Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  “Why don’t you come over here and get some of this, mamí ?” Baggy Jeans said, rubbing his hand up and down his front zipper.

  Raising her index finger, she yelled back to him. “Hold on a sec.” She patted herself down as if searching for something. “Damn, didn’t bring my magnifying glass and tweezers.” She gave him a palms-up shrug. “You should’ve told me you’d be here.”

  “Bitch!” He flipped her off and slouched away, muttering profanities in two languages. Impressive.

  She shook her head, already regretting her vow not to give Tiffany a hard time about her wardrobe. If the shorts didn’t garner unwanted attention during her run, the matching midriff-baring crop-top definitely would.

  She’d changed into the outfit at the Durant family’s guest house after Tiffany spotted her yanking off Marci’s designer pumps and rubbing her feet. Tiffany had rooted around in one of the plastic bags, dug out a handful of workout gear, and thrust it at her. After several refusals, Veranda had caved when Tiffany dangled a pair of Nikes by their shoelaces.

  Diaz had ordered her to take time off to relocate, and her meeting with Sam wasn’t until that evening. With a long afternoon ahead of her, she’d appreciated the chance to get comfortable. Once she wriggled into the clingy outfit, however, she realized that Tiffany’s athletic wear could be mistaken for lingerie.

  After dropping Chuy and Tiffany off at her mother’s house to pick up their motorcycles, Veranda had used her cell to call Cole on the drive to Chuy’s apartment. It had been her first opportunity to have a serious conversation with him since the meeting in the War Room. Cole had sounded busy, explaining that he was finishing his report on the fire investigation and couldn’t talk.

  Frustration whipped through her. She needed an outlet. When she found herself driving too fast, gripping the wheel too hard, and getting too angry, she’d pulled into a vacant lot down the street from Chuy’s place to go for a run.

  Warmup now finished, she scanned for Baggy Jeans. Nowhere in sight. She zipped her cell phone into a hidden pocket at the back of her waist and launched into a trot heading west on Southern Avenue. Moving to South Phoenix meant finding a new route for her regular runs. These were her childhood stomping grounds, so she knew this part of the city well. She’d already figured out what streets she could take to arrive back at Chuy’s garage after about four or five miles.

  Instinctively, she kept an eye out for Baggy Jeans, who she’d begun to think of as BJ. No self-respecting Latino male would stand for such an insult to his manhood. Her taunt could come back to haunt her. Unfortunately, she’d locked her gun in the Tahoe’s glove compartment. Tiffany’s outfit had no place to hide a Glock. She made a mental note to carry pepper spray on her next outing in case BJ tried to take it to the next level.

  Her feet found a steady rhythm as she pounded along the sidewalk on Southern. She passed squat buildings lining the street that had been there since she was a child. Many storefronts were abandoned, their boarded-up windows put the lie to the promised revitalization that never reached South Phoenix.

  The day’s stress gradually released its hold, easing the tension from her limbs. She turned north on Montezuma and kept going. A sheen of perspiration glistened on her coppery skin. She felt free. Energized. Late October offered the perfect weather for outdoor pursuits. Still warm and sunny, but without the blistering heat of the summer months. The scenery, featuring chain link fences, broken windows, and colorful graffiti, wouldn’t get a spread in Arizona Highways magazine, but she felt right at home.

  The screech of tires killed her runner’s high. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a dark van with blacked-out windows swerve to the curb a few yards behind her. Reverting to cop mode, she performed a quick threat assessment. The van had stopped between intersections without any other cars around, so traffic hadn’t caused the sudden maneuver. No pedestrians in sight meant the driver wasn’t avoiding a jaywalker either. She came to the only logical conclusion at the same moment the van’s side panel slid open.

  BJ leaped to the sidewalk behind her, the silver blade of a knife glinting in his hand. Weaponless, she opted for flight and kicked on the afterburners, sprinting away from him. Eyes darting in a fruitless search for help, she pelted across the deserted avenue, turning down a street that would take her toward the Tahoe. She had to reach the vehicle before he caught up.

  Heavy footsteps thudded behind her, matching the wild banging of her heart. She had already run more than three miles, but BJ was fresh. Despite her adrenalin-fueled dash, he was steadily gaining ground.

  “I’m gonna fuck you up, bitch!” BJ rasped the threat between breaths as he chased her down, a cheetah on the heels of a gazelle.

  Arms and legs pumping, she had no hope of pulling her cell phone from its zippered pocket, much less making a call. She tried shouting, but her burning lungs barely produced a hoarse yelp. She had to conserve oxygen to feed her brain and sustain her fatigued muscles.

  She considered using the last of her energy for an all-out sprint until she either reached the Tahoe or collapsed. But if he caught her, she’d have no reserves left to fight him. BJ would gut her with his knife. She discarded the idea in favor of attack, her only remaining option. Her rapidly forming plan hinged on precise timing, the right location, and the element of surprise.

  She chanced another look over her shoulder. He was about twenty feet behind, closing in fast. Now or never.

  She left the sidewalk to make a beeline for Southern Avenue, cutting between two abandoned buildings. She would come out within thirty yards of the Tahoe, but getting to her vehicle would do no good if BJ got there with her. She needed time to unlock the door, jump inside, and lock it shut. Her plan would buy her at least fifteen seconds.

  Rounding the first corner of the building, her eyes locked on the boarded-up windows. She knew what lay around the next corner and put on a final burst of speed to reach it quickly.

  Veranda had been in many foot chases during her time in patrol. The most dangerous times were when the suspect left her line of sight. He could double back and strike, catching her off guard.

  She used her experience to set BJ up by running around the first corner and going straight. He was now conditioned to follow her blindly around the edge of a building. When she disappeared again, he would barrel after her without thinking.

  She raced around the second corner, planted her foot, and snatched the edge of the plywood she’d seen on her first pass down Southern Avenue dangling by one nail from a broken window. She wrenched it free from the sash and grasped one edge in each hand. In one fluid movement, she hoisted the poster-sized plank and spun toward the sound of BJ’s approaching feet.

  He whipped around the corner at top speed, oblivious to the wide wooden board coming straight at him with all the force she could muster. His face smashed into its flat side with a sickening crunch. Veranda loosened her grip a split second before impact to avoid injuring her hands.

  BJ’s feet flew out from under him. His back slammed to the ground, the loud oof telling her the wind had been knocked out of him. While he lay gasping, she took off. Seconds later, she was tearing down the sidewalk paralleling Southern Avenue as fast as her feet would carry her. The Tahoe was in sight, but farther away than she’d estimated.

  BJ shouted something from behind her, but she ignored him, completely focused on her goal. She was going to make it to her car. She was going to—

  A second man, tall and wiry, stepped into her path and took up a shooter’s stance, the barrel of his gun aimed squarely at her.

  “On your knees, puta,” the gunman said.

  15

  She skidded to a halt, eyes scanning wildly for an escape route. Confronted with two attackers, one behind her wielding a knife, the other brandishing a gun at her face, she was out of options.

  As she began to drop to her knees, hoping the gunman would come close enough for
her to disarm him, the welcome sound of approaching traffic reached her ears. Maybe someone would see what was going on and call 9-1-1. The engine noise grew louder, and she realized it came from a lone motorcycle. Damn. Whoever it was would have to pull over to use a cell phone. Probably drive to a safer location before parking the bike. She didn’t have that kind of time.

  “Now, bitch.” The gunman gestured in a downward motion with the muzzle.

  She complied, pebbles on the rough pavement digging into her knees. She prepared to go for his gun if he was stupid enough to get close.

  He wasn’t.

  The gunman kept the muzzle trained on her while BJ grabbed a fistful of her hair from behind and jerked her head back. As he bent over her, droplets of blood fell from the tip of his shattered nose, plopping onto her cheek.

  “You gonna come with us, puta.” He waggled the knife in front of her face. “And you gonna wish you was dead before we get done with you.”

  The motorcycle got closer, the growl of its drilled-out baffles rumbled through the deserted street like thunder.

  BJ and the gunman both turned toward the racket. Taking full advantage of their momentary distraction, she clasped both hands around BJ’s and drove the point of his knife into his thigh.

  Shrieking, he stumbled backward and wrenched the blade out. A dark stain blossomed around the slit in his jeans. She rolled away, coming up to a crouch.

  The gunman set his sights on her again. “Back on your knees!”

  She straightened and squared her shoulders. “No.”

  Moments ago, she had knelt as a ploy to get his weapon. She refused to do it as an act of obedience. Time stopped. The roar of the motorcycle, the stream of expletives spewing from BJ, the sound of her own breathing, all receded. In the stillness, an unmistakable snick-snick froze her insides. The gunman had thumbed the hammer back, cocking it as a final warning.

  BJ clutched his upper leg, blood oozing between his fingers. “Just fuckin’ shoot her, man.”

  She forced her gaze from the barrel pointing at her to meet the gunman’s eyes a split second before a thick metal chain bashed against the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. She glanced up from his crumpled form to see Chuy, a look of cold fury on his scarred face and a chain wrapped around his clenched fist.

  The gunman groaned, sat up, and raised his weapon. Veranda lashed out with her sneakered foot, landing a blow to his right forearm. The pistol clattered to the pavement.

  Chuy bent to scoop it up, but BJ had quietly circled around to jump him from behind.

  “He’s got a knife,” she warned her cousin before diving on the gunman, who had started crawling toward his weapon.

  Chuy hadn’t been trained in defensive tactics or disarming techniques at the police academy. He’d learned both skills in the prison yard, where they played for keeps. She’d never witnessed her cousin in an actual fight, and he was something to behold. She watched him from the corner of her eye, guarding his back as she would a fellow officer’s, while she grappled with the gunman.

  Chuy’s eyes went dark as he went into battle, feet planted wide for stability, knees bent to lower his center of gravity. His arm was in constant motion, swinging the chain in a vicious arc, repeatedly whipping the heavy links around to lash BJ’s ribs, arms, and legs. Chuy’s relentless onslaught never allowed his adversary close enough to use his knife.

  Satisfied her cousin was holding his own, she concentrated on putting the other man down. The gunman lurched to his feet, and she hammered his face with a series of elbow strikes before he could fully straighten. He sank to his knees and she prepared to deliver a kick to his jaw designed to knock him out.

  The blast of a nearby car horn drew everyone’s attention to the street. The driver of the black van laid on the horn a second time. He gestured frantically at the open side door, signaling the two attackers to get inside.

  Veranda processed the new information. What had at first appeared to be a random encounter with a foul-mouthed moron, then seemed to morph into a revenge attack with his friend, had actually been a coordinated ambush all along. As she considered the implications, the gunman took the opportunity to bolt toward the idling van.

  She started to give chase when Chuy’s warning shout halted her. Instinctively, she ducked and spun away as a flash of silver flew past. If she hadn’t moved, BJ’s knife would have plunged into the middle of her back.

  Seeing his cohorts about to abandon him, BJ had distracted Chuy and Veranda by hurling his blade at her. While Chuy rushed to her side, BJ pelted to the van, diving through the open side door as the driver peeled out in a plume of exhaust and smoking tires.

  Chests heaving, Veranda and Chuy watched the fleeing vehicle fishtail down the street, disappearing around a corner. Even if she sprinted to the Tahoe, she’d never catch up before the van reached the I-17

  interchange.

  Cursing, she tugged her cell from its zippered pocket at her waist. To her relief, the phone was intact. She tapped the screen and hesitated, considering her best move. The South Mountain Precinct was close, but by the time patrol units responded, got her story, and started searching, the van would be on one of several possible freeways. The Air Unit wouldn’t have much to work with, even if the helicopter happened to be on this side of the 500-square-mile city. She pictured herself answering questions, filling out forms, and looking at mug books for hours on end.

  Chuy watched her deliberation with an amused expression. “You’re not gonna catch them,” he said. “Besides, do you really want Diaz here?”

  Shit. She pictured her lieutenant in full rant after learning about the attack. He’d review the reports and discover that she’d gone for a jog with no gun, no radio, no pepper spray, nothing but a cell phone. After the aneurism that would surely follow, he would frog-march her to the nearest safe house and sleep on the bed next to her.

  Nope. This little incident would stay between her and Chuy.

  She turned to her cousin. “Tell you what. I won’t say anything if you don’t.” She eyed him. “Especially not to Diaz. I don’t care how tight you two are.” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m serious, Chuy.”

  “Deal.” He chuckled. “Besides, if this ever got to court, there’s not a prosecutor in the city that would put me on the witness stand.”

  “I hear you.” Now that her main dilemma was resolved, she turned her attention to another nagging question. “How did you know I was in trouble? How did you find me?”

  “I didn’t.” Chuy shook his tattooed head. “I was coming back to the garage to work on a car. The owner said he needed it tomorrow.”

  Good thing she’d doubled back to Southern Avenue. Chuy would never have seen her on a side street like Montezuma. “And where did you get that chain?”

  Chuy held a chain heavy enough to do a lumberjack proud. He’d wrapped the solid steel links around his wrist twice and clutched them in his fist, letting the remaining length dangle to the ground.

  “The law says a convicted felon can’t carry a gun,” Chuy said, links clanking as he shrugged. “Nothing about carrying a chain, though. I hide one of these on all my bikes.” His eyes widened in mock realization. “Sabes qué? There’s some scary motherfuckers out there.”

  She laughed. “Then you must be the head motherfucker who keeps all the other motherfuckers in line.”

  “Damn straight.” He inclined his head in agreement. “I got to ask you something, mi’jita.” He grew serious again. “Yesterday, the Villalobos cartel tried to kill you. Today they try to grab you right off the street. What’s up?”

  Reeling as if she’d been hit with Chuy’s chain, she saw her cousin in a new light. Not only did he spot the wolf logo on the back of the van, he also recognized the symbol. In addition, he understood that BJ and the gunman weren’t trying to kill her outright.

  Snatching pedestrians from sidewa
lks in a blitz-style attack was a hallmark of criminal organizations around the world, and the Villalobos cartel was no different. In a matter of seconds, the unsuspecting victim was ambushed and hustled into a waiting van, whisked away before anyone could react. Never to be seen again.

  She didn’t insult Chuy’s intelligence by denying it. “I don’t know why, but something changed. Someone in the cartel wants to capture me alive now.”

  Chuy scrubbed a hand over his face. “Not gonna lie to you, mi’jita. I don’t like this. Those dudes weren’t playing. Maybe you should tell Diaz so he can watch your back.”

  “Not just no.” She crossed her arms. “But hell no.”

  His scowl reminded her forcibly of the lieutenant in question. “How did they find you? Do they know you’re at my place now?”

  She’d already thought of that. “They didn’t see where I’m staying. I’m sure of it.”

  “How?”

  Now Chuy even grilled her like Diaz. She dredged up the glare normally reserved for her supervisor and directed it at her cousin. “I stopped here on the way home from Mamá’s house. I haven’t been to your apartment since this morning. There’s no way they tailed me to Paradise Valley and back without me noticing.” She hated to admit the next part. “They must have followed me from the family property just now.” Recalling her brief, frustrating conversation with Cole, she cursed herself for being too distracted to notice the black van in her rearview.

  “Or they could have stuck a tracker on your ride,” Chuy said.

  She pursed her lips. “Doubtful.”

  “Let’s go to my garage.” He turned toward his bike. “I’ll check it out.”

  She waited behind the wheel of her Tahoe while Chuy tucked the chain into a hidden compartment under the seat of his customized Fat Boy. Through the slight haze of dust on the windshield, the dark tattoos rippling over his bronze skin gave him a sinister appearance. Like many in law enforcement, Veranda often wore a Saint Michael pendant to honor the Archangel warrior who battled evil. Her cousin, more sinner than saint, looked like Michael’s hellish counterpart, an unholy avenging angel.