Salazar pressed his tongue against the sock wedged in his mouth. He felt a slight movement, but the saliva-soaked fabric slipped backward toward his throat, making him retch. He steadied himself. If he wasn’t careful, the sock could unwind and suffocate him. He wondered if that would be a worse death than the one Daria had planned for him.
He might be dead already if he hadn’t regained consciousness seconds before Daria shoved him into the hole. He’d twisted around to land on his feet, rolling onto his back and relaxing his muscles to prevent serious injury. After she climbed out, Daria had used a hatchet to cut the knotted rope into short, useless pieces. Even if he managed to untie himself, he couldn’t escape. And if anyone came, they couldn’t pull him up to safety without the rope. Daria had laughed at him as she tossed the chopped pieces into the pit.
Before that moment, self-mastery had been his greatest asset. Dispassionately dispensing El Lobo’s justice, he had killed countless times without a hint of remorse. But Daria Villalobos had burrowed into his psyche and unearthed hatred so strong it burned like acid. He realized he would gladly die if he could pull the puta down into the pit with him.
A thin shaft of light sliced into the building. Raging anger wouldn’t help him think. He tamped it down and analyzed the situation. Cruz had probably entered through the rear service door as he had. The moment he crossed the threshold, Daria had sprung her trap. Someone had warned her he was coming. And he thought he knew who.
Pushing thoughts of Adolfo’s betrayal aside, he tilted his head to gaze up at the convex mirror bracketed to the ceiling. Its curved surface distorted things a bit, but he could clearly make out the doorway. He spotted Daria hunkered on the hinged side of the service door, back to the wall, clutching his Desert Eagle with both hands.
The door gradually opened, revealing a lone figure silhouetted by the afternoon sun. He recognized the lean feminine form holding a Glock in low-ready position. Inhaling through his nostrils, he dragged air into his lungs and tried to force sound up from his throat. Only a faint murmur penetrated the gag.
He could do nothing as Cruz crept forward, her right shoulder against the metal door to hold it open. Eyes wide, he took in the scene playing out above him, Daria on one side of the door, Cruz on the other, both holding guns. The two women were separated by inches, unable to see one another through the barrier between them.
Salazar was struck by their similarities. Each had chosen a profession dominated by men, and managed to succeed. From what he’d learned about Cruz from a previous informant, she didn’t follow orders any better than Daria did. Both women were beautiful, but Daria was cold-blooded while Cruz exuded fiery heat. They were two sides of the same coin, evenly matched, and he had no idea who would win this battle.
Gun in hand, Cruz put one foot inside, shifting her body weight forward.
Daria kicked the door, slamming it into Cruz’s shoulder, knocking her to the ground and sending the Glock flying from her hand.
Daria brought the Desert Eagle up to take aim, but the door swung violently back toward her. She sidestepped to avoid it, giving Cruz time to scramble to her feet. Even in the mirror, Salazar could see the detective’s shocked expression.
“That’s right, bitch,” Daria said, training her sights on Cruz. “It’s me.” She fired.
The Desert Eagle’s report reverberated like a cannon blast through the cavernous building. Cruz’s split-second dive and roll impressed Salazar, as did her decision to go on the offensive. When .50-caliber rounds were flying, nothing in the building offered real protection. Her only play was a full-frontal assault, and she obviously knew it.
Cruz popped up from her roll and launched her body straight at Daria. Daria stepped back to create distance for a better shot, but Cruz’s momentum carried her forward. She juggernauted into Daria, driving her to the ground.
Salazar grinned under the bandana. He’d seen Cruz’s ground fighting skills firsthand. No doubt she hoped to improve her chances by taking Daria to the floor. As the women wrestled for the gun, he willed Cruz to grab the slide, which would temporarily prevent it from firing.
The irony of his situation was not lost on Salazar as he sent fervent thoughts of encouragement to the woman he’d been sent to kill. Moments before, he’d recognized the similarities between the two women. Now he understood the key difference. Daria had no honor and therefore, no limitations. Cruz lived by a code. As he did. When the time came, he would grant her a merciful death. A warrior like himself, Veranda Cruz deserved that much.
Whatever his feelings about her, his survival depended on her success. He watched as Cruz wrapped both hands around the top of the pistol, holding the slide in place. She rolled Daria onto her back, pinning her. Salazar let out a grunt of approval when Cruz brought her knee up to deliver a vicious strike to Daria’s thigh. Daria shrieked in pain, loosening her grip on the weapon. Cruz tried to wrench it away, but Daria pulled the gun closer. When it neared her face, she angled her head up and sank her teeth into Cruz’s fingers.
Cruz let go of the gun and smashed her elbow into Daria’s face, momentarily disorienting her. Under different circumstances, he would have paid good money to watch this fight. Cruz moved like a tigress. Lithe, focused, and relentless. Magnificent.
Blood streaming from her nose, Daria rolled away from Cruz and came up on one knee. She took aim, but Cruz was already in motion. She planted her left foot and executed a swift roundhouse kick, knocking the gun from Daria’s hand.
Salazar watched his Desert Eagle spin though the air. He tore his gaze from the curved mirror to follow the massive pistol’s trajectory as it plummeted to the ground inside the pit less than a meter from his face.
Daria and Cruz continued to fight hand-to-hand. As he lay listening to grunts and blows interspersed with obscenities, Salazar chanced working his tongue against the gag again. This time, he managed to move the entire sock to the front of his mouth. He widened his jaws and forced the wad against the back of his teeth, finally making enough space. He filled his lungs and let out a bellow.
Glancing up at the mirror, he saw Cruz turn her head toward the pit’s opening. She had heard him. He redoubled his efforts to push the gag out, then froze, realizing what he had done. Daria, seizing upon Cruz’s momentary distraction, rushed at her adversary, head butting her shoulder. Cruz stumbled sideways, arms flailing. Salazar shifted his gaze to the edge of the pit. He watched Cruz teeter on the brink, clawing the air, then plunge down as Daria’s laugh echoed through the cavernous space.
Cruz thudded heavily to the ground next to Salazar, the gun between them. She tried to sit up, groaned, and flopped down on her back. Salazar heard her ragged breathing and knew she’d been winded from the fall. Her movements didn’t indicate broken bones, but he couldn’t be sure. The dirt floor had likely saved them both from catastrophic injuries when they hit the bottom of the pit.
Daria’s face appeared over the edge. “I’m so glad you’re alive.” Her eyes moved to the clock on the pole. “At least, for the next fourteen minutes.”
Cruz struggled to push her body up to a seated position. Salazar saw the moment her eyes landed on the Desert Eagle. Unfortunately, Daria had seen it too. As Cruz lunged for the weapon, Daria’s head disappeared. He heard swift footfalls as she raced from the building.
He angled his head to see Cruz gripping his pistol in her bleeding hands.
Her eyes, glittering with fury, were riveted on him. “You shot my partner, you sonofabitch.”
What lies had Daria told her? He tried to speak but only managed a muffled gurgle through the gag.
He found himself staring down the barrel of his own gun as Cruz leveled it at him and said, “This is for Sam.”
40
Veranda aligned the Desert Eagle’s sites on Salazar’s nose. She’d seen the kind of damage a .50-caliber round could do. Pulling the trigger at point-blank range would literally blow hi
s head off his shoulders.
As she tightened her finger, Salazar’s eyes beseeched her. He worked his jaw under the gag in a frantic struggle to communicate.
Was he begging for his life? Not El Matador. Was he cursing her? His desperate gaze said otherwise. She didn’t see hate, but something raw and elemental.
Salazar rotated his head as far to the side as it would go. He groaned as he forced his shoulder blades together. Then he stilled his body, lifted his chin, and closed his eyes.
She stared down at him, baffled. The awkward position had to be excruciating. Why had he done it? She cocked her head and looked from a different angle. Then she saw it. He had exposed his throat to her. The stark gesture of surrender communicated his willingness to die by her hand.
An echo of Sam’s rumbling baritone reverberated through her mind. “There’s getting justice, and there’s getting payback. Which one are you after?” Sam had questioned her motives. Challenged her to look inside herself. What would he say if he saw her preparing to kill a defenseless, unarmed suspect in cold blood?
Nothing else would have convinced her to lay down the pistol. She slid the folding knife from her boot and flicked it open.
Salazar’s eyelids parted a fraction at the sound. His wary gaze focused on the serrated blade.
She crawled the short distance separating them and raised the knife’s edge to his face.
He jerked his head away.
Apparently, he was willing to die, but not get carved up. She couldn’t blame him. “Hold still.” She used her free hand to gently angle his face back to her, then peered directly into his fierce black eyes. “I’m going to cut the gag off.”
His whole body relaxed. She marveled that he trusted someone who had every intention of murdering him scant seconds ago. The knife’s razor-sharp edge made short work of the bandana. She reached into his mouth, yanked out the slimy sock, and flung it aside.
“I didn’t,” Salazar said in Spanish, his voice raspy. He licked his chapped lips and tried again. “Didn’t shoot your partner.”
He clearly understood how important Sam was to her. His military background had instilled the same bonds between comrades who depended on each other for their lives, so the first thing out of his mouth was a denial rather than a plea for mercy. But was it an act?
“Don’t lie to me, Salazar.”
“Daria is the one who lied. She tried to shoot you.” He coughed. “Against my orders. She’s out of control.”
“You’re full of shit. No one goes rogue in the Villalobos cartel. Not even Daria.”
He gave her a knowing look. “Have you ever gone against orders, Detective Cruz?”
Her skin prickled at the implication that he knew of her reputation for defiance. How much intel did the cartel have about her? “We’re not talking about me,” she said, ignoring the question. “Right now, I’m calling my backup to hit the kill switch and get us out of here.” Still sitting on the ground, she pulled the cell phone from her vest pocket and hit the speed dial for Rios.
“You can’t get a signal down here,” Salazar said. “The building is shielded and soundproofed. We’re at the bottom of a cement-lined blast pit four meters deep.”
“But Daria called me from inside the pit when …” The words died on her lips as she glanced at her phone. No signal. Daria had lied about being in the pit when she called.
“About the kill switch …” Salazar began.
“Another lie?” At his nod, she closed her eyes and groaned.
She considered shouting out to Rios but dismissed the idea. Even if he heard her yells through the soundproofing, he couldn’t stop the bomb or pull them out of the pit in time. She wouldn’t summon him to his death.
She put her phone away and regarded Salazar. “We’re going to die down here, aren’t we?” She glanced at the timer. “In ten minutes and fifty-one seconds.”
“You don’t have to die,” Salazar said. “Cut me loose and I’ll lift you up. You can grab the edge and climb out.”
She studied him for signs of deception but saw none. “You’re a killer,” she said. “How can I trust anything you say?”
“What could I gain by lying to you?”
She raised a brow. “What could you gain by saving me?”
He spoke with angry resolve. “Daria won’t win.”
“But you won’t win either. Daria might not be the one to kill you, but you’ll die all the same.”
“I can accept that.”
She read the resignation in his eyes. Either Salazar had just delivered an Academy Award–winning performance, or he was telling the truth. She weighed her options. Take the bindings off the most dangerous killer she had ever faced, or let a bomb blow her to smithereens. In the first scenario, she stood a chance at survival. In the second, not so much.
Despite the nagging feeling she might regret her decision, she scooted closer to examine his intricate bindings. She made contingency plans as she sawed back and forth, carefully avoiding his skin.
He shifted his bulk to give her better access. “Thank you. At least I can die on my feet like a man.”
She pulled the last of the rope away. “You look pretty rough. Will you be able to lift me?”
His hand snaked out to scoop up the Desert Eagle. “You would be surprised what I can do.”
She cursed her stupidity. First Daria, now Salazar. They had both played her. She should’ve known that, for anyone in the cartel, compassion was a weakness to be exploited. No more. She sized up his injuries to determine where she could strike to inflict the most damage.
Salazar tucked the pistol in the back of his waistband. “Did you think I would shoot you?” He got to his feet and extended a hand to her.
She scowled up at him. This man, a mortal enemy, would decide whether she lived or died. They both knew she could stand without his help. His offer was symbolic. He was asking for her trust.
She reached out to him, forging an alliance she would never have considered possible.
His large hand engulfed hers as he pulled her to her feet. “I am a man of my word.”
“Give me the gun.”
“I’m keeping my weapon … for now.” Still grasping her hand, he led her toward the pit’s curved inner wall.
She turned her wrist to free herself from his grasp. Salazar tightened his fingers, refusing to relinquish his hold. He pivoted to lean his back against the smooth concrete surface and pulled her toward him.
“I will lift you up to climb out,” he said. “On one condition.”
She swallowed. What price would Salazar demand in exchange for saving her? Throat too tight to speak, she lifted a brow in inquiry.
“Once you get out, I’ll toss my gun up to you.” He brought her hand to his chest, eased her fingers apart, and pressed her palm over his heart, covering it with his. “And you will shoot me.” He squeezed. “Here.”
The steady pulse under her hand told her he was at peace with his decision. “No way,” she said. “I’m not about to—”
He brought his free hand up to cover her mouth. “I die on my terms, not Daria’s.”
She pushed against his chest, trying to back away.
His voice grew rough. “And after I’m dead, you will kill Daria.”
She froze.
“That’s my price. Take it or leave it.” He let go of her mouth but kept her hand against his chest.
She tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “You’re asking me to murder two people. Your price is too high.”
“You were ready to pull the trigger when you thought I’d killed your partner. What’s the difference?”
“I laid down my weapon to free you even though I still thought you were the shooter.”
“Daria’s bomb will tear us to pieces and then she will escape across the border to live in luxury.” He softened
his tone. “You would sacrifice your life for hers? You would deny your partner justice?”
Her thoughts twisted into dark spirals. Salazar was right. It always came down to choices. He was asking her to choose her own life over Daria’s. To choose vengeance for Sam. She thought of her promise to Sam’s wife. Of every mistake she’d made leading up to the shooting. She refused to make another. If a pact with her enemy was the price of redemption, she would gladly pay it.
“I accept,” she said quietly.
He nodded his agreement and released her hand. She could tell he’d read her perfectly. He knew she would keep her word.
And she knew she had made a deal with the Devil.
41
Veranda prepared herself as Salazar crouched down before her.
“Grab onto my shoulders,” he said. When she complied, he laced his fingers together. “Put your right foot here, then step onto my left shoulder when I lift you.”
She’d practiced this maneuver before in training, but never with such a high wall to scale. Drawing a breath, she placed her boot into the cup formed by his interlocking fingers. He hoisted her with a grunt and she planted her left foot squarely on his broad shoulder. She leaned forward, bracing herself against the wall, to avoid tipping backward.
He swung her right foot over to place it on his other shoulder. “Are you stable?”
She adjusted her feet. “I’m good.”
He straightened to his full height. “You’re more than halfway there. Step on my hands.”
She glanced down to see his palms facing up. She carefully placed one foot on each open hand.
“On the count of three, I’ll boost as high as I can, but you’ll have to jump at the same time to grab the edge.”
She would fall to the bottom if she didn’t make it. “Got it.” She bent her knees. “On your count.”
He lowered himself again, and she understood that he would push up with his legs while simultaneously launching her with his arms, increasing the amount of lift he could provide. The sheer power such a move required was impressive. She hoped it would be enough.
Death Blow Page 24