Chapter 504: The Dust Settles, Great Harvest, Returning to New York

Chapter 504 -330: The Dust Settles, Great Harvest, Returning to New York

Raphael didn’t know how long he’d been locked up. He guessed it was about three days.

Every so often, Kuchilo’s men would open the door and toss in a bottle of water and a corn tortilla.

Counting the one from a few hours ago, this was the third time.

The basement had no windows, and the fluorescent light overhead switched on and off at random.

The space wasn’t large, about ten square meters. The walls were bare concrete, the floor was covered with a waterproof plastic sheet, and a plastic bucket was tossed in the corner.

It looked like a half-finished room.

He sat slumped in a corner.

The physical pain from a few days ago had faded, but the burning in his stomach was far worse.

One tortilla a day was barely enough to keep him alive. Long before the second food delivery, hunger had already morphed from a sensation into a tangible, agonizing pain. It felt like a hand was relentlessly wringing out his stomach, twisting it into knots and making his head buzz.

‘Don’t think about it, Raphael. Think about something else.’

In the darkness, he rested his head against the cold concrete wall, closed his eyes, and tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere.

‘How did Kuchilo find out? I only gave the letter to one person—Carlos Hernandez.’

‘Besides Carlos, nobody knew I planned to report Kuchilo. Not even my mother knew the details.’

‘The answer was obvious. Carlos betrayed me.’

A second hand reached into his chest and started twisting his heart.

He remembered Carlos visiting his home several times a year. He remembered the light in the man’s eyes when he’d heard that Raphael wanted to be a cop too. He remembered Carlos patting him on the shoulder and telling him, “Be careful.” He remembered…

‘I looked up to him like a father.’

‘And it was all a lie.’

‘It was all an act.’

‘The entire police department, from top to bottom… every single one of them is one of Kuchilo’s dogs.’

‘I hate myself for being so stupid, so naive. I hate that I actually trusted a man who could survive in a department like this long enough to retire peacefully.’

‘A man like that should have been suspect from the start.’

‘Too bad I’m only figuring that out now.’

Just as his consciousness began to fade, a sudden commotion erupted outside the door.

Heavy footsteps, the dull thud of fists hitting flesh, and a man’s muffled shouts.

Immediately after, the iron door swung open, and light flooded the room.

A person was thrown inside.

The man landed hard on the concrete floor with a heavy thud. Then the iron door slammed shut behind him, plunging the room into darkness once more.

Raphael heard the man’s pained gasps and the sound of him shifting on the floor.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

A cough echoed in the darkness, followed by a voice he knew all too well.

“I am Carlos Hernandez, Deputy Chief of the Criminal Investigation Division,” the voice said. “Who are you?”

Raphael’s pupils contracted.

As his eyes gradually adjusted to the dark, he slowly made out Carlos’s silhouette—his shirt was half-torn, his left eye was swollen almost shut, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he looked like a stray dog that had been run over.

“You! How…” Raphael trailed off, stunned.

This wasn’t what he’d expected.

If Carlos was the one who had betrayed him, he should be in Kuchilo’s living room laughing at his foolishness, not locked in here with him looking like this.

“Raphael?” Carlos called out, his voice filled with joy. “Is that you, Raphael? You’re alive?”

Raphael was utterly bewildered. “It’s me, Carlos… Uncle,” he said hesitantly. “Why are you here?”

Carlos groaned and slowly pushed himself up from the floor. He leaned against the wall in the corner, taking a few gasping breaths. Clutching his ribs, he said slowly, “I gave what was in the envelope to a reporter.”

“Felipe of ‘El Progreso,’ an old-timer on the anti-drug beat,” he said. “He’s the only one I still trust.”

“You gave it to a reporter?” Raphael asked, dumbfounded. “Was he the one who sold me out?”

“I had just given it to him. Before I even made it back to the police station,” Carlos gasped, his speech broken, “I heard that Kuchilo had taken you.”

As he finished speaking, his eyes darted away, but in the dim light, Raphael didn’t notice.

Hearing this, Raphael didn’t know whether to feel relieved or heartbroken.

He didn’t know if he could believe the man before him. Over the past few days, he had sentenced Carlos to death in his mind a hundred times, had hated him a hundred times. And yet, in his delirious moments, the memory of Carlos holding him as a child would surface, leaving him utterly lost.

But now, here Carlos was—beaten and bloodied, a fellow prisoner just like him.

“So, what now?” Raphael asked after a few seconds, his voice weak.

The hunger was making his mind sluggish.

Carlos looked at Raphael and opened his mouth to speak. “I… I’ll think of something,” he said.

Seeing Raphael curl into a ball, his arms wrapped around his knees and his head buried in them, Carlos fell silent as well.

‘Kill me, Raphael.’ Carlos stared at the ceiling with his one good eye—his right one. ‘Or are you just like me?’

His thoughts drifted back to a few hours before.

…

「Kuluoqi’s Manor. The Living Room.」

The next day, Carlos had returned.

“Are you here to see me, or to plead for that kid?” Kuluoqi asked without looking up.