Chapter 3

.The afternoon heat pounded the asphalt as Brandon Heat stormed into the precinct, the front door slamming against the wall with a dry thud. His boots hit the ground hard, echoing on the worn linoleum, sweat sticking his shirt to his chest. His face was red, fists clenched, and a fury boiled in his veins like gasoline ready to ignite. The bastard he'd chased in La Ronda had slipped away, and it gnawed at his guts. He didn't say a word, just pushed through the lobby, ignoring the stares of officers lifting their heads from their desks. His breathing was heavy, a rasp mixing with the hum of the ceiling fan. The Magnum 45 hung at his waist, a weight reminding him how close he'd been to pulling the trigger in that alley. But he hadn't fired, and now he was here, empty-handed and his pride in the dirt. He passed the coffee machine, the stale smell hitting his nose, and swatted a stack of files someone had left on the edge of a desk. The papers scattered like dry leaves, falling to the floor in silent chaos. No one dared open their mouth.

The precinct hallway was a narrow tunnel of closed doors and muffled whispers. Brandon barreled through like a bull, shoulders tense, steps bouncing off the damp-stained walls. His coworkers shot sideways glances, some from their offices, others pretending to skim reports. They knew he was about to blow—saw it in his clenched jaw, the wild glint in his eyes. He brushed past a filing cabinet and shoved it with his elbow, making it wobble but not tip. A quick punch landed on a wooden door, the sound slicing the air like a gunshot, though the wood held. He kept moving, kicking a chair in his path; it skidded with a screech until it hit the wall. The officers froze, holding their breath, waiting for the storm to pass. He didn't see them, didn't care. His head was a whirlwind of images: the alley, the man running, that damn streak on the ground he couldn't shake. Each swing was a stab at unloading the helplessness burning his chest, but it wasn't enough. He pressed on, leaving a trail of shifted furniture and nervous stares behind.

Esteban stepped out of his office just as Brandon was about to ram another desk. The old man, short and fat, with a shirt too tight and a belt ready to give up, raised a weathered hand. "Enough, Heat, cut it out!" His voice was rough, worn from years of barking orders and smoking cheap cigars. Brandon stopped dead, chest heaving like he'd just run a mile. At 1.83 meters, he towered over Esteban's barely-over-1.60 frame, but the older cop didn't flinch. He locked eyes with him, those small eyes sunken in wrinkles, and jerked his head toward his office. "Inside, now." Brandon muttered something under his breath but turned and followed. The hallway went quiet, the others slipping back to their tasks like nothing happened. Inside the office, Esteban shut the door with a thud and sank into his chair, the leather creaking under his bulk. "What the hell's wrong with you, kid?" he asked, arms crossed. Brandon stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at a crack in the floor. Rage clawed at his throat, but Esteban wasn't the type to back down. "Talk, damn it, or I'll suspend you right here."

Brandon took a deep breath, air hissing out his nose like smoke. "He got away," he finally spat, voice low but dripping with venom. "The guy from La Ronda, the one who might've known something about Margarita and my mom. I had him in my sights and he slipped." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more, and started pacing in front of Esteban's desk. "I went to that damn barrio, boss. Talked to a hooker who pointed me to a house. Saw the bastard bolt and chased him. But he was fast, fucking fast. Cornered him in an alley, pulled my gun, and…" He stopped, punching the air with a fist. "Gone. Like the ground swallowed him." Esteban watched him, unblinking, fingers tapping the wood. Brandon leaned forward, hands slamming the desk. "I'm sick of this shit, Esteban. The real sons of bitches are still out there while I'm chasing shadows." His voice shook—not from fear, but from a fury scorching his insides. He saw Margarita's body on the ground again, blood staining her dress, and had to grit his teeth to keep from yelling.

Esteban leaned back in his chair, the frame groaning under his weight. "Sit down, Heat," he said, pointing at the chair across the desk. Brandon glared like he wanted to tell him to fuck off, but he dropped into it, legs sprawled, elbows on his knees. "You're about to blow a gasket, kid," Esteban went on, pulling a cigar from the drawer and lighting it with a match. Smoke filled the room, stinging Brandon's eyes, but he stayed quiet. "You can't keep going like this. You'll burn out before you get those bastards." Brandon snorted, looking away, but Esteban pressed on. "Look, I get it. It hurts. You want to rip their heads off with your bare hands. But if you don't cool it, you'll screw up, and then there's no coming back." He paused, taking a deep drag. "Take a breather. Think straight. It's the only thing that'll get you to those sons of bitches." Brandon balled his fists, nails digging into his palms, but something in the old man's words started sinking in. He didn't want to admit it, but he was wiped. The cigar smoke hit his nose, and for a split second, just a split second, he let the tension ease.

Esteban's office door clicked shut behind him. Brandon walked down the hallway, slower now, boots barely scuffing the linoleum. His shoulders were still tight, but he didn't look like a caged animal anymore. His coworkers darted quick looks, but he ignored them. Esteban's words echoed in his skull, mixing with the buzz of the AC. He reached his office door, a faded plaque with his name barely readable. Turned the knob, stepped in, and closed it behind him. The room was a mess: files stacked high, a cold coffee mug on the desk, a chair with a wobbly leg. He sank into it, the worn leather sagging under his weight. Elbows hit the desk, and he rubbed his face with his hands. The silence wrapped around him, thick, like the world had paused for a moment. He was calmer, yeah, but the anger still pulsed underneath, beating like a heart that wouldn't quit.

Less than a minute passed before Brandon shot up again. The chair squeaked as he shoved it back, and he started pacing the office like a trapped wolf. The alley crashed back into his head uninvited. That man running, the sound of his steps on the pavement, and then that streak on the ground. It wasn't normal, damn it. Looked like a tail mark, something big, something that didn't fit. He yanked at his hair, pulling the roots. What the hell had he seen? He always wrapped things up fast—it was his damn specialty. Robberies, fights, missing persons: three days, done. But this was different, a puzzle with pieces that wouldn't match. Frustration clawed up his throat like bile, and he slammed a fist on the desk, rattling the coffee mug. He wanted answers, needed them now. Margarita's image stabbed through him again—her eyes wide, empty—and he felt the air slip away. He couldn't stay still, not with this eating him alive.

His office door flew open as Brandon stepped out, the knob banging the wall. He took three strides down the hall, set on heading back to La Ronda, ready to tear through every damn corner until he found that bastard. But before he hit the stairs, Esteban's voice boomed from behind. "Heat, get back here!" Brandon froze, teeth grinding, and spun on his heels. The old man leaned out of his office, one hand on the frame, the other clutching a half-smoked cigar. "I'm not done with you," Esteban growled, then ducked back inside. Brandon cursed under his breath, the echo of his boots filling the hall again as he retraced his steps. The thought of going back in there churned his stomach, but there was no dodging it. He stepped in, the door slamming shut behind him, and stood there, waiting for whatever the boss was about to drop on him now.

Esteban sat behind his desk, stubbing out the cigar in an ashtray overflowing with butts. "Sit," he said, not looking up. Brandon flopped into the chair, legs restless, fingers drumming the armrest. "Look, Heat, I don't like what I'm seeing. You're losing it, and that's not gonna get you anywhere good." Esteban leaned forward, hands clasped. "So I'm sticking a partner on this mess with you. Someone to keep your ass grounded." Brandon frowned, mouth opening to argue, when the door swung open. Susana walked in, uniform crisp, hair pulled into a high ponytail. She was from the academy, same class as him, and met his eyes with that dark gaze that always seemed to know too much. Brandon went cold. He hated partners—always worked alone. She gave him a short nod, and a knot twisted in his chest he wouldn't name. He remembered her from training, always nearby, quiet but there. She'd never said a word, but something in how she looked at him rattled him. And him, damn it, he felt something too, though he'd deny it a thousand times. After Margarita, he didn't want to feel anything for anyone. But there she was, standing in front of him, and the air in the office got heavier than he could handle.