Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  “Uno.”

  She raised her hands in preparation to grasp the ledge.

  “Dos.”

  Every muscle and sinew in her body tightened.

  “Tres!”

  She sprang up as his harsh guttural grunt sounded below her. She felt weightless for a moment, then her fingers latched onto the edge of the pit. She used her momentum to swing her feet up.

  Her right boot caught, but her left leg dangled down.

  “Get your right hand on the ground, Veranda!”

  Salazar was correct. If she could get her right arm all the way out onto the flat surface, she would have enough leverage to get her hips up. She also knew that, as a woman, her center of gravity was at her midsection, unlike a man’s, which was in his upper torso. She had to focus on maneuvering her legs, but she couldn’t do that while clutching the edge with her fingertips.

  She flung her arm out, scrabbling for a moment before her splayed hand found purchase. Using her powerful quadriceps, she pushed up with her left foot and pulled with her right. Every muscle protested as she forced her way up and out. She rolled over and lay gasping on her back.

  “Veranda!”

  The shout from below galvanized her. “Throw me the long piece of rope.”

  Before cutting him free, she’d examined the rope and discovered a way to salvage a piece about seven feet long. She watched him bend to pick it up.

  He wore an unreadable expression when he carried it toward her. “You can’t waste any more time.” He looked at the display and she followed his gaze. It read 3:26.

  “That wasn’t our deal,” he said, exasperated.

  “There’s time for me to try.”

  “I’ll give you one chance.” He flung the rope up to her. “Then I’m throwing you the gun.”

  She spotted a thick steel workbench nearby. Flattening herself on her stomach, she tossed one end of the rope over the edge.

  “I can reach the end if I stand on my toes,” he called up to her. “Ready?”

  She hooked her foot around one of the table’s legs and gripped the knot at her end of the rope. “Go.”

  The rope pulled taut. She skidded forward on the dirt floor, dragging the table with her. “How much do you weigh?” she groaned through gritted teeth.

  “A hundred kilograms.”

  Her experience as a narcotics detective told her that was about two hundred twenty pounds. And her experience fighting with him told her he was solid muscle.

  She strained to hold the grip in her sweaty hands. Her body slid closer to the edge of the pit. The table dragged behind her. Sweat beaded on her forehead and the rope burned her palms. Salazar was going to pull her and the table down into the hole with him. She got to the edge. Her arms went over. Still she held on. Her chest was on the precipice. A few more seconds and she would go down.

  A tremendous weight landed on her back, crushing her into the dirt. Before she could register what was happening, strong arms reached around either side of her head and two large hands gripped the rope in front of hers.

  “I don’t know why you’re trying to save this asshole,” Rios said into her ear. “He doesn’t deserve it.” The federale’s weight, added to hers, counterbalanced Salazar’s heavy frame and stopped her sliding. After much grunting and cursing, Salazar climbed up to the edge of the pit. As soon as he neared the top, Rios grabbed his wrist to hoist him out.

  As Salazar pulled himself up, she canted her head to Rios. “Where is Daria?”

  “Saw her run out, figured you rescued her.” He panted with strain. “You didn’t come out or call, so I decided to check on you.”

  Salazar used their combined weight to lever himself up to the surface and roll onto his feet. The two men sprinted toward the rear service door with Veranda on their heels. Salazar burst through the door and Rios barreled after him. As she neared the exit, a familiar shape caught her eye. She skidded to a halt, bent down and snatched her Glock from a pile of broken cement where it had landed just inside the threshold.

  “Hurry, Veranda!” Rios was outside, holding the door open for her. “There’s got to be less than a minute left.”

  She jammed the gun into her holster and sprinted for the opening. Legs pumping, she blew past Rios before coming to a halt several yards from the building. Winded, she planted her palms on her knees and sucked in gulps of fresh air.

  The door shut behind her and she turned to see Rios walking toward her. “What were you doing in there?”

  Before she could answer, Salazar pulled the massive Desert Eagle from his waistband, stepped behind Rios, and brought it down on the back of his head.

  A sickening crack of metal on bone sounded as the federale slumped to the ground.

  42

  By the time Veranda’s Glock cleared its holster, Salazar had dashed around the corner of the building without a backward glance. She realized Salazar had incapacitated Rios to sidetrack both of them. If he’d killed the federale outright, she wouldn’t hesitate to pursue him, but gravely injuring him gave Salazar the chance to escape.

  She rushed to Rios, dropping to her knees beside him. “Are you okay?”

  He remained perfectly still.

  Concern mounting, she laid two fingers on the side of his neck and found a pulse. His chest rose and fell. Rios was unconscious, not dead. Yet. She dragged him a safer distance from the building and prepared to stand guard over him until backup arrived. Couldn’t be more than a few minutes longer.

  A second later, the thunderous discharge of a Desert Eagle pistol coming from the far side of the building changed her plans. She pounded toward the sound, gun in hand, keeping tight to the outer wall until she reached the front side. She skidded to a stop and peeked around the corner.

  The Jeep and van were both still parked in the makeshift gravel lot, but she saw no sign of Salazar or Daria. She shifted her gaze to the main entrance and spotted a fresh pool of blood sinking into the dirt. A crimson trail of spatters led inside the building. Salazar hadn’t been bleeding before she heard the gunshot. He and Daria both had guns. One of them must have shot the other.

  She crept to the door and kicked it open. As it swung inward, a woman’s scream shrilled from somewhere inside, ending with an ominous thud.

  She raised her weapon and started across the threshold when the Claymore inside the pit detonated. The entire structure reverberated with the shock wave. As she paused to steady herself in the doorway, Salazar charged straight toward her from inside the structure.

  Dropping his shoulder, he caught her in the midsection, smashing into her like a battering ram. She flew backward, instinctively tucking her body before she hit the ground outside the building. She let the momentum roll her over, sprang to her feet, and leveled her gun at Salazar.

  His pistol was already on target, its sight aimed center mass on her chest. He advanced on her.

  She moved back, maintaining the distance between them. He continued forward. She realized he was stalking her like a predator, driving her in the direction of his choosing.

  She halted. “What are you doing?”

  “Moving us out of the blast zone. Daria wired the building for a secondary explosion. Remember?”

  Salazar had bowled her over like a linebacker. He wasn’t even breathing hard while she still gasped from the force of the blow. The fact that he also had the presence of mind to relocate their standoff grated on her.

  He could have shot her before she recovered from his attack. Instead, he’d allowed her to engage him when he knew reinforcements were coming. She had no idea what he was up to, but decided to keep him talking until backup arrived.

  “You threw Daria into the pit, didn’t you?”

  His cool expression didn’t change.

  A distant siren’s wail drew their attention to the desert floor stretching away from the foot of the mountai
n. She watched a column of armored vehicles in a cloud of dust speeding along the narrow roadway that led to the building. Still many miles away, they looked like dark blue ants marching in line across a sand box. She knew every SAU team included a member cross-trained as a paramedic who could help Rios.

  She turned back to Salazar. “You’re under arrest. Lay down your weapon and lace your fingers behind your head.”

  A deafening explosion shook the earth beneath them as the building erupted into a towering fireball. Salazar flung himself onto her. They crashed to the ground, his large frame shielding her from chunks of debris raining down from the smoke-filled sky.

  Salazar had effectively pinned her. From her current position, she had no hope of defeating a two-hundred-twenty-pound trained killer. At a complete disadvantage, she couldn’t beat him in a fair fight. The thought brought back her recent sparring match with Jake.

  Closing her eyes, she willed her body to relax and breathe shallow intakes, keeping the Glock in her slackened hand. Falling ash drifted around them. She felt Salazar raise his upper torso slightly. Assuming he would check her for injuries, she let her head loll to one side.

  He pressed two fingers to her neck for several seconds. Then, with surprising gentleness, he cupped her chin and turned her face up to his. His ear touched her lips as he listened for breathing. She hoped he couldn’t feel her heart pounding against his chest as she waited for an opportunity.

  “I hope you can hear me, Veranda Cruz.”

  She felt his hand glide from her chin to the left side of her jaw.

  “You have the heart of a wolf.” He placed the other hand above her right ear, bracketing her head. “And a code of honor.”

  She sensed him watching her for a long moment.

  “We are more alike than you might think.”

  When his mouth touched hers, she summoned every ounce of control to prevent a reaction.

  “Because you have earned my respect,” he murmured against her lips. “Your death will be swift and painless.”

  Her addled brain processed the last words. With dawning horror, she recognized the positioning of his hands as they gripped either side of her head.

  Salazar was about to snap her neck.

  Her trick had backfired. The instant she moved, Salazar would give her head a sharp twist. Surprise, speed, and accuracy were her only hope. Her hand tightened around her Glock. Tension flooded through her as she gathered her strength.

  She swung her arm up, striking Salazar’s temple with the butt of the gun. Without waiting to see if the blow had rendered him unconscious, she jerked her head from his grasp and slammed her weapon against the back of his head.

  His body went limp.

  First things first. She reached around behind him and slid her hands down until they found the Desert Eagle tucked into his waistband at the small of his back. She tugged it free and hurled it as far as she could.

  The approaching sirens blared louder. Her sense of pride urged her to get out from under him and slap cuffs on him before help arrived. Her sense of survival told her he could come around at any moment full of rage and murderous intent.

  She shoved him, barely budging his dead weight. “Get. Off. Me.” Grunting with each word, pushing with her legs, and adding in a few choice expletives, she managed to roll to the side and push herself up to a seated position. Grateful he was on his stomach, she gave his bicep an experimental squeeze. It would take both hands to pull his beefy arms back to restrain him.

  In her experience, heavily muscled men had difficulty putting their wrists together behind them. Elite athletes and body builders required two sets of handcuffs linked together to accommodate the breadth of their upper bodies.

  Salazar looked like a two-cuffer. Did she dare put away her gun and get on with it, or should she wait for backup to help her? She regarded his inert form, unable to tell if he was faking. After a long moment, she holstered her Glock.

  She’d singlehandedly captured one of the world’s most wanted criminals. The only bracelets he would wear were hers. She slung a leg over Salazar’s back, straddling him while she ripped open a Velcro pocket on her vest and pulled out two pairs of stainless steel Peerless handcuffs. She sat down on his ass and wedged her knees against his hips. Not that she had any illusion he couldn’t buck her off if he woke up, but this position would give her more control.

  Sirens drew her gaze to the property entrance a hundred yards away. An unmarked Crown Vic led a phalanx of SWAT vehicles crunching their way down the gravel road. She turned back to her task, intent on getting Salazar in custody before they reached her.

  She lifted his left arm and ratcheted the handcuff around his wrist. He groaned when she tugged his right arm back, spurring her to work quickly. She picked up the second set of bracelets and deftly repeated the procedure, slapping one on his right wrist.

  He let out a grunt and shifted under her. An open cuff sported a set of jagged steel teeth. With one attached to each wrist, he could slice her into fajita meat. If he got away from her now, he would wield a weapon in each hand.

  Heart slamming against her ribs, she grabbed the two open cuffs and yanked them together. Her fingers curled around to ratchet them closed as he jerked his arms apart. The restraints held. Panting with the exertion, she sat up straight, a predator atop her prey.

  When Salazar turned his head to regard her from the corner of his eye, she knew it would be her last chance to ask the question uppermost in her mind. “You want me dead, but you used your body to shield me from the blast. Why?”

  He gave her a slow smile. “Because you are mine.”

  She must have hit him too hard. “You’re not making sense.”

  “Were you conscious the whole time?”

  She felt compelled to be honest. “I was.”

  “Then you heard what I said.” He hesitated.

  She nodded.

  “I spoke the truth.” His expression hardened into an unreadable mask. “I am going to kill you.”

  “The hell you are,” Lieutenant Diaz interrupted before she could respond. “Because I’m going to kill her first.”

  43

  Sofia Pacheco twisted her hands in her lap, inadvertently rattling her chains. “I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbled when Nacho glanced her way.

  He frowned. “You don’t need to call me ‘sir’ anymore.” Turning back to his driving, he steered the top-heavy van around a curve.

  She studied his profile. Slender and boyish, he didn’t look like the other men. The coyotes had often leered at her as their lewd remarks peppered her from between brown teeth, their grease-stained hands forming crude gestures punctuated by grunts and laughter as she scurried by. The memory left a shudder in its wake. Gracias a dios, Nacho didn’t act like them either, because she was in his custody. For now.

  “Are we going to Mexico, si—” She blanched. “Um … do you want me to call you Ignacio?”

  “Everyone calls me Nacho.”

  “All right … Nacho. Are we headed for Mexico?”

  He nodded. “If our relays are still in place, we can make it past Border Patrol.”

  The mere mention of her country evoked distorted images that flickered through her mind as if streamed from a weak connection. She remembered making plans with her twin sister for their joint quinceañera, helping her abuela make tamales for Christmas dinner, lighting a candle to place next to Papá’s picture on the ofrenda during Día de los Muertos. Mexico was home.

  And it was hell.

  She’d last seen her homeland over a month ago. Like now, Nacho had driven her there from Phoenix. In chains. She’d begged him to let her go home, but he took her to the Villalobos family compound.

  El Lobo had punished Sofia for her sister’s betrayal. He’d chosen to carry out the sentence personally, beating her with a leather strap and dragging her to the dungeon. She�
��d starved for days before Nacho convinced Señor Adolfo he needed her to help him hack into the Policía Federal Ministerial server. But before he turned her over to Nacho, Hector Villalobos had branded her with the wolf logo. She would never forget his words as he pressed the metal to her flesh. “You will always be cartel property. My property.”

  And now she was going back. Nacho had always treated her with compassion, but he was not in charge, did not control her fate. What if she had to work on El Lobo’s computer? His evil black eyes haunted her nightmares. If she saw him again, she would faint from sheer terror. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and she dashed it away.

  The clinking chains drew Nacho’s gaze. “Do those hurt?”

  She shook her head. “I’m okay.”

  He swallowed audibly. “This is the last border town before we meet our contacts. We need to talk.”

  She followed his gaze to a cross street ahead of them. A dingy diner, a dilapidated used tire shop, and a gas station with a convenience store comprised the business district. He pulled into an empty lot surrounded by a rusting chain link fence and cut the engine.

  The unfamiliar silence unnerved her. Had she made him angry?

  Nacho turned in his seat to face her. “Hector Villalobos is closing a deal on a technology firm in Mexico City. In less than a month, he’ll have more than sixty full-time computer experts on board. He’ll shut the business down and put them to work for the cartel. Who’s going to stop him?”

  Señorita Daria’s words rushed back to her. She began to tremble. With so many other potential hacking experts around, what could she offer the cartel? Until now, her computer skills had kept her from a horrible fate. Those skills would soon be—the trembling turned into shaking as she recalled the word Señorita Daria had taught her—redundant.

  “I think you know what this means,” Nacho said.

  His solemn expression confirmed her worst fears. She had seen the women who were forced to work as sex slaves. Gaunt, haggard creatures who suffered constant abuse, they were kept in brothels until no client wanted them. And then they were disposed of. She’d heard a coyote describe it as “taking out the garbage.”