“Stay here a minute,” he said and patted Brando on the neck. He felt knotted muscle and tension. “You remember this place, don’t you, boy? Plenty of bad memories. I know. I get it. Don’t worry. No one is sending you back.”
He climbed from the SUV and walked toward the Challenger. The area was dead. The occasional derelict vehicle sat silent, but there was little else. The streets were so quiet he could hear the hum of the streetlights. The seclusion was the reason the area worked so well for Mu?oz and his dog-fighting ring. And seclusion would be the reason tonight would work so well for him.
He stopped by Mu?oz’s car. He listened for a moment, then smeared the contents of a dog-poop bag over the driver’s door handle. The shit had been happily provided by Brando during their walk.
Tying off and repocketing the bag, he went in search of Mu?oz. He gained entry into the building through a boarded-over door. The place had been a factory of some kind in a past life. He found himself in the office area, judging by the rotted partitioning and open studs. It stunk of piss. He guessed he was standing in the holding area where Mu?oz had kept the dogs. He waved a penlight at the ground. There were no signs of previous pens or cages. No doubt the cops would have taken everything as evidence, leaving only the smell.
He listened for noise and heard faint movement deep inside the building. He threaded his way through it until he reached the factory floor. Over fifty thousand square feet of open space stretched out in front of him, punctuated only by steel support columns. This would have been where they trained the dogs and held the fights. Nothing provided any indication of that now. The place was bare except for trash and rubble on the cracked floor.
He spotted Mu?oz waving a flashlight over the debris. It lit up what was left of his business—namely nothing. He rooted around in the mess and muttered to himself in Spanish.
Beck couldn’t decide whether Mu?oz was searching for something or examining the wreckage of his enterprise for a possible reboot. It was academic. There’d be no do-overs or restarts. It all came to an end tonight.
He’d seen enough. He’d learned what he wanted to learn. Mu?oz was alone and isolated. He backtracked his steps to the entrance of the factory, used a concrete pillar to conceal himself, and waited for Mu?oz to appear.
Twenty minutes later, he emerged. He had a funny gait. He pressed forward with his head down and his arms swinging. His thick build and squat size reminded Beck of a fire hydrant.
Mu?oz reached his car and grabbed his shit-covered door handle. He jerked his hand away and examined it under the glare of his flashlight.
“Que la chingada,” he snarled.
Beck laughed.
Mu?oz swept the flashlight in his direction. He stepped out into the beam’s path.
Mu?oz held up his hand. “You think this is funny, asshole?”
Beck laughed again. “Very.”
“Will you be laughing when I make you lick it off?”
Beck backed up a step, then broke into a run, retreating in the direction of his waiting Honda. He turned back when he heard the patter of Mu?oz’s feet. The piece of filth ran with a stunted and clumsy gait, which was no match for his longer and more developed stride, from years of being a runner. He knew that he had the measure of Mu?oz in a footrace. It was why he’d parked the vehicle four blocks away.
“Don’t think you can get away, fucker.”
“I have no intention of getting away,” he said to himself with a grin as he reached his car.
“I’ve got you now.”
Mu?oz didn’t. He was still over a block behind, beating a flat-footed tattoo on the asphalt.
“No, I’ve got you,” Beck said. He yanked open the passenger door and said simply, “Take him down.”
Brando burst out and pounded the pavement with his powerful legs. His acceleration as he zeroed in on Mu?oz was a thing of beauty to observe.
Mu?oz stuttered to a halt before turning tail. Beck grinned. He wondered if the dog promoter knew he’d been played. Did he realize he’d been drawn out into the open, far from the safety of his car, so that Brando could have his revenge? Beck doubted it. Deductive reasoning probably wasn’t in his skill set.
Brando caught his tormentor before he’d gotten sixty feet. The dog slammed into the man’s back, driving him to the ground. The second he was down, Brando lunged on his prey.
Mu?oz screamed out for help. He raised his arms to protect himself, but Brando simply bit the hands that had previously forced him to fight to the death. The night was filled with more howls and pleas, which would go unanswered.
Beck reached inside the glove compartment and removed his marking knife. He grabbed Brando’s leash before casually walking toward the very one-sided fight.
By the time he caught up to the carnage, Mu?oz’s arms were a never-ending series of lacerations. He was no longer able to keep them raised to protect himself, and Brando had latched on to his throat. Blood was jetting from a wound in his neck and had spattered the street where the dog had dragged him.