Diaz reddened. “That’s the whole fucking point!”
She felt as if an entire herd of buffalo was thundering straight at her, but she was trapped in a canyon with no way out.
Drawing in a long breath, Diaz composed himself. “I will serve as your adversary and provide testimony against you at the DRB.”
Her supervisor would become her prosecutor. Despite everything he knew about the case. About her. Shock warred with hurt, choking off her ability to speak.
All traces of warmth and compassion were gone when Diaz looked down at her. “You’ll be held accountable for your actions and forced to stop investigating the cartel. Period.” He turned away from her and gripped the steering wheel. “Salazar promised to kill you. I promise to protect you, even if it means taking your badge.”
46
Villalobos family
compound, Mexico
Adolfo opened heavy double doors. Unsure what to expect, he peered inside his father’s expansive office.
Hector Villalobos had been secretive all morning. An hour earlier, Adolfo had rapped his knuckles against the polished wood. His father had opened the door, a frown creasing his brow. Before Adolfo could speak, the secure satellite phone signaled an incoming call. Hector had shoved him outside with orders to wait until he was invited in.
Now his father greeted his return with a triumphant expression, gesturing to the ornate mahogany conference table and speaking in his customary elegant Spanish. “Take your seat.”
As patriarch and pack leader, El Lobo claimed the chair at the head of the rectangular table. Each of his offspring had assigned seats along either side.
As Adolfo padded across the thick Persian rug, his gaze swept the table, drinking in the visual representation of his success. He hid his pleasure at the sight of empty chairs where Bartolo, Carlos, Daria, and Salazar would have been. He was the last man standing. He had won.
His father sank into his plush leather seat. “What have I always taught you about adversity, mi’jo?”
Adolfo began to bounce his foot repeatedly. He’d listened to enough of his father’s dramatic speeches to recognize one on the launch pad. Grateful Hector hadn’t chosen a clear glass tabletop, he crossed his legs to stop his wayward foot and answered by rote. “A true leader turns adversity to his advantage.”
Hector offered Adolfo a rare smile. “I have secured the Rook.”
That explained the mysterious phone call. Years of cautious overtures had finally paid off. El Lobo had scored a particularly well-placed inside man in law enforcement. He wondered if his father would reveal the Rook’s identity at last.
“Congratulations.” He returned the smile. “I’m sure he will serve us well.” He’d deliberately used the Spanish conjugation for we, emphasizing his new place as second-in-command. He may have won by default, but he’d take a victory in any color package.
“Forget the Rook. I’ll get to him later.” Hector stroked the streak of silver hair that ran down the center of his goatee. “Now, we discuss Nacho. What has he told you?”
His father had put him in charge of interrogating their computer expert. A task made more difficult because of his fondness for Nacho. As CFO, Adolfo needed someone with computer skills. Two years ago, he’d hired a tech firm to trace an unauthorized withdrawal from one of the accounts. When an impressive number of false trails eventually led to a teenager, Adolfo recruited him. Others prized Nacho’s hacking, but Adolfo saw his potential as a future top lieutenant in the organization. He hoped this mistake hadn’t been a fatal one for his protégé.
“Nacho told me Daria went rogue. When Salazar put her in chains, she shanked the coyote assigned to watch her and escaped before the police surrounded the armory. Salazar ordered Nacho to take Sofia Pacheco here and went after Daria himself. He doesn’t know what happened to them after that.”
“I had plans for that girl.” The lines in Hector’s face deepened with his scowl. “Elaborate plans.”
He’d seen the aftermath of El Lobo’s “plans” with young girls. Sofia had no idea how fortunate she was. Suppressing a shudder, Adolfo hurried to do damage control.
“Nacho assured me she has no knowledge of, or access to, any of our accounts or other sensitive information. He only used her for hacking. When the police interview her, they’ll only learn how to strengthen their firewalls. Nothing about our operation.”
Hector didn’t appear mollified. “You might believe his story about the girl’s escape, but I do not. He must be disciplined as an example to the others.”
“Nacho’s in the dungeon.” Adolfo spoke quickly. “I’ve told him he will only have a daily ration of water and nothing else for an entire week.” He hoped the punishment would be enough to appease his
father.
“His loyalty must be reinforced.”
Dread rushed through Adolfo as he waited for his father’s verdict.
Hector pronounced his sentence with the casual indifference of a traffic court judge dealing with a jaywalker. “You will use the branding iron to sear our logo directly over Nacho’s tattoo. I will supervise.” His dark eyes glinted with malice. “And if you pass out this time, Adolfo, you will awaken to the heat of the iron on your own chest.”
“Yes, sir.” His face flamed with humiliation. He’d ordered many brandings but couldn’t carry out the torture himself. Between the shrieks of agony, the scent of burning flesh, and the sight of charred skin, his overwrought brain shut down. More than once, he woke up to the jeers of his siblings and the disapproving glances of his men. Coming out of his reverie, he realized his father had changed the subject and struggled to catch up.
“… a full report from my lead counsel this morning,” Hector was saying. “Salazar told him Veranda Cruz is lying. She is the one who pushed Daria into the blast pit just before it detonated. He tried to save Daria when Cruz struck him in the back of his head with her gun. She will pay for that.”
He kept his reservations about Salazar’s account to himself. “Did the Phoenix legal team provide an update?”
“Salazar has an extradition hearing tomorrow. I don’t understand the details, but the lead attorney says the process will take at least six weeks if everything goes smoothly.”
He felt his brows climb up his forehead. “Salazar could be in Mexico in six weeks?”
Hector pointed at the floor. “And he will be standing right here less than twenty-four hours after that.”
Adolfo clenched his fists as if they could hold onto his fading dreams. He had won. No one else was left. He would be his father’s true heir. Except that Hector Villalobos was planning to break his bastard child out of prison to give him what was rightfully Adolfo’s. He stared straight ahead in numb disbelief as his father continued.
“The Rook’s first assignment is to provide an opportunity for Salazar to escape once they’re in Mexico City.”
Aware he should say something, he cleared his parched throat. “How will you get word to Salazar?”
Hector looked at him like he was an idiot. “The attorneys have already told Salazar about the plan. He’ll be ready when the time comes.”
A loud tone interrupted the awkward silence that followed his father’s words. Adolfo recognized the incoming call signal from the secure satellite phone. Hector leaned forward to press the intercom on the table.
A male voice penetrated the muffled static in the background. “Señor Villalobos?”
“I am with Adolfo. It’s time you two met.”
Adolfo tensed. This must be the Rook. He wondered why his father didn’t activate the view screen.
“I’m sure we’ll have a chance to shake hands at some point.” The Rook’s tone dismissed Adolfo, then he moved on to more important matters. “As we discussed earlier, I’ll stay in Phoenix for the extradition hearings. The politicos are happy to have my regular reports, especially when t
he two presidents are asking for constant updates.” He spoke like someone giving a report to a superior.
Hector’s response reinforced their respective roles. “Do you foresee any problems?”
“No, sir. Bustamante has the upper hand since POTUS wants concessions. He’ll pay on the back end though.”
Clearly, this man had access to sensitive information from the highest offices in both countries. Adolfo detected an unfamiliar accent in the Rook’s Spanish. It wasn’t the intonation of an American who had learned Spanish in school either. He sounded like a native speaker, but from where?
“I’ve finally found something Bustamante and I agree on,” Hector said. “He wants Salazar back in Mexico as badly as I do, but for different reasons.” He chuckled. “I will enjoy watching Bustamante squirm at his own press conference when his prize bull gets out of the pen.”
Apparently too excited to remain seated, Hector got to his feet and began pacing. He seemed to be thinking out loud. “After I have Salazar back, I will deal with Veranda Cruz.”
“What do you have in mind?” the Rook asked.
Adolfo thought it was a bold question for a new subordinate, but Hector didn’t take exception. In fact, he seemed eager to share.
Hector spun to look at the intercom as if it were the Rook sitting on the table. “In the past, I have sent others after her. This time, she will come to me. Let’s see how long she survives without an entire police department behind her.”
Adolfo couldn’t hide his shock. “You’re going to drag an American police officer here?”
“No,” Hector said. “Salazar is. Which is why I must get him freed before I deal with her.” He gave Adolfo an enigmatic smile. “You have a role to play as well.”
Adolfo’s hands, still concealed under the table, twisted together. None of his father’s schemes ever went well for him. He was certain this one would not break with tradition.
Eyes narrowed, Hector resumed pacing. “Detective Cruz has a debt to settle. She will stay in my dungeon. Receive my sentence. Face my justice.”
Adolfo wondered if the Rook was familiar with El Lobo’s overblown speeches or if he understood their significance. The more agitated Hector became, the more dramatic the verbiage. In a man who didn’t express strong emotions, this was a rare tell.
He gazed at the intercom, thinking about the man it concealed, and decided to prod the Rook. “Why are you helping us?”
“Your father and I have an understanding,” the Rook said without hesitation. “I don’t need your chavos.”
Adolfo tilted his head. “You don’t need my … boys?”
The speaker crackled with laughter. “My slang is obviously different from yours,” the Rook said. “I mean money. I don’t need your money.”
Adolfo exchanged a look with his father, who seemed amused by the confusion. He turned back to the table. “To me, chavos is a street word for boys. Your Spanish isn’t Mexican. Where is your accent from?”
Hector strode back to the table. “Stand by while I connect your video feed.” He pushed a button and the image of a man standing in front of a plain white wall filled the flat screen.
Adolfo’s first sight of the Rook caught him off guard.
The Rook smiled at his surprise. “Not what you expected?”
Hector stood next to Adolfo, admiring his newest acquisition. “I’ve never explained why I call him the Rook.”
“I thought it was because you love chess, and he’s an important piece.”
“True, but also because of his name.”
Adolfo struggled to make the connection. Spanish-speaking players call the rook el torre, the tower. He shook his head, unable to work it out.
The man on the screen laughed. “My mother’s maiden name is Torres. I learned Spanish from her side of the family. My looks are inherited from my father. His people are Irish. My great-grandfather immigrated through Ellis Island a hundred years ago. Back then, the Irish faced discrimination like Latinos do today. Nobody would hire a man named Flanagan, so he hid his accent and changed his surname. By dropping four letters, he converted it to a symbol of national pride.”
Hector clapped a hand on Adolfo’s shoulder. “Meet Special Agent Nicholas Flag of the Department of Homeland Security.”
47
Veranda stood in the eye of the hurricane. That moment of calm in the center of chaos before the other side of the storm buffeted her. A morning spent in the hot seat at PSB had clarified her situation as nothing else could. Lieutenant Diaz and the Phoenix Police Department would use every ounce of their considerable power to control her. After Diaz dropped her back at the hospital, she’d visited with Agent Rios in his room. Satisfied he would recover, she passed by the gift shop on the way to the parking lot. A Navajo dreamcatcher featuring a howling Timber wolf dangled in the window. Her wolf dream rushed back to her, bringing inspiration with it.
Starting today, she would take back control. And she would begin with her own body.
That had been her plan four hours ago. Now, all sense of control deserted her as she gazed up at the burly man looming over her. He was about to inflict serious pain. Gripping the arms of her chair, her eyes traced the jagged scar climbing up his neck to disappear into his dense beard. She couldn’t understand how anyone had survived such a grievous wound.
The man clearly lived up to his street name, Oso, the Spanish word for “bear.” Intricate body art decorated every inch of his six-foot-five-inch frame not covered by his black leather vest and blue jeans. Even his face bore three dark blue teardrops spilling down from the outer corner of his eye, an obvious prison tatt.
Oso slid a beefy finger, encased in a purple latex glove, under her bra strap. “Take it off.”
Her T-shirt was already draped over a hook on the back of the locked door.
He withdrew his hand to pick up a long steel needle from a tray of instruments and grinned down at her, revealing a gold tooth. “I hope you have a high pain tolerance.”
Transfixed, she watched him insert the sharp instrument into a machine that looked like a drill and switch it on. The high-pitched sound catapulted her nervous system into overdrive. Her body jolted upright in the chair.
Chuy’s voice came from behind her. “Hey mi’jita, what’s up with you?”
Pulse pounding, she twisted around to look at her cousin. “I got a distorted fragment of memory.” She blinked, trying to distinguish between the vision in her mind and the reality around her. “This whole situation …” She swept out a hand to indicate the back room of the tattoo parlor. “Gave me something like a flashback.”
She’d called her favorite cousin before leaving the hospital, finally ready to accept his offer of help with the cartel tattoo over her heart. Once a solution came to her, she couldn’t stand the idea of living with the Villalobos family mark another day.
Chuy had taken her to Oso, the best cover-up tattoo artist in Phoenix. Chuy’s description of his former cellmate on the way to Tiffany’s parents’ house hadn’t done Oso justice.
After serving their respective sentences, Chuy and Oso had both faced the reality that no one was going to hire them. Unlike many of their fellow former inmates, each had beaten the odds to become small business owners.
Oso talked with her for over an hour about her idea, what was achievable, and what was not. Oso worked strictly freehand, explaining that he would create the artwork as he saw fit based on her vision. He’d showed her his portfolio and asked her to trust him. Unfortunately, her trust hadn’t extended to sharing her previous experience regarding tattoos. She should have warned him.
“What kind of flashback did you have?” Chuy asked.
She was far more comfortable baring her skin than her soul. There was no sense hiding either now, and she needed time to collect herself. Chuy knew some of the story, but she was about to confide more than she ever had.
Drawing a deep breath, she pointed at her exposed upper left chest. “A high-ranking member of the Villalobos cartel did this after drugging me. All I have are distorted images and bits of memories. The noise from the machine must have triggered a reaction.”
Concern wrinkled Oso’s heavy brow. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’ve never been more certian of anything.” She met his eyes, willing him to understand. “People I care about—my former boyfriend, my partner, my family—have been hurt because of me. My department is going to hold a hearing to decide if I should keep my badge.” She hesitated before admitting the final part. “And Hector Villalobos wants me dead.”
Chuy swore under his breath. “While I’m in Mexico, I should take out that pendejo myself.”
“You aren’t going anywhere near him.” She narrowed her eyes. “This is my battle, not yours.”
Chuy showed signs of arguing but seemed to think better of it. Oso was there, and Chuy wasn’t supposed to discuss his new sideline.
Instead, her cousin settled for a menacing scowl. “We aren’t done talking about this, mi’jita.”
She turned her attention back to Oso, whose expression telegraphed skepticism. She would have to prove her commitment.
She reached around behind her back. “Some things I can’t control, but this I can.” She unhooked her bra. “Do I want to do this? No.” She grasped the lacy material and tossed it aside. “But I need to do this.”
Chuy and Oso exchanged glances.
“Okay, I hear you,” Oso said. “Let’s change the ink to make it your own, but are you sure about the design?”
“I had a dream about a gray wolf,” she told him. “Today, it finally clicked. I’m not part of the Villalobos clan, but I’ve been wearing their mark for seven weeks. It’s time I did something about it.”
She reflected on the effect her unwanted body art had on people, picturing the paramedic’s reaction at the storage unit scene when he spotted it. The EMT’s expression echoed the one Cole quickly hid the first time he saw it. Finally, she remembered the full-length mirror at her mother’s house. Tiffany had to cover the black wolf and letter V with body makeup so she wouldn’t mortify the guests or cause her family more pain. She squared her shoulders. After today, the cartel tattoo wouldn’t mar her body anymore.
Death Blow Page 28