Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  No time for niceties. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I hate Salazar even more than you do,” Adolfo said without hesitation. “I want the bastard gone. If you know he’s coming, maybe you can surprise him with one of your … creations.”

  So that was it. Adolfo wanted her to take Salazar out. If she failed, he lost nothing. If she succeeded, Salazar would be out of the way and she would still be ostracized, clearing a path for her brother to step into the top slot. He would be the heir to the family fortune. Clever.

  She kept her tone measured. “Thank you for the information.”

  A sardonic smile lifted the corners of her mouth. At least she knew where everyone stood. Salazar had poisoned her father against her. Now he hunted her like the savage animal he was. Meanwhile, her brother had sucked her into a deadly game she had no hope of winning. He would use her to do his dirty work, then disavow her later.

  “Blood has to stick together,” Adolfo said and disconnected.

  As the Jeep approached South Mountain, she contemplated how to take her life back. There would be nothing left of the Phoenix operation after the police stormed the main base armory. All of the men would be arrested or dead. If Salazar, Nacho, and the girl died too, she could return to her father as the sole survivor and explain how the bastard had lied to manipulate him. And if she also managed to kill Veranda Cruz … so much the better. On the other hand, if everything went to shit, her backup plan was in place. No one knew about the overseas bank accounts, the villa, or the plastic surgeon on standby.

  She examined the problem from every angle, turning it over in her mind, flipping its components around like a Rubik’s Cube until a solution finally snapped into place. As her father had taught her, she devised a way to turn a desperate predicament to her advantage.

  Her heart beat faster as she probed her plan for weaknesses and found none. There was only one way to beat them. She would play their game according to her rules. Anticipation thrummed through her body. The solution was not only perfect, it was elegant.

  33

  Kneeling on the hard earth floor of the pit building, Daria raised the heavy steel chisel above her head. Tensing her muscles, she slammed its sharp edge against a chunk of concrete, breaking it into brick-sized pieces. Rocking back on her heels, she swiped a hand across her damp forehead and surveyed her work.

  Preferring to avoid a shootout that might accidentally detonate the pit device during construction, she’d had her men build a crude overhead door trap as a low-tech backup to the perimeter alarm. The mechanism required a load of rubble, and the pile she’d accumulated would be enough to drop an ox.

  Satisfaction curved her full lips. Like most men, Salazar relied on brute strength and tactical skill. She would teach him to respect her superior intellect. Adolfo had given her the element of surprise. Her older brother might be a waste of donatable organs, but his information had served her well. Salazar was on her trail. And he would arrive soon.

  She laid down the chisel to scoop the jumbled heap into the metal basket by her side. After pushing up to her feet, she tugged the rope through the pulley system. The basket rose to meet the arm overhead. Sweat trickled down her forehead from her hairline, stinging her eyes. She swiveled the arm to position the basket over the wooden shelf mounted to the wall above the rear service door. A flick of her thumb released the bottom of the basket, dropping the entire pile of broken concrete on top of the thick plank in a cacophonous rumble. As the last stray cement chunks fell to the ground, her cell phone buzzed. The silent alarm icon on the screen glowed red, indicating an outer perimeter breach. Salazar would be at the door in less than three minutes. Holding the remote activator in her hand, she tucked her lithe body into a dark corner to wait.

  She checked her phone again. The system indicated a secondary activation near the back. Salazar’s training had made him all too predictable. She knew he would use the rear service door rather than the front entrance because it was the safest approach.

  The door whispered open a fraction. A sliver of sunlight sliced across the dirt floor. Anticipation spiked her adrenalin, preparing her for what was to come. A heartbeat later, the distinctive sound of a boot against a metal door sent it slamming against the interior wall. With a reverberating clang, it swung back toward the entrance. She would recognize the silhouetted shape of the man in the doorway anywhere.

  Salazar’s broad shoulders nearly brushed each side of the narrow entry as he inched over the threshold. Gun in hand, eyes sweeping the interior, he paused, a wolf scenting for prey.

  Her thumb hovered above a button the size and shape of a pencil eraser. Impatience pricked her nerves. She willed the bastard to move inside a bit farther. Certain he couldn’t see her, she had to stay still. To wait. She’d placed a red stone at the perfect spot. When his boot landed next to the marker, he would be in position.

  Apparently not sensing any threat, Salazar crept forward. He took a tactical stance, crouching low as he moved with surprising stealth for such a large man.

  The instant the edge of his boot nudged the red stone, she pressed the button. The spring-loaded wooden shelf collapsed above the door, raining concrete onto Salazar’s head. The force of the cascade pummeled him until he fell to his knees, then face down in the dirt. A gray cloud of dust billowed up from his still form as the last of the chunks tumbled down to form a rugged peak covering his upper body.

  Stiff muscles protesting, she pushed away from the corner and edged toward the rear service door. Waving away the shimmering particles of concrete dust floating under the fluorescent lights, she spotted the matte black Desert Eagle pistol in Salazar’s slackened hand and bent to grab it. She checked his pulse, found it strong and steady, and shoved the barrel into the back of her waist.

  After kicking the rubble away from Salazar, she grasped his wrists and pulled. Cursing and grunting, she dug in her heels and started to drag his dead weight across the three meters that separated him from the edge of the pit.

  She thought about Veranda Cruz. A fellow cop had been shot with the detective’s own gun. Everyone would despise her. With that kind of pressure on her, she’d take Daria’s bait. She knew the one thing Cruz would not—could not—resist. She would offer the opportunity to avenge her comrade, and to ensure he hadn’t died in vain.

  Physically spent, she sat on the ground to catch her breath. Salazar groaned and rolled onto his stomach. Damn, what was the lummox’s skull made of? She couldn’t allow him to regain consciousness and overpower her. She could fight well, but he was more than she could handle.

  Salazar opened his eyes. “What the fuck?”

  Before he could gather his thoughts, she planted one foot on his hip and the other on his shoulder. With a massive effort, she straightened her legs, shoving him over the edge. She watched his arms flail a split second before he thudded to the ground below.

  She peered down at Salazar. His fitted black T-shirt clearly showed his chest rising and falling, but he made no other movements. Working quickly, she strode to the rope ladder that dangled down from two steel rebars set into the cement at the edge of the pit. She slung a long coil of rope around her arm, hiking it up to rest on her slim shoulder.

  She descended the ladder with practiced ease, rushing to Salazar’s side before he woke again. Once she bound his wrists and ankles, she could take her time with the rest of the rope, making sure to position him in the most painful and degrading way possible.

  After deftly securing him, she ran the tip of her finger along his swollen cheek. “Detective Cruz will join you soon.”

  34

  Veranda sat on a vinyl-covered chair in the trauma center waiting room at Phoenix General. No one occupied the seats on either side of her. Sam was in surgery, clinging to life. She checked her watch for the hundredth time. Six minutes past three in the afternoon. One hour and forty-eight minutes since her partner had been shot.


  Circumstances had conspired against Sam. The air unit had been unable to medevac him due to the storm, and ground transportation had been perilous and slow, allowing more blood loss. She twisted her hands in her lap, recalling the ride in the ambulance, clutching Sam’s hand as the paramedics worked frantically to stabilize him.

  Doc appeared in front of her holding out a Styrofoam cup. “Coffee.”

  It was the first word anyone had spoken to her in over an hour. She’d noticed that none of her fellow police officers made direct eye contact with her as they huddled on the other side of the waiting room.

  She took the steaming drink. “Any word from the doctors or nurses?” Doc had many friends and acquaintances in the medical profession, having been treated by most of them for countless real or imagined ailments over the years.

  He shifted his feet. “Sam will be in surgery for a few more hours.” He lowered his head. “Doesn’t look good. He lost too much blood. Turns out he was hit twice.” Doc pointed to his own chest. “Took one in the upper right quadrant of the thorax and one in the left bicep. His vest should’ve stopped the one to the chest.”

  “The cartel uses cop-killer rounds,” she said in a hollow voice.

  Doc’s eyes widened. “Those are illegal.”

  She glared up at him without responding.

  Doc winced. “Sorry, Veranda. Stupid comment.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “My mental bandwidth is down to fifty percent.”

  “Mine too.” She heaved an exhausted sigh. “Did you hear the final update from SAU?” She resented having to pump information about the tactical assault from one of her Homicide squad members, but they were the only ones talking to her.

  “No, I’ve been focused on the medical end here.” He sipped from his cup.

  “Right.” Veranda stood and handed her untouched coffee back to Doc. She wouldn’t sit by any longer to wait for crumbs. She strode to Lieutenant Diaz and Commander Webster, who had heads together in the far corner of the room.

  Forgoing protocol—and even basic manners—she barged in on their private conversation. “What happened after Sam and I left in the ambulance? Did SAU take the building? Did anyone on the team get hurt?” She blurted the questions in rapid succession.

  They turned to her, annoyed. Webster put a hand on his hip. “Yes, Detective, we killed five cartel members and took twelve into custody.

  Two of those are here with gunshot wounds. The remaining ten

  surrendered.”

  “And the SAU operators?”

  “No injuries,” Diaz said.

  She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Another police injury or death would devastate her completely. “What about Sofia Pacheco?”

  “That’s what we were discussing,” Webster said. “Sofia, Daria, Salazar, and Nacho were not among those killed or injured. Looks like they escaped. We couldn’t track them in the storm.”

  She straightened. “Are we searching for them now?”

  Webster reddened. “I know my job, Detective. There’s a BOLO and an APB out with a description of Sam’s shooter’s Jeep. We did an Amber Alert for Sofia too, but I’m not hopeful.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We reexamined helicopter photos from before the raid and discovered that a van is also unaccounted for.”

  Mention of the Jeep brought back the moments after the shooting. While she’d stanched Sam’s wounds, the Jeep disappeared in the dust storm. Marci had raced to the Tahoe to give chase, only to find the windshield and two of its tires shredded by stray rounds. The multi­ton command bus wasn’t an option for a car chase, and all other police vehicles at the scene were involved in the warrant service. With no air support available, they’d been forced to watch the shooter escape.

  Diaz gave her a dark look. “Now that the storm is over, Professional Standards Bureau is at the scene. They’re coming here next. You’ll need to give a statement.”

  “Can it wait, Lieutenant? All I can think about is Sam.” She heard the catch in her own voice. “My partner is on an operating table fighting for his life.”

  What would she do if Sam died? He had become more than her partner. He was a friend, a mentor, and a confidante. She had trusted him with her secrets. Her throat clogged, and she swallowed hard.

  Diaz’s expression thawed. “It can wait, but not too long.”

  Not trusting herself to reply, she turned and started for her chair. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the police chief. Tall and distinguished in his crisp navy-blue Class A uniform, Chief Steven Tobias strode toward her, police hat tucked under his arm.

  She felt the blood drain from her face. The chief only responded to the hospital when the situation was grave. And his formal attire meant he expected to make a statement to the media. Or console a grieving widow. His presence confirmed her worst fears.

  She opened her mouth to acknowledge him as he drew nearer, but he walked right past her without so much as a glance. She stared after him as he joined her commander and lieutenant in the corner. He had seen her, she was sure of it, and had pointedly ignored her.

  Face flaming, she whirled and plodded toward her empty chair. As she passed, some of her fellow officers gave her hard stares. A stream of harsh expletives emanated from a nearby corridor. She cocked her head. The voice sounded familiar. Following the sound, she peered around the corner to find Marci, nose-to-nose with a uniformed patrolman, telling him off.

  Marci pivoted away from the man and locked eyes with Veranda. She made her way over, still muttering under her breath.

  Veranda raised her brow. “What was that about?”

  Marci’s lip curled. “Rumor control.”

  She had a strange feeling this had something to do with her. The cold shoulder from the chief and the equally icy glares from other cops began to add up. Marci’s comment could only mean one thing. She drew a deep breath and steeled herself. “What’s everybody saying about me?”

  Marci grabbed her elbow. “Let’s go to the ladies’ room.”

  Veranda wasn’t surprised to find the women’s bathroom empty when Marci propelled her inside. There were a lot more men than women on the PPD.

  After the door swung shut, she leaned against the counter and faced Marci. “Well?”

  Distress pinched Marci’s features. “There’s no way to be delicate about this, so I’ll just say it.”

  Veranda watched while Marci gazed up at the bathroom ceiling as if the right words might appear in the air over her head.

  Apparently finding no help from above, Marci’s blue eyes dropped down to meet hers. “Crime Scene recovered your duty weapon at the scene. Word’s out that the cartel used your gun on Sam.” She cut off Veranda’s protest. “I’m not done,” Marci said. Now that she’d started, the words flowed freely. “And your partner is a legend on our department. He and Chief Tobias were booters together out of the academy. When someone like that gets shot on a case where he had to take over for you as lead detective, it doesn’t sit well.”

  She knew there was more, and she had to hear it all. “What was that officer saying about me?”

  Marci’s nostrils flared. “In the absence of facts, people make shit up. The latest rumor is that you hid behind Sam when the bullets started flying.”

  Speechless, she worked her mouth, but nothing came out. She had been the target of speculation, suspicion, and gossip before, but no one had ever questioned her courage.

  “I went off on that uniform for spreading bullshit,” Marci said. “Told him I was there with you when it happened. If you hadn’t warned us and pushed us out of the way, we all could have been shot. I also told him you were the first one to return fire, and that you stood in front of the rest of us.”

  Veranda deflated. When the cartel had put the tattoo on her skin, they might as well have made her wear it on her clothing. A scarlet letter so the w
orld could see her shame and judge her. Would the rest of the department ever see her as one of them again? “It’s because I’m related to El Lobo.”

  “It’s not because of your heritage.” Marci threw up her hands. “It’s because you’re a woman. Some of the troglodytes on the force still think women can’t do this job, or that we’ll panic and hide behind the big, strong men at the first sign of trouble.” She cut her eyes to the door. “I might go back out there and kick that guy’s ass so he understands what a woman can do.”

  “You’re wrong,” Veranda said quietly, aware that Marci was missing an important detail. “This is about me being a Villalobos. You remember when the Jeep was pulling away and something flew out of the window.” At Marci’s nod, she continued. “That was my duty weapon. The shooter left it behind so everyone would know.”

  Marci gasped. “Do you think the shooter was Salazar?”

  Veranda nodded. “He’s been in the military. He understands the bond between team members. When he failed to kill me with my own gun, he did something worse. He shot another cop.”

  Marci regarded her with sympathy.

  “I’ve been through a lot,” Veranda said. “But nothing like this.”

  Marci pulled her into a hug.

  “Oh, shit, Marci. What did I do?”

  “The best you could with what you had.”

  She refused to give in to the grief threatening to overwhelm her. “If I don’t pull it together, they’ll believe the rumors,” she said, turning away. She went to the sink and splashed water on her face, washing away the last of the dust and grit. “A cop who would hide in the bathroom would also hide behind her partner. I’ve got to get out there and face them.”

  “Face who?”

  “My accusers,” she said. “The problem with gossip is that no one confronts you directly. Everyone talks behind your back, so there’s no chance to set the record straight.”