Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  He grunted and turned his attention to Diaz and Rios, who sat at the conference table next to her. “What the hell happened to you two?”

  Veranda wondered the same thing. After the patrol unit dropped her off, she’d walked into the briefing room to find her lieutenant and the federale sitting stone-faced with their swivel chairs angled away from each other. Both men looked like they’d gone a few rounds in the ring. Neither one would answer her questions about their cuts and bruises.

  Diaz frowned at Grigg. “We were comparing use of force techniques. Rios was on the Mexican federal police SWAT team. He showed me some of their tactics and I showed him some South Phoenix moves.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Call it an international training exercise.”

  Grigg guffawed. “Yeah, right. As long as you two are past it.” He waited while both men nodded their assent. “We’re good to go.”

  Sam, who stood on Veranda’s other side, leaned down to whisper in her ear, “I’m sure their little fighting demo had nothing to do with you.”

  She shot him a quelling look. “Nothing at all.” She ignored his snicker.

  Commander Webster entered the room, trailed by Special Agents Flag and Ortiz, and the Tactical Support Bureau commander, Paul DeSoto. While the others took the remaining open seats at the head of the table, Flag remained in the doorway, speaking into his cell phone in an undertone. She could only make out the words, “in South America,” before he disconnected and sat down. She didn’t bother to ask, knowing he would simply claim the conversation was classified.

  Worry and fatigue mingled in Webster’s expression as he began the briefing. “We called everyone in early because the cartel hacked into our server, setting off the alert. Before computer forensics could quarantine the incursion, the hackers downloaded several files.” He grimaced. “One of which contained the ops plan and copies of the warrants for this incident. Bottom line, they know we’re coming.”

  DeSoto added to Webster’s comments. “The ops plan says we hit at fourteen hundred hours, so we keep the element of surprise if we deploy early. It’s our only play.”

  “What about the dust storm?” Sergeant Grigg said. “We had enough trouble driving here and this is downtown where tall buildings block some of the dust. It’ll be a lot worse out on the west side where the target location is.”

  DeSoto bobbed his head in understanding. “It’s what we’ve got to work with. If we don’t move now, they’ll pack up and head for the border. Taking their hostage with them.”

  Veranda’s heart lurched when she thought about Sofia Pacheco. The girl had been in cartel hands for months now. How much longer could she last? “I agree,” she said. “We have to go now. We’ll work around the weather.”

  “Headlights will be useless,” Grigg said. “They reflect off the sand particles. Same is true for flashlights.” He looked around the room. “And before anyone asks, night vision doesn’t work either. We’ll have to put on clear goggles and do the best we can until we make entry into the building.” He rested a meaty paw on the butt of his gun. “At least they’ll be just as blind as we will.”

  Webster stepped forward, a folder in his hand. “The air unit is grounded until thirty minutes after the storm is over, but they got some FLIR images before the dust shelf rolled in.” He spread a series of photo printouts on the table in the middle of the room. Everyone leaned in.

  DeSoto took over, pointing at one of the pictures. “There are twenty-one people, three vans, and one Jeep at the facility. Topography looks like there are quite a few hills, which may help us with stealth deployment during our approach. If they have lookouts, they won’t be able to see us in the dust.”

  “And we can’t see them either,” Sam muttered.

  Grigg crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “True, but there are more of us than them.” He jerked his chin at the men lining the room with their backs against the wall. “And we’re good.” He flashed a smile. “Very good.”

  Grigg wasn’t bragging, Veranda thought, he was stating a fact. The PPD had several tactical teams, and they routinely won SWAT competitions. They were among the best in the nation.

  Webster looked at Grigg. “Assume they’re heavily armed.”

  Veranda couldn’t let them go in unprepared. “And Daria Villalobos is an ordnance expert. She might have booby trapped the perimeter or planted a few mines. Especially if she knows we’re coming.”

  Her comment met with silence, everyone apparently absorbing the ramifications.

  “We’ll use the robot,” Grigg finally said. “We can send it ahead.” He scrubbed his face with his palm. “I hate fuckin’ bombs.”

  “Who owns the property?” Commander DeSoto directed the question at Sam.

  “It’s not associated with the cartel in any obvious way,” Sam said, holding a sheet of paper out to him. “The land is owned by a construction company. They’re supposed to store their equipment there. It’s a pre-fab building, not too sturdy unless they’ve reinforced it.”

  DeSoto perused the proffered page. “Did you obtain warrants?”

  Sam nodded. “We still have the outstanding warrant for Salazar from September, and I just got one for Daria, along with search warrants for her domicile and this location.”

  “Paperwork’s good to go then.” Grigg got to his feet. “Time to move out.” The SWAT sergeant made it clear he preferred action to discussion.

  DeSoto held up a hand. “One more order of business. I’ve already discussed this with Commander Webster. All Homicide detectives, federal agents, and international law enforcement personnel are to stage on the perimeter until SAU clears the building.” He side-eyed Veranda. “I don’t care how much experience anyone has working with SAU, there will be no exceptions.”

  Her reputation had obviously preceded her. DeSoto had quashed her objection before she could mount it. She gave him credit.

  After waiting a beat, DeSoto gestured to the other brass and the Feds. “We’ll ride to the perimeter in the command bus. It’ll be difficult to position during the storm and we’ll have to go slowly, but we need support apparatus and incident command on scene.”

  Grigg followed up. “Before I give out assignments, keep in mind what we’re dealing with. They’ll be heavily armed. There may be landmines or booby traps. They’re holding a hostage. There will be no air support. Communications could be affected. Visibility sucks. And—in case that’s not enough—they know we’re coming.” He raised an eyebrow at Veranda. “Am I leaving anything out?”

  “The hostage,” Veranda said. “Her name is Sofia Pacheco. She’s fifteen years old.”

  She knew SAU members spoke to terrified captives using their first names to calm them when they could. She also wanted to personalize the victim.

  “She’s been held by the cartel for months now, so she could be experiencing Stockholm Syndrome.” She had an obligation to prepare them for the worst. “I don’t have any intel that it’s the case, but I wanted you to be ready.”

  Grigg put his hands on his hips. “Well, ain’t that the pickle on top of this shit sandwich.”

  31

  Veranda licked her parched lips. After spitting fine particles of grit from between her teeth, she batted at her clothing. Dust rushed down her shirt collar, into her hair, even up her nose. The wind howled around her, coating everything in rusty-beige silt.

  Forty minutes earlier, Veranda and her entire Homicide team had piled inside Marci’s Tahoe to follow the command bus. Lieutenant Diaz traveled alone in his own car at the end of the procession. For over half an hour, the convoy of police vehicles had lumbered through the storm to reach the target location. The tactical team had gone ahead in their armored fleet of panic-inducing urban assault vehicles.

  Veranda had arrived with the others a scant five minutes ago. While Commander Webster set up a command post on the perimeter, she’d clambered amidst the brush
and cactus to reach a small hillcrest. The high ground, however, afforded no better view in the storm.

  Marci stepped beside her, gesturing in the general direction of the target site. “I can see why you walked up here.” Her tone oozed sarcasm. “This cloud of dust is way more interesting to look at than the cloud of dust where they parked the bus.”

  Veranda jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the idling diesel-

  powered behemoth. “At least we’re not stuck in there.” Inside the belly of the beast, command staff officers, supervisors, and federal agents were poring over maps and rosters.

  Frank, Tony, and Sam joined them. “Why the hell did I bring these?” Sam tapped a pair of binoculars slung around his neck. “Useless.”

  She squinted at the group through her goggles as another gust of wind beat at her. “Where’s Doc?”

  “He needed some extra time to … what’s the word? Accessorize.” Tony’s Brooklyn accent made the comment humorous. “Check him out.”

  She turned to look and rolled her eyes. “Are you serious?”

  Doc had put on a hazmat suit. When he spoke, his words were muffled by the air filter over his mouth. “Dust particles can get in your lungs and do major damage.” His eyes widened behind the clear face shield. “It’s no joke.”

  She shook her head. “Our SAU team is about to assault a building filled with trained, well-armed criminals. Dust isn’t my top priority.”

  Standing behind the scrub-covered ridge in relative safety, Veranda’s frustration intensified. She wanted to be with the SAU operators making entry, not stuck on the perimeter. Given a choice, she always preferred action. Probably the reason she and Sergeant Grigg got along.

  “What was that?” Doc asked, turning in circles to see through the face shield’s limited window.

  Veranda heard it too. “That was rifle fire. Full auto. The cartel’s putting up a fight.” More shots followed, this time single action in rapid succession. “And that would be Grigg and his band of merry men answering back.”

  She had full confidence in the SAU team, but they were going in under less than ideal conditions. Waiting through another barrage of gunfire stretched her patience to the breaking point. Though she expected radio silence during the assault, the lack of information over the shared frequency unnerved her. Every instinct urged her to rush over the hill to join the fray.

  “Sounds like they’re taking serious fire,” Sam said.

  As the rest of her Homicide team concentrated their attention on the volley of gunshots, Veranda heard a car engine approaching from the opposite direction of the firefight. Raising a hand to her brow above her goggles, she caught the movement of a vehicle cresting a nearby slope to her left.

  “Hey,” she said to get her squad’s attention. “Someone’s coming.”

  “Who the hell is that?” Marci said.

  With visibility severely compromised, Veranda relied heavily on sound. As the vehicle drew closer and turned sideways, she made out the dust-covered boxy profile of a Jeep. A black square appeared near the front of the vehicle.

  She pointed at the shape. “The front passenger window’s opening.”

  Something wasn’t right. Why would anyone inside a Jeep lower a window during a haboob, allowing grit and dust to blast them in the face and get all over the interior? She could only think of one reason.

  She used her left hand to shove Sam behind her. “Get down!” As the others hit the deck, she drew her newly issued Glock with her right hand and stepped forward to cover her team.

  A heartbeat later, several muzzle flashes erupted from the open window. Using the bright orange spots as a target, she took aim and fired repeatedly.

  The sound of bullets pinging off the Jeep’s metal frame reached her ears over the howling wind. Behind her, the others had begun to return fire from their prone positions. Her squad’s suppressive fire provided an opportunity for a tactical reload. Never taking her eyes from the Jeep, she yanked open a pouch on her ballistic vest and tugged out a fresh magazine with her left hand. Working by feel, she used her right thumb to depress the release. She exchanged the two magazines with practiced speed, smacking the loaded one home with the heel of her palm. The maneuver took less than five seconds.

  Dropping to the dirt next to Sam, she flattened herself on her belly and extended her arms in front of her. Planting her elbows on the ground marksman-style, she continued to shoot despite the absence of a clear target.

  “I’ll keep them busy,” she said to Sam, eyes still fixed on the adversary. “You notify the command bus that we’re taking fire. Advise we can only confirm one hostile.”

  Seconds stretched interminably. Weapon blasts rang in her ears. Was that why she didn’t hear Sam’s rumbling baritone over the portable radio mic clipped to her shirt collar?

  She nudged his leg with her knee. “Sam?”

  No response.

  She flicked a glace down at Sam. He lay on his back, perfectly still. Blood seeped from beneath the edge of his ballistic vest to form a swiftly spreading crimson pool.

  32

  Squinting through the swirling haze of dust, Daria watched one of the figures fall. A figure with a distinctly masculine shape. Definitely not Cruz. Cursing, she pulled the trigger again and again, sending the other cops diving to the ground. She lowered her front sight to shoot them as they lay on their stomachs. Her index finger tightened. No bang. She shifted her gaze to the slide. Locked back in the open position. Fired dry. Shit.

  Daria had taken time before the ambush to load Cruz’s Glock with special ammo. Manufactured in her own facility near the family compound in Mexico, they were called cop-killer rounds for a reason. Field tests in firefights with Mexican law enforcement had proven their ability to penetrate all standard-issue body armor.

  A momentary calm between gusts had given her a clear shot at Cruz. She’d drawn a bead on her target as an eddy of dust blew grit into her face. She’d been forced to fire with her eyes closed, missing her target.

  Tossing the Glock on the front passenger seat, she reached for her Desert Eagle, then hesitated. From the moment Daria held Cruz’s Glock, she’d planned to shoot her with it. When Salazar took the weapon away, he’d ended her plans. Then she’d found herself plucking the gun from José’s slackened hand as he lay dying on the bathroom floor.

  She picked up the Glock again, considering it. As the return fire intensified, she realized she was outgunned, outnumbered, and outmatched. The police would soon close in. She’d squandered the second chance at Cruz fate had given her. She prepared to flee, shifting the Jeep into drive, when inspiration kept her foot on the brake pedal. Perhaps the gun could still hurt Cruz after all. Smiling, she pulled a bandana from the glove box, wiped her prints off the Glock, and hurled it out the open window.

  Bullets ricocheted off the vehicle as Daria stomped her pointed boot down on the accelerator, stuffing the bandana into her pocket as the vehicle surged ahead. Careening through a fresh cloud of billowing dust, she barely managed to avoid plowing into a barrel cactus. She veered around it and bumped onto the roadway. Distant rapid-fire shots coming from the direction of the main building told her the coyotes were putting up a valiant fight. But the site would fall before long. If only Salazar would go down with it.

  A light flashed from the top of the dashboard, catching her attention. She’d clamped her cell phone into a mounted holder to track Agent Rios using Nacho’s program and now the screen’s glow indicated an incoming call. Adolfo’s code name appeared, bringing with it a frisson of dread. Her older brother almost never called. She tapped the display with a tentative touch.

  “You’re screwed.” Adolfo spoke over a background filled with static. A result of the storm, no doubt.

  “I’m a tad busy.” Glancing at the console’s compass, she corrected course to drive due east. “If that’s all you have to say, I’m done talking.” As long
as she went in that general direction, she could find her explosives facility.

  “I want to help you, Daria. We’ve never been close, but at least we’re true family.”

  That got her attention. “What’s going on?”

  “I was in our father’s office twenty minutes ago. Salazar called. He said you murdered one of the coyotes so you could run away and save yourself before the police came.” Adolfo hesitated a beat. “He called you a coward.”

  She clenched the steering wheel. Salazar had taken precious time from his evacuation to stick another knife in her back. Maybe the delay had prevented his escape. She pictured the bastard’s body jerking in a torrent of gunfire. “Was he captured or killed?”

  “Neither. Our dear father ordered Salazar to have the men stay and fight while he chased you down.”

  “And he knows exactly where I’m headed.” She had been the one to suggest they all hide out at her explosives facility at South Mountain.

  “He said you don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  Hope surged. “Wait, Salazar doesn’t know how to get where I’m going.”

  “Nacho knows. That’s why he took them.”

  She frowned. “Them?”

  “Apparently Nacho wouldn’t come without that girl.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Listen, there’s not much time. Salazar isn’t far behind you. When he finds you he’ll …”

  She checked the compass again, waiting for her brother to dislodge the words that had stuck in his throat. She groaned her frustration. “Spit it out for fuck’s sake, Adolfo.”

  “El Lobo … he … he greenlighted you.”

  She was a dead woman. Even if she managed to evade the cartel’s most notorious killer, her own father had ordered her execution. She had nothing to return to. Nowhere to go. No one who cared. Except

  —for some reason—Adolfo. Why would he ally himself with someone who couldn’t possibly benefit him in any way?