The next night, Brandon dragged his exhausted body back to the Sterling villa.
He'd gotten a call earlier in the secret room—new intel on the gang he'd been keeping tabs on. No time to waste. He'd rushed straight out. One of his comrades had died at their hands. He'd never let it go.
He'd basically been camping out at the SWAT HQ these past few days, but progress? Minimal. Almost none.
Now, slumped on the couch in the living room, the weariness was crushing. He rubbed at his throbbing temples with slender fingers, feeling like his head might split.
“Mrs. Tate,” he called. “Did she eat today?”
Of course, Mrs. Tate knew exactly who he meant. She replied right away, “Yes, Miss Elena couldn't get up, so I fed her myself, a bite at a time.”
Brandon frowned hard. “Still can't
