A chill whisper slithered from the phone, 'The meat is always fresher when the prey runs.' Gabriel clutched the device, its cold plastic a stark contrast to the burning fury in his gut. His calculated detachment fractured. Someone was toying with him. Someone knew. Bullets had stopped raining down, replaced by an eerie silence. Only the low hum of the industrial freezer broke the stillness. Héctor's lifeless body, still draped over his arm, oozed blood onto the grimy floor. A metallic scent thickened the air. Gabriel pushed the dead butcher away. No time for sentiment. No time for mourning a man who was part of the problem. His eyes scanned the small office, a frantic search for an exit, for anything useful. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light piercing the grimy windows. On Héctor's metal desk, beneath a stack of invoices, a thick, leather-bound book lay partially hidden. It looked out of place, too ornate for a butcher's accounts. Instinct screamed. Moving with a hunter's stealth, Gabriel darted from behind the freezer. His hand snatched the ledger. The leather felt slick, warm with Héctor's spilled blood. He didn't pause. Another option presented itself. Near the back wall, behind a stack of empty crates, a rusty grate covered what looked like a storm drain. Too small for a man of average build, but Gabriel was lean, wiry. He pried the grate loose with a grunt, the metal protesting with a loud screech. It was a tight fit. He dropped, forcing his shoulders through the narrow opening. The air inside was thick, smelling of stagnant water and earth. He wriggled forward, scraping skin against rough concrete. The ledger was tucked securely inside his jacket. His lungs burned. Claustrophobia, a rare guest, tried to creep in, but he shoved it back. Focus. Survival. He crawled, the darkness absolute, until a faint glow appeared ahead. An exit. He pushed through, emerging into a narrow, overgrown alleyway behind the butcher shop. The high-altitude fog, thick as ever, swallowed the sound of his ragged breaths. --- Motel room. Dim light. The air stale. Gabriel stripped, his clothes stained with blood and grime. He tossed them into the trash bin, then stepped into the shower, letting the cold water sluice over his skin, washing away the evidence, the filth, the lingering dread. He emerged, wrapped in a thin towel, and moved to the small table. The ledger lay open. Its pages were heavy, cream-colored, filled with meticulous handwriting. Not a butcher's scrawl. This was an educated hand. Each entry detailed a 'transaction.' Not meat, but people. Names. Dates. Weights. He scanned the columns, his hyper-rational mind cataloging, cross-referencing. The format was disturbingly clinical. One section listed 'Acquisitions,' another 'Transfers,' a third, chillingly, 'Culinary Preparations.' Gabriel’s fingers traced a line. A name he recognized: “María Esperanza, 34, F, 50kg.” She was one of the missing vagrants from his own list. His jaw tightened. This wasn't just a local legend. This was an operation. He turned page after page, the grim reality solidifying with each entry. There were dozens of names, each a life erased, reduced to a commodity. His cynical isolationism, usually a fortress, began to crack. He had always focused on the systemic corruption, the abstract decay of society, but seeing these specific names, these metrics, it brought a cold, sharp pain. Twenty vagrants. All listed. All 'transferred.' His eyes narrowed on a particular section. 'Security Transfers.' A formal header, followed by a list of names and dates. And then, at the bottom of the page, an official-looking stamp and a signature. Chief Inspector Ramos. The local police chief. Gabriel stared at the signature, a muscle twitching in his temple. Ramos. The man he'd met, the one who had feigned ignorance, offered perfunctory condolences for the missing. He had smiled, his eyes empty. This wasn't just a cult operating in the shadows. It was embedded. Protected. The very institutions meant to protect the vulnerable were instead facilitating their demise. His world, compartmentalized into logical sequences, shuddered. This wasn't merely a challenge to his intellect; it was a perversion of order, a mockery of justice. The game had changed. He wasn't just hunting a killer; he was navigating a web of complicity that stretched higher than he'd imagined. He continued turning pages, his analytical mind searching for patterns, for any weakness in their meticulous records. He needed an angle, a leverage point. The entries grew more recent, some dated just days ago. The Gastronomic Syndicate, as he now internally dubbed them, was active, unafraid. The ledger detailed suppliers, transport routes, even preferences. 'Prime cuts.' 'Seasoned.' The language was nauseating, clinical, dehumanizing. He felt a cold rage build, replacing his usual detached calculation. This wasn't just about his sister anymore. This was about all of them. He flipped to the final page of the ledger and finds his own name pre-registered under the category of 'Plato Principal' (Main Course).

Chapter 4: El Sello de la Cofradía