drove, memories assaulted him mercilessly. Margarita in the park, laughing as they ate cookies she'd baked herself. Margarita accepting his job as a detective, despite the fear she felt every time he went out to work. Margarita saying she wanted to get married soon, start a family, build a life together. But he'd never done it. He'd never married her. That was what hurt the most.

He clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might break and pressed the accelerator harder. He wouldn't let himself cry. Not now. Not until he'd found those responsible.

When he reached Fourth Avenue North and Third Street East, he turned the wheel and parked the car in front of a dilapidated building. La Ronda. The neighborhood where the city's worst criminals gathered to traffic, kill, and survive. Brandon slipped the bag into his pocket and got out of the car, muttering curses under his breath.

"La Ronda, damn La Ronda," he growled as he walked toward the heart of the neighborhood.

It didn't take long for company to find him. Three girls—prostitutes—approached him with flirty smiles painted on their faces. One of them, short and thin, wearing a tight top and a miniskirt that looked like it was made of trash, came closer than the others.

"Hey, handsome," she purred, getting dangerously close.

Brandon didn't even spare her a smile. He pulled out his badge, and the girl stepped back immediately, as if she'd been struck.

"Come with me," he ordered, grabbing her arm before she could slip away. The other two took off running, their heels clacking against the pavement.

"I haven't done anything, officer!" the girl protested, trying to pull free, but Brandon shoved her against the wall with force.

"I want answers, and you're going to give them to me," he spat, pulling the bag with the fiber from his pocket and showing it to her.

The girl shook her head, but Brandon tightened his grip, nearly strangling her. She started kicking and hitting his hand, but he didn't relent.

"Okay, okay!" she gasped finally, struggling to catch her breath. "The Doctor."

"Where?" Brandon asked, his voice low and menacing.

"Over there!" the girl screamed, pointing to a nearby house before wrenching herself free and running off as if the devil himself were after her.

Brandon walked toward the house with determined strides. As he got close, someone bolted out of the building.

Without a second thought, Brandon took off after him. The guy was fast—much faster than him. Brandon gritted his teeth and picked up his pace, his shoes pounding the pavement as he chased the man through streets littered with syringes and traces of weed.

When he reached an alley, Brandon pulled out his Magnum 45 and aimed it at the man.

"Stop, or I'll shoot!" He wasn't about to let him get away.