Chapter 2034 - 841: "If He Won’t Give Me a Reason, I’ll Always Give Him an Excuse!

The knife tip pierced in by a millimeter.

Blood gushed out, streaming down along the eye socket.

Pedro screamed even louder.

The man ignored him.

He slowly moved the knife tip down, scraping across the cheek, across the chin, stopping at the neck.

"Next time," he said, "it won't be the eyes."

He put away the knife and turned to walk out.

Pedro slumped in the chair, trembling all over, his right eye already shut, face covered in blood.

The lights went out.

In the darkness, there were only his own heavy breaths and that face burned almost out of recognition.

Guayaquil, October 9th Avenue, No. 1374.

The tattoo parlor closed at ten in the evening.

Miguel Rojas was packing up when the door was pushed open.

Two people came in, both wearing black jackets, their faces hidden by masks, only their eyes visible.

"Closed." Miguel said.

The two people ignored him.

One of them took a photo out of his pocket, holding it in front of him.

The photo was of the bald tattooed man, with "Santa Muerte" inked on his right arm.

"When did this person come?"

Miguel glanced at the photo, his expression changed.

"I... I don't know him."

The other person walked to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Think carefully before you speak."

Miguel's legs went weak.

"It was... last week. He came with some 'Los Lobos' guys. I only did the tattoo for him, I don't know anything else..."

"Those 'Los Lobos' guys, what are their names?"

"I don't know... they only went by codenames. 'Chino', 'Rat', 'Fatso'... that's all I know."

The first person put away the photo.

"That 'Chino', where is he now?"

Miguel shook his head.

"I really don't know... he's usually active in the Southern District, there's a club there called 'Tropical Night', he often goes there..."

The two people exchanged a glance.

The first person nodded.

The other person took out a syringe, filled with a clear liquid.

"Don't move," he said, "it won't hurt."

Miguel struggled to escape but was pinned down by the first person.

The needle pierced into his neck.

A dozen seconds later, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground.

The two people dragged him into a storeroom inside, closed the door, and then left.

Outside the door, the street was very quiet.

A dim yellow circle of light from the street lamp illuminated nothing.

"Tropical Night" nightclub was in a small alley in Guayaquil's Southern District.

At two in the morning, it was still quite crowded inside.

"Chino" was sitting in a booth in the corner, holding a woman, with half a dozen beers in front of him.

He had almost finished drinking, face flushed, his words slurred.

"Let me tell you guys," he slapped the table, "that thing I did that day, did you see it? That Mexican guy's wife, when I hit her, she couldn't move on the ground! She was still alive when she was burning! Did you hear her scream?"

The people around burst into laughter.

"Chino" got even more animated.

"And that kid, still kicking when burning on the tire! It's the first time I've ever seen someone burn like that!"

The laughter grew louder.

"Chino" raised his glass, about to down another bottle.

The bottle just reached his lips when he froze.

Two people stood opposite the booth.

He didn't know when they came, dressed in black jackets, faces covered by masks.

"Who are you?"

The two people said nothing.

One of them took a photo out of his pocket, holding it in front of him.

The photo was of him, the tattoo on his right arm clear as day.

"Recognize it?"

"Chino" was stunned for a moment, then realized, his face changed.

"What do you want—"

Before he could finish speaking, the first person punched him in the stomach.

He doubled over, not even able to scream, the second person already moved behind him, an arm locking around his neck, dragging him out of the booth.

Those around wanted to stand up, but the first person pulled out a gun, pointing it at them.

"Sit still."

They immediately sat back down.

"Chino" choked for air, face flushed, hands clawing, feet kicking, but he couldn't break free.

The first person put away the gun, taking out a syringe.

"Don't move."

The needle pierced into his neck.

"Chino" struggled a few times and then went limp.

The two people dragged him out of the nightclub, tossed him into a car parked at the alley entrance.

The car doors closed, the engine started, driving into the night.

At four in the morning, suburbs of Guayaquil, an abandoned warehouse.

When "Chino" woke up, he found himself tied to a chair.

Three people stood facing him.

The one in the middle was in his forties, wearing a black jacket, holding an iron rod.

"Awake?"

"Chino" struggled, a cloth gagging his mouth, could only make muffled sounds.

The man took a step closer.

"That day with the Mexican woman," he said, "did you hit her with the rod?"

"Chino" desperately shook his head.

The man struck his leg with a stick.

With a crunch, the leg bone broke.

"Chino" screamed, the cloth stuffed in his mouth muffled the sound, akin to a pig being slaughtered.

"I'm asking you," the man said, "Was it you who did it?"

"Chino" frantically nodded.

The man struck his other leg with the stick.

Another crunch.

"Chino" rolled his eyes back, almost passed out.

The man put down the stick and picked up a gasoline can from the side.

Gasoline was poured all over "Chino".

"Chino" trembled all over, his face smeared with tears and snot.

The man threw the empty can aside and took out a lighter.

"You know," he said, "when that child burned, he was not yet six years old."

"Chino" shook his head desperately, uttering a muffled plea as if begging for mercy.

The man ignored him.

The lighter ignited, the flame flickered before his eyes.

"Burn."

The flame was tossed onto "Chino".

Gasoline ignited instantly, blue flames rose, "Chino" screamed in agony, struggled fiercely, the chair overturned, he rolled on the ground, circling a dozen times, the fire did not extinguish.

The three men stood by, watching.

Watched as the fire burned more fiercely, watched as "Chino's" screams grew weaker, watched his struggles slow, until finally he stopped moving.

The flames continued to burn, crackling, the air filled with a charred smell.

After a long time, the fire went out.

On the ground remained a charred, unrecognizable mass.

The first man turned around.

"Let's go."

Three days later.

The events in Guayaquil appeared in the corner of the local newspaper.

"A charred body was found in the Southern District, suspected gang vendetta."

"October 9th Avenue tattoo shop owner missing, suspected gang conflict relation."

"A man from San Rosa Village injured in the right eye, claiming to have been robbed, yet doubts arise."

No one linked these events together.

Except for one person.

Ecuadorian Presidential Palace.

The report was delivered to the President's desk while he was having breakfast.

He glanced at it, his expression changed.

"When did this happen?"

The secretary stood beside him.

"Occurred successively within three days. Police say it might be gang conflict, but..."

"But what?"

The secretary hesitated.

"The commonality among those people is they all participated in the anti-Mexico march in Guayaquil that day. After the march, some did extreme things."

The President put down his fork.

"Are you saying..."

The secretary said nothing.

The President was silent for a long time.

Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Get me connected to Mexico Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

The call connected.

The voice on the other end belonged to Joachim Ribbentrop.

"Mr. President, what can I do for you?"

The President took a deep breath.

"Minister Joachim Ribbentrop, regarding the events of that day, we have captured some involved parties. The investigation is ongoing, results will come soon."

Joachim Ribbentrop was silent for a few seconds.

"Very well. We are waiting."

Hung up the phone.

The President stared at the receiver for a long time.

The secretary quietly asked:

"Mr. President, what do we do?"

The President said nothing.

He looked out the window.

Quito's sky was very blue, the sunlight was brilliant; nothing unusual seemed apparent.

But he knew that beyond that blue and sunlight, something had already changed.

Mexico City, "Feathered Serpent Temple".

Bennett stood in Victor's office, placing a report on the desk.

"The one who poured gas is dead. The one who threw beer bottles is dead. The one who wielded the stick is dead. The tattoo shop owner is missing. The gas station employee is still alive, but blind in the right eye."

Victor opened the report, page by page he looked.

The photos were clear.

The charred corpse of "Chino". Surveillance screenshots from the "Tropical Night" nightclub. Photos of the concrete house's interior in San Rosa Village.

He closed the report.

"What's the reaction from the Ecuadorian government?"

Bennett shook his head.

"They still say 'the investigation requires some time'."

Victor stood up and walked to the window.

Outside was the night view of Mexico City, dazzling lights, order was evident.

"Let them take their time investigating."

"I am the most patient person."

Victor took a puff of his cigarette.

"If he doesn't give me a reason, I have plenty of excuses!"

...