Chapter 2

ALBERT PONDERED CHANGING to a pool attire. But thinking he's not going to take a dip anyway, he just went with his usual look: denim jeans and black tight-fit polo shirt for a bit of discomfort; and crocs for comfort.

As he drove through the narrow tree line, the setting sun illuminated the card in his dashboard, still having a few hints of archipelagic scent.

As a close friend of the Baron’s company, this card, especially the logo has been imbued deep in his cerebral. He has vague recollections of that the first time he saw; how it reminded him of a sad piece of noodle lying on the ground trying its best to spell an “ae” in the best way it can. Because it would spell either an uppercase “h” or a “jc” first before anything else.

He remembered stating this in the presence of his both Caine and Charles during one their playtimes as a kid when everything was relatively normal. They both didn’t care and just continued fighting over which power ranger was the best. Unfortunately, they never arrived to a conclusive point.

“It’s obviously Red,” Albert muttered to himself as he drives off towards the area.

The same card is being held by a person at the other side of town. A place where the casinos were just starting to open and where the night ladies were just waking up. Although today, somber atmosphere they were trying to accomplish is getting ridiculed by police sirens wailing in the setting sun.

Around 7 police cars are parked in front of one of the gambling pits; and with them are a dozen cops escorting a large group of rowdy-looking men. The crowd watching the arrest development was small, but it was still a crowd. And crowds rarely have one opinion between them. One thing they can agree on, though, is how esteemed the person-in-command looked like.

At a whopping 6'8', the middle-aged black sergeant Allan August stood above the crowd. He had that Danny Glover Lethal Weapon facial hair on him which makes him more intimidating. His presence exudes authority and experience as he looked each of the prisoners in their conscience-devoid eyes without fear. A quality that his detectives and the scattered uniformed officers could only hope to achieve.

“Officer Jameson, right?” a person in a fine-dressed white tux addressed an officer furthest from the scatter crowd.

“Yes. What do you want?” The guy was lackluster with his reply at best.

“I want to offer you an opportunity.” He smiled warmly when he got looked at.

His eyes widened subtly as he recognized the person. “No! I know who you are and I’m not letting you trick me, Caine,” the uniform stated waveringly as he looks at one of the best lawyers in the western seaboard.

In spite of that reaction, Caine took a bag of pictures from his briefcase and showed it to Jameson. “Look at these pictures.” He handed it to him.

He refused to comply, but he was being made to. The combination of the setting sun minimizing his vision and the noisy sirens rhythmically invading his ears were getting to him and affecting his decision-making.

“Look at these pictures.”

The colors splattered in his face felt like a changing scene as the blanket of the sunset faded to be overtaken by the red and blue flashes.

“Look at these pictures.”

Along with the constant whispering of Caine’s very warm voice, it’s getting very hard not to comply.

“Look at these pictures,” Caine repeated himself until Jameson did.

When he finally did, he saw that the bag was filled with pictures of teenage and young adult women of various ethnicities. He’s already feeling the light-headedness coming as he anticipates what the lawyer was about to say. And he’s ready to get swayed by it.

“These are all the women that that criminal has either killed or nearly killed. Do you want to give him the chance of walking free without these people getting their justice?”

Jameson was fighting the urge to just get his gun and kill the criminal. But the more he looked at the face of his daughter in the pile, it got harder and harder to resist. He looked at the people around, the countless cops and finally the Sergeant as he escorted the boss of the ringleader out the building. The piece of shit in cuffs had the face that tells you he does not regret any of what he did.

He looked at Caine helplessly for the last time.

“If you know who I am, you know what I can do. I won’t let you go to jail for doing the right thing.” He put his shoulder on Jameson and gave him a light push.

He tilted from that motion; then he started walking. Eyeing only his target, he continued to walks towards the prize. He walked past the faces of his co-workers as he got closer and closer to the Sergeant and the person he’s escorting. Their faces unrecognizable as the only one he recognized was his rage.

Some of the officers noticed how weird he's acting, but none of them could’ve predicted the next thing.

BANG!

The bullet of the .40 Smith and Wesson went straight towards the head of the now deceased Fred Jules Leopold as he fell swiftly to his death.

August, who was cuffed to him fell with him. “Jameson! What is the meaning of this?”

“You won’t understand. He killed my daughter.” Tears started falling from his already watery eyes.

Jameson was so caught up with his emotions and on the “good” he’s doing so much that satisfaction did not come to him with just one casualty. He turned around and shot all his remaining bullets towards the pile, killing three more bogeys, and wounding several more, including two of his own.

The civilians and most of the cops dispersed as they feared for their life. Most of them doesn’t care about these people more than their lives so they just fled the moment the gunshot sounds struck their hearts. This gave the frantic cop a chance to do more. As his wailing notion stepped more out of bound, he felt like a misguided hero doing what’s best and helping the word be rid of filthy lawlessness. He felt unstoppable. Until he got hit in his leg. He stumbled to the ground, still with the same mindset.

August, still beside the corpse, tried talking to him. “Jameson! What are you doing?”

The wailing shooter replied, “He killed my daughter.” He points the gun towards August.

August, with all the adrenaline pumping him, roared at Jameson, “What are you talking about? You don’t have a daughter!”

Everything stopped. Jameson realized what happened. He woke up to the sight of the wounds he left as the sergeant who lay on the ground tries to rescue his mind. He looked at August, a person he’d known since he was a trainee and realized what he did. But he realized it too late. For one of the officers who he shot, unfortunately, shot back.

His final moments filled with a tragedy of bullets, blood and confusion. And as August looked down on him during his last breath, all those three were embedded and painted in his face.