Following the Harley down the street, she recalled the way Chuy fought, revealing a level of brutality she hadn’t known he was capable of. There was nothing out of bounds, nothing off limits. When he wasn’t thrashing BJ with the chain, Chuy jammed a thumb in his eye, kicked him in the balls, and punched him with a massive silver skull ring that split the man’s face. She had no doubt Chuy would have resorted to biting him if he had to. Veranda gained a new understanding of how years behind bars with the worst humanity had to offer had changed her cousin.
She also realized Chuy had shown her how to fight the cartel. While her department’s regulations held her in check, Hector Villalobos had a distinct advantage. El Lobo had no mercy, answered to no one, played by his own rules. Perhaps she should borrow from her cousin’s playbook. She knew the cartel would come after her again. Before they did, she’d have to learn to fight dirty too.
16
Veranda forced out a fake laugh. “Guess I’ll tell Jake to go a little easier on me next time.” Covertly eyeing Sam to see if he bought her story, she pretended to admire the extensive collection of reference books crowding the tall maple shelves that lined the walls of his home office.
She’d come up with the perfect explanation for her cuts and bruises. Sam had seen her many times after her weekly training sessions with Jake, her kickboxing instructor. She’d often sported marks from sparring.
“Try a different flavor.” Sam’s gray eyes bored into her. “’Cause I’m not swallowing that steaming pile of coyote cookies. Your session with Jake is scheduled for tomorrow, not today.”
In a vain attempt to conceal her injuries, she nestled deeper into the cushioned armchair across the desk from Sam as his gaze roved over her skinned elbows, scraped knuckles, and cut lip.
“I’ve been around long enough to tell you’ve been in a street fight.” His expression darkened. “And you’re trying to hide it.”
She’d showered, changed into one of Marci’s outfits, and put on extra makeup before arriving at her partner’s house an hour ago. Sam had invited her to a working dinner, offering a home-cooked meal while they wrote the affidavit he’d promised the lieutenant first thing in the morning.
All through dinner, Sam had eyed her suspiciously while she made small talk with his wife, Sarah, in between trick-or-treaters ringing the doorbell. As soon as they cleared the plates, Sam had ushered her to his home office to grill her about her injuries. And he hadn’t bought a word of her well-crafted story.
Gaze still focused on her, Sam lapsed into silence, his bushy black brows raised expectantly.
She recognized the interrogation technique. The urge to fill the gap in conversation, to satisfy Sam’s questioning look with an answer, almost overwhelmed her. Time spent working undercover in her last position had made her good at spinning a tale, but she’d been no match for Sam. More than thirty years on the job, a deep understanding of human nature, and a fine-tuned bullshit detector had gifted him with unparalleled skills.
One card remained in her deck. “I’m protecting you,” she said. “I didn’t exactly follow protocol and you’ll go down with me if Diaz finds out.”
Sam gave her a sardonic look. “What’s he going to do, charge me with Accessory After the Fact for violating policy?” He rolled his eyes. “We’re supposed to be partners, have each other’s backs. After everything we’ve been through, I should have earned your trust by now.”
She did trust him. Since their first case three months ago, he’d guarded her every secret, sometimes putting his career on the line. As her resolve crumbled, she lowered her gaze, dropped her shoulders, and tilted forward in the distressed leather chair. To her amazement, she realized her body had assumed the textbook position of a suspect about to confess.
Certain Sam had picked up on her inadvertent body language, she prepared for him to go at her hard. When he softened his approach instead, she experienced firsthand what made him a great interrogator. He sensed when to keep silent, when to move in close, and when to make physical contact.
He reached out to rest his fingertips on her forearm. “Tell me what happened, Veranda.”
His words, delivered in his characteristic rich baritone, compelled her to speak. She blew out a sigh. “Three cartel goons tried to stuff me into a van this afternoon.”
His eyes widened a fraction before a look of calm acceptance replaced the fleeting expression of surprise. Every detective learned to hide any sign of disbelief, dismay, or disgust when listening to a confession. The suspect had to feel comfortable relaying every detail of the crime. Nothing stopped an interview faster than overt judgment on the part of the interrogator.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” he said.
She took her partner through the entire incident, leaving nothing out. Sam leaned back in the swivel chair behind his well-used desk, listening intently until she finished.
“I decided it would be a waste to call dispatch,” she said, concluding her account. “The van would be long gone before patrol set up a perimeter and I couldn’t provide a direction of travel to the Air Unit. I’m sure they were at the interchange in minutes.” She felt the urge to justify her actions. “Hell, they could have switched vehicles twice by the time the first officer arrived on the scene.”
Sam waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care whether you followed procedures to the letter. I care that the cartel may know where you’re at.” Lines of concern creased his forehead. “You said your cousin didn’t find a tracking device on your city car?”
She nodded. “He practically crawled inside the engine. The Tahoe’s clean.”
“Then they tailed you somehow. Maybe from your cousin’s apartment.”
She recalled her conversation with Chuy, who had wondered the same thing. “I haven’t been anywhere near the apartment since this morning. I drove to Paradise Valley, then to my mother’s, then pulled over on Southern to go for a run.” She dragged a hand through her thick, dark mane. “My head couldn’t have been so far up my ass that I didn’t see a car following me all over the valley.”
“Then where did they latch on to you?”
She summarized her current theory. “I have two choke points. They’d pick the softer target.”
She used a term Sam would understand. Police are trained to identify choke points—in short, any place an adversary can pinpoint an officer’s location ahead of time and lie in wait.
Sam made a circling motion with his hand, encouraging her to continue.
“My family and my job. In that order. Everyone in the cartel knows they’re the two most important things to me. They wouldn’t risk staking out police headquarters, so that left the family property. They could have easily waited nearby to tail me when I drove away.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “Thanks to me, everyone in the cartel also knows where most of my relatives live.”
Sam shook his head. “Stop kicking yourself over what happened.”
Her heart ached. “You know the expression about sleeping dogs? Well, I woke up a sleeping wolf.” She tapped her chest. “I’m the one who took on El Lobo. Not my family. Now they all live in fear again.” She swallowed. “Because of me.”
Sam’s rugged face conveyed compassion. “It’s not like you can stop now.”
“No,” she said. “I can’t.”
“For what it’s worth, the cartel seems to have you in their sights instead of your family. And they want you alive now. Any idea why?”
“Been running through scenarios for hours.” She spread her hands. “I’ve got nada.”
They both sat in silence, Veranda felt certain Sam’s thoughts moved through the same maze hers did, ran into the same dead ends, then turned back only to find more blocked passages.
“I can’t figure out what they’re up to either,” Sam said on a heavy sigh. “Let’s table that for now. Got to bring you up to speed before we work on
the affidavit.”
“You won’t share anything about the attempted abduction with Diaz, then?”
His face clouded. “There’s nothing to be gained and one hell of a lot to lose by coming out with it now.”
“Diaz would have my ass.” She lowered her voice and scowled, doing her best impression of their lieutenant. “Departmental regulations require any officer involved in a criminal incident, whether on or off duty, to report said incident forthwith. Failure to comply will result in disciplinary action.”
“Sounds just like him,” Sam said.
“Wait, I can also do the face that goes with it.” She snapped her brows together, jutted out her jaw, and narrowed her eyes. “Looks like his chonies are chafing him, right?”
Sam laughed. “Speaking of Diaz, he called me a couple of hours ago while you were tag-teaming with your cousin in South Phoenix. I’ll loop you in before we start on the affidavit.” He glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to be up all night.”
“Just give me an overview,” she said. “Your Geritol’s probably wearing off about now and I don’t want you falling asleep in your chair.”
“No respect,” he muttered, mustache twitching. He shunted one of the teetering stacks of papers on his desk to the side and got down to business. “Flag and Ortiz flew to Mexico City this afternoon.”
She wondered why agents from DHS and ATF would have any business in a foreign capital. “They felt like sightseeing?”
“They’re meeting with the federales at their headquarters.” Concentration crinkled the corners of his eyes. “What are the federales really called again?”
“The PFM. Stands for Policía Federal Ministerial. They’re like the Mexican FBI.”
“According to Flag, Salazar is numero uno on Mexico’s most-wanted list. The Mexicans want boots on the ground here since we have reason to believe he’s in Phoenix.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “They can extradite him if we arrest him. Why do they want in at this stage in the game?”
“Flag wouldn’t tell us much. Kept saying the info was classified.” Sam accompanied his annoyed expression with air quotes. “He did let on that muckety-mucks in both governments are working on a special arrangement if we lay hands on Salazar.”
“Wish I could have gone with Flag and Ortiz. I’d love the chance to peek at Mexican law enforcement files on the cartel.”
“You don’t think the federales share?”
“They share what they think is important, or what we request, but I bet there’s a lot more. For instance, I’d like to know what they have on Daria. There’s not much reliable intel on her in our databases. The woman’s personal life is a complete mystery and she’s always surrounded by guards.”
Sam looked puzzled. “Why Daria?”
“I’m still convinced she’s behind the two bombings.” She spoke quickly to forestall his objection. “I know we found Salazar’s prints at the scene, but explosives are in Daria’s wheelhouse. I can’t seem to let it go.”
“Here’s what I’ve got so far for the affidavit for Daria’s DNA.” Sam handed her a manila folder. “Don’t get your hopes up. The lieutenant thinks we don’t have a shot at convincing a judge. To be honest, I agree with Diaz on this one.” He sent her a rueful grin. “But we have enough to try, so that’s what we’ll do.”
She took the folder. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll find another way.”
He folded his hands in his lap, regarding her thoughtfully. “What’s your end game, Veranda?”
Her partner wanted to know how far she would go. Whether there was a line she refused to cross. He deserved an honest answer. “I won’t stop until the whole cartel goes down,” she said, borrowing a line from her cousin, she added, “whatever it takes.”
“Hector Villalobos will make an example out of you.” His voice held a note of warning.
“Worth it.”
“To show everyone in law enforcement what tangling with El Lobo brings to their door.”
She crossed her arms. “Still worth it.”
He hesitated a beat. “Because of what happened to your family?”
Sam had hit the mark. The rest of the world knew the broad brushstrokes of her story, but he had been by her side through every painful moment as family secrets buried for decades came to light. He knew details she shared with no one else but the man who had become her partner, mentor, and friend.
“The Villalobos cartel has systematically terrorized everyone I care about,” she said. “They silence their enemies through fear. Burning my mother’s restaurant to the ground, taking Gabby, blowing up my house, almost killing Cole … they’re not going to stop.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a score to settle.”
“What if I do?”
“There’s getting justice, and there’s getting payback.” He gave her a moment to consider his words before hitting her with the hard question. “Which are you after?”
Unwilling to examine her motives too closely, she avoided a direct answer. “Someone has to hold them accountable.”
“And that someone has to be you because …” He cocked his head, waiting for her response.
“Because this is a cage fight,” she said. “Now that we’ve each drawn blood, the match isn’t over until one of us submits or dies. Hector’s not the type to submit.” She reluctantly acknowledged the sheer bloody-mindedness that could only have been inherited from her father. “And neither am I.”
She met Sam’s eyes and knew that he understood. In the end, either Veranda or her biological father would die.
17
Policía Federal Ministerial
headquarters, Mexico City
Agent Nicholas Flag surveyed the cramped governmental office that could have been in Chicago, Copenhagen, or Beijing. Regardless of his assignment, he’d found the culture of law enforcement—and the unadorned spaces where those in management toiled—to be similar in every corner of the world. The men around him at PFM headquarters also bore a striking resemblance to officials he’d encountered in many countries. This time, however, Flag had a distinct advantage. On the flight into Mexico, he and Agent Ortiz had devised a strategy to use it.
After fifteen years married to a Puerto Rican woman, Flag spoke fluent Spanish, a fact very few people knew. He marveled at the intelligence gleaned from overt observation when his subjects believed they could speak openly in front of him. As planned, Agent Ortiz had excused himself to go to the men’s room. Predictably, the federales used the opportunity to have a private discussion in their native tongue.
Flag drew his brows together to project confusion as the debate between the three federales grew heated. Comandante Raul Espinoza, head of the PFM’s Mexico City bureau, wore the harried look of a law enforcement executive burdened with too many obligations and not enough funds to meet them. Flag followed their rapid-fire Spanish without difficulty.
“You can’t both go to Phoenix,” Comandante Espinoza said. “We’re understaffed as it is.”
Flag recognized the supervisory style. Espinoza had probably chosen a career in public service early on, trading the trappings of wealth for the chance at power and influence. Anxious to reach the highest echelons of the organization, he would be apt to second-guess every decision.
Agent Esteban Lopez responded to his boss. “At least one of us has to go, Comandante.”
Flag had met Lopez a few weeks back on a task force in Phoenix. In his fifties, his silver-white hair and goatee stood out against his dark brown skin. Doubtless thicker around the middle than when he began his career, Lopez still had the bearing of a man of action.
Next to Lopez, Agent Manuel Rios fidgeted in the cracked vinyl chair. Rios had worked on the Phoenix task force as well. In his early thirties, Rios had a fighter’s build. Flag’s trained eye spotted the definition of dense muscles bunching beneath th
e thin fabric of his off-the-rack suit as he moved.
“I should be the one to go,” Rios said.
Flag wondered why Rios seemed so determined. Then he remembered how the younger federale had looked at Detective Cruz during his stint on the task force. Perhaps he craved a reunion. Interesting. He tucked the observation away for future reference and continued listening.
Espinoza thumped his chest. “I decide who goes. Not you.” He cut his eyes to Flag as if to make sure he couldn’t understand them. Flag tilted his head like a befuddled Cocker Spaniel.
Apparently satisfied, Espinoza addressed his two compatriots. “The Americans won’t turn Salazar over to us if they capture him alive. He has committed felonies in the US, but not murder. They’ll throw him in one of their prisons for twenty years and then extradite him to a country with the death penalty. They can take their pick—Salazar has outstanding murder warrants all over Central and South America.”
“How can we stop that, sir?” Rios asked.
Lopez’s upper lip curled. “More to the point, why would we stop it?” He shrugged. “Let the sonofabitch die.”
Blotchy spots of color climbed up from Espinoza’s starched white collar as he glared at Lopez. “Mexico does not execute prisoners. Nor do we support the execution of our citizens overseas. Besides, he should serve his time here, where he has committed the majority of his crimes.”
Lopez pulled at his goatee. “I don’t see how you can—”
“Of course you don’t,” Espinoza cut in, his tone impatient. “Discussions are underway through diplomatic channels between the two governments. The American president is coming for an official state visit at the end of the year to negotiate a new trade deal.” His fleshy mouth curled into a grim smile. “Which gives us leverage.”
Drawing on years of training and field work, Flag continued to stare blankly at the men as they spoke. He had uncovered their end game but wanted more. Why would their government expend political capital to fast track Salazar back to Mexico?
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