Chapter 2

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Now, fresh from a smoking car, and a long road that led him into an intricate, labyrinth of noisy streets and alleyways, the man slowly got his bearings. As one day led to another, he learned that during the day the streets were overrun with impatient businessmen and rushing professionals who had to get to their offices before the clock struck eight. But at night the streets belonged to the gangs, thugs, and cheap hooligans, leaving the uniformed bulls with the puzzling challenge of having to navigate through them with guns, steel blades, Billy clubs and tasers.

The first thing he did was rent an office in the cheapest part of town where he slowly became familiar with the gangs that worked the streets, and strutted among them as if he’d been born there. Word quickly spread, and the gangs soon learned all about the new face in the middle of this urban hell

But like any hell, there had to be a devil.

This devil wore a cop’s badge, and the gangs branded him—Lucifer

Lucifer, alias—Lathe Bronson.

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As these felons got to know him, it was hard for them to imagine him as an innocent babe. To them, the first day he drew breath was the day he rolled off the assembly line of the Police Academy in Quantico, Virginia.

They soon learned that Lathe was a serious man with a serious gun, and he had a spotless reputation that reached all the way to California where the Police Department tagged him as their secret weapon. It was joked around town that he was like an alien who got beamed in from Mars as a full adult. No one knew a single person who had any idea who his parents were, what his childhood was like, and if he had any siblings.

Lathe belonged—but not quite.

He had the standard issue swarthy face, square shoulders and strong chin. He had only the trace of a beard and he spoke with a baritone voice and clipped legalistic words. Life had no color for him, no shades of gray. He saw the world around him as good or bad, right or wrong, legal or illegal. When he wasn’t preparing perfect paperwork, he was chasing down criminals with that action-man run of his. But they didn’t believe that Lathe was totally honorable—and they were right.

Lathe’s downfall was his dirty martinis, and his love of another man’s ass.

He had a knockout body that was more ink than skin. He didn’t smile a lot. In fact he’d been accused of having had a humor bypass. He had no social life to speak of, but his good looks enabled him to find a good fuck now and again. Although there were those who hoped to get more from him, he wanted none of it. No forever after for him. He didn’t go in for sticky, complicated relationships. He did what he had to do in order to keep going, and then went on to the next one. Sure, he turned lots of heads in his time, but what ruined him was his lack of charm. 1

Now, after a busy day that was quickly deepening into twilight, Lathe slumped bleary-eyed and unshaven in his squeaking chair. Tired to the bone, he looked down at his badge, and for the first time since he’d pinned it on, it felt heavy and bothersome, like a heavy weight around his neck. With quick movements, he grabbed it, yanked it off his chest, and threw it on his desk.

But since his day wasn’t over, he grabbed the only thing that would give him relief, and poured two fingers of hoochinto a glass that he drank down in one gulp. As it burned its way down his throat he looked around at the dirty walls, dirty floors, and furniture that he’d found discarded on the streets. He was sick to death of all of it. Like anyone else, he grew tired of looking at his dumpy furnishings, and small paychecks. Trying to make a decent living as a cop on the force wasn’t easy, so he did a little moonlighting on the side. This was only one of the reasons he was treated like a red-headed step-child, but he couldn’t have cared less.

As his weary gaze slid around the room, he saw the cheap frosted door, broken blinds, and mountains of paperwork stacked in every corner, and on every available surface. It was a sort of kick-it-out-of-the-way kind of crowded. Because of his limited funds Lathe had to pinch pennies, and that kept him stuck in a rundown neighborhood on the wrong side of the tracks.

He looked over at his window that opened up to a section of the city where old and deserted skyscrapers stood. They rose up like tombstones among rows of rundown shacks. He couldn’t believe that at one time this location was the center of a new downtown core. The dark windows of the skyscrapers stared down at those on the street like a many-eyed monster.