Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  “Because I left them there for you to find.” Daria rapped her cheek with the gun’s sight. “Put your hand back where it was. Take it off the wheel again and see what happens.”

  The Tahoe barreled through the darkness, bringing Veranda closer to whatever Daria had planned for her. Sparse streetlights contrasted with the impenetrable darkness of the surrounding desert. Aware her window of opportunity closed a fraction more with each mile they traveled, Veranda struggled to form a plan. Glancing down at the police radio mounted on a bracket stand bolted to the floor between the two front seats, she edged her right knee over to depress the mic button. Damn. Too far away.

  “I am forever paying for my father’s mistakes,” Daria said after a brief silence.

  Unsure what Daria was up to, she played along. “Paying for El Lobo’s mistakes?”

  “The night he fucked your mother.” Daria allowed a moment for the slur to sting. “Worst mistake he ever made.”

  She forced down all traces of anger, delivering a measured response. “Your father is a rapist.”

  “He wanted your mother, so he took her.” Daria lifted her shoulder in a show of nonchalance. “After he killed her husband.”

  Heart pounding, she felt the pull of Daria’s taunts sucking her in. Fighting for control, she gripped the wheel harder and said nothing.

  “You are the product of a rape. Do you know what that means, Detective Cruz?” Daria moved so close her lips touched Veranda’s ear. “It means nobody wanted you to be born.” She leaned back and let out a throaty laugh. “Your mother only kept you because she thought you might be her dead husband’s child. Then she discovers you are my father’s bastard daughter.” She heaved a theatrical sigh. “How she must suffer every time she sees your face. You’re a constant reminder of the worst day of her life. The day she became a widow. The day her husband’s murderer raped her.”

  Veranda’s control stretched to the breaking point. She had let Daria slip in through her defenses, raining cruel words down on her like physical blows. A moment in her sparring session at the gym a few hours ago cut through the rage. Just as Jake had done, Daria had her against the ropes and would batter her relentlessly until she did something about it.

  The thought calmed her, and two priorities emerged. First, change the subject. Second, find a weakness to exploit. Mentally scanning her accumulated research on the cartel, she settled on the most likely point of internal friction. “And what does your father think when he looks at you? Has he made you second-in-command?”

  Daria’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My father will put me in charge once he sees what I have done to you, puta.”

  She’d scored a direct hit on both counts. The recent DNA results gave her more ammunition. “You call me a whore. Isn’t that what El Lobo calls all women?” She probed the exposed soft spot. “Your father didn’t pick you to take over the cartel when he retires, did he? I’ll bet he chose Adolfo.” She twisted the knife. “Or was it Salazar?”

  “Adolfo had his chance.” All traces of jeering superiority gone, Daria’s anger seethed through every word. “And I’ll take care of Salazar after I’m done with you.”

  Eager to keep her captor off balance, she pounced on the revelation of a power struggle. “So, Salazar’s on point. Must be frustrating to watch him cut in line in front of you.” Noting Daria’s silence, she decided to use the new information. “Of course, Salazar is his firstborn son.”

  Daria’s eyes, locked with hers in the rearview mirror, widened with shock.

  “We ran the DNA from the storage unit scene. I know about Salazar. Your father, being the progressive champion of women’s rights that he is, will turn the cartel over to him. And you’ll spend the rest of your life taking orders from your half brother. You should probably find out how he likes his coffee.”

  “Shut up.” The command lacked conviction.

  “You could turn this around, Daria. Testify against him. Make him pay. I can help you do it.”

  “What? Put me in one of those witness protection programs?”

  “Have they shown you any loyalty? Any respect? Why go to prison for them? Save yourself and get even at the same time.” She hesitated, then took a gamble. “Imagine Hector’s shock when two women, who also happen to be his daughters, unite to take him down.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she’d overplayed her hand.

  “You dare to call me family?” Daria slanted her body sideways to squeeze farther between the two front seats. “We may have the same father, but you are a bastard child. Just like Salazar. I would die before I joined forces with you.”

  Veranda noted Daria’s position and realized she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. The lap and shoulder restraint wouldn’t allow Daria to scoot so far forward in the roomy vehicle. She quickly hid the grin threatening to spread into a triumphant smile.

  Daria had been carefully watching her hands, but not her feet. She pressed the accelerator gradually, hoping Daria wouldn’t catch on.

  As the Tahoe sped faster, Daria finally seemed to notice. “Slow down.”

  “Whatever you say.” Veranda took her foot off the accelerator and stomped the brake pedal all the way to the floor. The Tahoe’s tires shrieked in protest as the hood dipped down. Veranda’s seatbelt caught her, holding her in place. Daria flew forward, her body sailing between the two front seats. Her momentum carried her headlong into the dashboard.

  As soon as the Tahoe came to rest, Veranda pulled her hand back, made a fist, and punched Daria in the face. She prayed the impact with the dashboard combined with the blow to the head had knocked Daria out.

  No such luck.

  Blood streaming from her nose, Daria lay on her right side, gun in her right hand.

  Veranda flicked a glance at the front passenger’s seat. The purse, still containing her duty weapon, had catapulted forward when she slammed on the brakes. The beaded bag lay out of reach on the opposite floorboard. She unfastened her seatbelt, prepared to wrestle the Desert Eagle away from Daria. Still wedged between the front seats, Daria struggled to maneuver the massive pistol into firing position. Unable to get her hands on either gun, Veranda decided retreat was her best option.

  Leaving the vehicle in drive, Veranda opened her door, took her foot off the brake, and rolled out of the car as it coasted forward, carrying Daria away from her.

  She tumbled onto the pavement, scrambled to her feet, and raced toward the open desert, grateful she’d changed into her boots. The crescent moon barely disturbed the darkness that abetted her escape. If she could find a place to hide, Daria would be hard-pressed to find her.

  The screech of the Tahoe’s tires reached her ears as she crested a berm covered with chaparral. Daria had managed to stop the car. Would she drive off or get out and hunt for Veranda? The driver’s door slammed as the engine idled, answering her unspoken question.

  Eyes adjusting to the dark, Veranda spotted an enormous saguaro. She started toward the stately cactus, then paused. Daria would probably look there first. In this part of the desert, there weren’t many natural features to use for cover or concealment. She spun, darted to a small outcropping of rocks and flattened herself on her belly seconds before Daria crested the hill. Silhouetted by the faint moonlight, Daria crept forward in a low crouch, the gun pointing in front of her.

  Daria swiveled her head one way and the other, then picked her way among the scrub brush toward the saguaro. As she bent to check behind the cactus, a tiny movement on a far knoll seemed to catch her attention. She charged after it, giving Veranda an idea.

  Lure Daria farther away, double back to the Tahoe, get her weapon, and use the police radio to call for backup. She picked up a stone about the size of a golf ball and hurled it in a different direction.

  The moment Daria pelted off in pursuit, Veranda jumped to her feet and sprinted to the Tahoe, still idling in the middle of th
e road. She yanked the driver’s door open and flung herself inside, sprawling across the seat. Her fumbling fingers searched the floorboard and found nothing. Daria had taken her purse as well as the gun and cell phone inside it. Shit. Her vision of slapping cuffs on Daria faded. She’d be lucky to survive.

  Out of options, she sat upright in the driver’s seat and closed the driver’s door, prepared to make a fast escape. Belatedly, she realized the noise would alert Daria to her location. A .50-caliber round would tear right through a car door. A moment later Daria materialized at the top of the berm and took aim. Veranda threw the Tahoe into drive.

  A bullet blasted through the side window, showering her with jagged shards. Most ammo would only make a hole in the tempered glass, but such a powerful round took out half of the window. She pinned the accelerator to the floor, fishtailing until the tires found enough traction to propel her forward. More shots hit the back of the SUV as she careened down the road.

  She snatched the police radio’s microphone from its holder and pressed the transmit button. “Charlie thirty-four, nine-nine-nine.” She waited for the dispatcher to respond to her call for emergency backup. Silence. She lifted the mic to try again. The cord dangled, its end frayed. Daria had ripped it loose.

  Unable to summon help, she would go and get it. The nearest police precinct was South Mountain. Catching Daria before one of her men retrieved her required a full-scale response with helicopter, K-9, and perimeter checkpoints. The duty commander, who might be on the far side of the city, would orchestrate the police response. But first, she’d have to convince the patrol units she wasn’t a drunk party girl when she showed up with her face painted like a skeleton, wearing a torn, dirt-streaked Calavera costume.

  Her shoulders slumped, bowing to the inevitable. Lieutenant Diaz was her best option. Gritting her teeth, she headed back to her mother’s house. There wasn’t enough Preparation H in all of Phoenix for the hemorrhoid he’d get once he got a look at her Tahoe.

  25

  Veranda jerked the Tahoe to a stop in front of the other cars that lined the gravel drive. She jumped out and sprinted toward the central pavilion between the casitas. Rios and Tiffany sat at one of the tables near Diaz and Chuy, who stood next to one of the decorated altars, deep in conversation. She veered toward them, ignoring the blurted questions from startled guests as she blew by.

  When she got close, Chuy thumped Diaz’s shoulder and pointed. Diaz turned around to see her running straight at him. Rios and Tiffany glanced up at the same time. Rios pushed his chair back and got to his feet.

  She saw Diaz’s eyes widen, travel over her ripped clothes and disheveled hair, then narrow.

  He caught her by the elbows. “What’s wrong?”

  “Daria Villalobos,” she gasped. “Out in the desert by South Mountain. We need the air unit, K-9, patrol. Got to surround her. Hurry or she’ll get away.”

  “Slow down,” Diaz said. “Are you hurt?”

  Rios joined them. “Did you say something about Daria Villalobos?”

  “I’m okay,” she said in answer to Diaz. “No time to explain.” Still panting, she continued in short bursts. “Please get help now. Can’t let her cross the border.”

  “Come with me.” Keeping a firm grip on her arm, Diaz started toward his car, Rios a half step behind. “I’ll use my radio,” he said. “It’ll be faster. But I’ll need a lot more info to call out the cavalry. Start talking.”

  She rushed to keep up with his ground-eating strides as they hurried to the driveway. While they walked, she told both of them about her abduction and escape. “That’s why I couldn’t call,” she finished. “Daria took my cell phone and disabled the car’s radio.”

  “And your duty weapon,” Diaz said. “With a full magazine.”

  She nodded. “Advise responding units she has at least two guns.” She described Daria’s Desert Eagle pistol.

  Diaz tugged the door of his sedan open and reached inside to grab the microphone. He relayed the information to dispatch along with a request for support units. Pausing, he glanced at Veranda. “Where were you when you stopped?”

  “Out past Caisson Road. Near the foot of the mountain. There aren’t any good landmarks. I’ll have to show you.”

  “How long did it take you to come back here after you left Daria?”

  “Between fifteen and twenty minutes. She might have called someone to pick her up by now.”

  After Diaz gave the approximate location to the dispatcher, a gruff voice interrupted the radio traffic. “Car four, I’m ten-seventeen. ETA twenty minutes.” The duty commander was on his way.

  “Get in,” Diaz said to her, motioning Rios toward the backseat. “I’m calling out Crime Scene techs to process your car. You’re going to direct me to the scene.”

  She gestured at their costumes. “We can’t go like this. Let me get my go-bag.” Before he could argue, she rushed to the Tahoe, snatched the black nylon duffel from the rear cargo area and hurried back. Diaz barked orders into his cell phone as she slid into the front passenger seat. Rios buckled himself in behind her.

  “I know it’s after midnight,” Diaz said into his phone. “I’ll authorize the overtime. Put it in VCB’s budget. Just get them on this right away.” He disconnected and accelerated out of the driveway.

  She knew Crime Scene wouldn’t balk at responding to investigate in the middle of the night. Diaz must be working another angle. She turned toward her supervisor. “Who else were you calling out?”

  “Computer Forensics. I want them to ping your cell phone to triangulate the location, then shut the damn thing down before they data mine it.”

  She sat back in her seat a moment, grudgingly impressed with Diaz. Her animosity toward him had blinded her to his intelligence and experience. He wore gold bars for a reason.

  “My cell’s password protected,” she said. “But they’ll break in sooner or later. There may be enough time for our guys to ping it first though. We have warrants out for Nacho, but he’s still at large. Once he gets his hands on that device, we’re cooked.”

  Diaz pulled onto a wide thoroughfare and gunned the engine. “This never would have happened if you let me walk to your car.”

  Was he seriously blaming her for getting abducted? Irritation replaced the momentary admiration she’d felt for her supervisor. “How could that possibly have made any difference?”

  “I would have seen her hiding on the floor behind your seat.”

  She clutched the door handle as he swerved around a tractor trailer. “The Tahoe’s windows are tinted. It’s pitch black in my mother’s driveway. How do you think I missed her?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “Because your mind was on other things.”

  “The only thing on my mind was how annoyed I was with you.” She shot a glare over her shoulder at the back seat. “And Rios.”

  Rios stared back at her, face hidden in shadow. He didn’t join the debate.

  “Maybe your friend with the rose distracted you?” Diaz said. “Did he show up in your car?”

  “No.” Now that Diaz mentioned it, she wondered if the man with the flower had been working with Daria.

  “And there’s another problem,” Diaz went on in grim tones. “Your duty weapon and cell phone.”

  Her antennae went up. “What about them?”

  “Officers are responsible for department-issued equipment.”

  As always, Diaz spotlighted her every misstep. Already angry at herself for losing the items, he piled on, adding his condemnation to her misery. “I didn’t leave them lying around for anyone to take. I was the victim of a crime.” Was she trying to convince Diaz, or herself?

  “Your cell phone might provide information to the cartel,” he said. “We’ve been careful since the last hack job, but something stored in your phone could compromise us again.”

  She hadn’t though
t about the phone’s access to the server. Fighting for her life had been her only consideration. Now that she’d escaped, the full ramifications of her kidnapping weighed on her. They rode in silence until South Mountain loomed ahead.

  “There.” She spotted thick black skid marks on the road and pointed. “That’s where I slammed on the brakes.” Diaz pulled over and she used the radio to guide the others to the spot where she’d last seen Daria.

  Within minutes, patrol vehicles of every shape and size converged. The duty officer, Commander Miller, arrived with the blue horde, taking charge immediately. Midnight shift units, accustomed to working in the dark, surrounded the scene with light. Officers hefted equipment from the larger vehicles and fanned out. Black boxes and tripods with long metal poles seemed to sprout from the desert floor. Clusters of LED lights flooded the area.

  At Commander Miller’s direction, the Mobile Command Bus lumbered to a halt, joining the ring of vehicles along the scene’s perimeter. Circled like an Old West wagon train, the collection of cars, trucks, SUVs, and vans delineated a work space large enough to accommodate specific assignments.

  Anxious to shed her costume and join the hunt, Veranda snatched up her go-bag and headed for the bus. When she pulled the door open, a tall figure standing inside blocked her path. She glanced up at the sergeant, who she didn’t know, and he jolted in surprise.

  Grasping the situation, she pointed at her head. “Face paint.” Moving her hand down, she continued. “Costume.” Then lifted her duffel with her other hand. “Go-bag.” She smiled. “I’m a detective and I need to change into my gear. Can I use the bathroom in the bus?”

  The sergeant looked dubious until Diaz stepped forward and swept his arm out to include Rios as well. “We all need to change,” he said, holding up his gold shield.

  After using the tiny sink to scrub her face, Veranda slipped into her black BDUs, UnderArmour top, and ballistic vest. Her fingers brushed the empty holster as she clasped the belt around her waist. Anger and regret surged in alternating waves. If anyone used her duty weapon to hurt someone or commit a crime, she would feel responsible.