Phoenix Burning

by Isabella Maldonado

  He started with a tall, slender woman in a navy pantsuit. She surveyed the room with a reserved expression as the chief introduced her. Her ebony hair was cut in a smooth chin-length bob tucked behind one ear, exposing a pearl stud earring that contrasted with her dark skin. “This is Special Agent Gwen Gates from the FBI. She’ll be transferring to the Charlotte Field Office after this investigation. Accompanying her is Special Agent James Tanner. The Phoenix Field Office is his first assignment out of Quantico.”

  Tanner’s blond curly hair, freckles, and pale blue eyes gave him a boyish appearance. His fair skin revealed a flush that betrayed nervousness, making her question whether the task force was also his very first investigation.

  “Looks like we’ll be breaking that one in,” Sam muttered so only Veranda could hear.

  She knew the next person in line. “Special Agent Craig Wallace from the DEA regularly coordinates with detectives in our own Drug Enforcement Bureau.”

  She had also worked with the man standing to Wallace’s right. “Deputy US Marshal Tim Fitzhugh has been on task forces with our detectives for several years.”

  Pleased to see two friendlies among the suits, she relaxed a bit. Two years ago, Fitz had arranged to deputize Veranda and her fellow narcotics detectives as federal officers so they had law enforcement powers beyond Phoenix city boundaries. She could parlay their prior working relationship into an alliance if necessary. Given the scope of her plan, she needed every ally should could muster.

  The chief had gotten to the next person in the row of agents. “Special Agent Nicholas Flag is with Homeland Security. Since our operation will have international ramifications and we’re partnering with foreign nationals, we need communication and cooperation from all sides. He works with ICE agents regularly since they’re under the same umbrella.”

  Sam nudged her and leaned down. “If that guy’s not a spook, I’ll eat my shoe.”

  She looked at Special Agent Flag. In his late thirties, he wore his light brown hair in a flat top. Tension practically vibrated through his body as he assessed the room.

  “Which agency?” she whispered.

  “It’ll be the CIA, NSA, something like that,” Sam said quietly. “With international and national security involvement, the intelligence community’s going to want Oxfords on the ground.”

  She studied Flag. His cobalt eyes darted in every direction, as if he expected an armed assault at any moment. Sam’s probably right.

  Chief Tobias smiled as he indicated the last two men at the end of the row. “We are very fortunate to have two agents from the Ministerial Federal Police in Mexico. These gentlemen just flew into Sky Harbor Airport this morning. For those of you not familiar with law enforcement south of the border, the Ministerial Federal Police are similar in function to the FBI. They have broad powers and are the main investigative arm of the Mexican Attorney General.”

  Tobias inclined his head toward the older of the pair. “Agent Esteban Lopez has over thirty-two years of experience and is a subject matter expert on the Villalobos cartel. He’s also familiar with many other notorious criminal organizations throughout Central and South America.”

  Lopez’s thick silver hair swept straight back from his forehead. A narrow gray mustache tapered down both sides of his mouth, blending into a neatly trimmed goatee. His suit, dress shirt, and tie were a monochromatic black. Wry amusement tipped up the corners of Veranda’s lips. Lopez was Sam’s Mexican counterpart.

  Chief Tobias continued to the last person in line. “Agent Manuel Rios is his partner. He’s been working closely with Agent Lopez for several months and has a background in special ops.”

  To Veranda’s practiced eye, Rios certainly looked like he had tactical experience. About her age, she could tell he was ripped, even in his suit. His military-style haircut completed the mission-ready effect. She realized she’d been staring at Rios when he cast an appreciative glance her way and gave her a slow smile.

  As her face heated with embarrassment, the chief’s next words dragged her mind back to the task force.

  “Lieutenant Diaz will participate directly in all meetings and activities,” Tobias said, “but Detective Cruz is the lead investigator.” He glanced at his fellow command staff officers. “We’ll take our leave so you all can get to work. I expect results.” He turned a sharp gaze on Veranda. “Soon.”

  With that, the brass filed out of the room.

  Veranda noted fifteen detectives, agents, and supervisors assigned to the main task force, not including support personnel and other investigative bureaus, remained in the Fusion Center. She decided to have her Homicide team sit at the extra-large table with the Feds while the computer and Gang detectives listened from their workstations.

  Diaz cleared his throat. “We’ll start with an overview so we all have the same base level of information to work from. Detective Cruz will run the meeting.”

  All eyes turned to Veranda, who pulled out a blank sheet of paper. “Please write out your contact information on this sheet.” She handed it to Special Agent Fitzgerald, who stood to her right. She’d given dozens of briefings over the years, but this one felt different. Her highly controversial plan was sure to draw fire.

  Aware she would be dealing with Feds, she had donned a charcoal gray tailored business suit this morning and twisted her long, thick hair up into a sleek chignon. Striving to project professionalism and competence, she pointed at the main table. “Please take a seat.”

  Sam slipped into the chair immediately to her right before Diaz, who had started in that direction, could get there. Diaz’s mouth pressed into a hard, flat line and he sat farther down the table.

  Veranda remained standing as the rest of the group jockeyed for position. Her entire squad was there, and she wanted to put them on par with the agents.

  “Before we start the briefing, some background on PPD Homicide,” she said. “Over fifty detectives are in the Homicide Unit, which contains the Cold Case squad and five Homicide squads, each with a sergeant and five to ten detectives.”

  As her mentor, Sam was effectively her partner, but she wanted the Feds to understand how the squad functioned as a group. “We get called out together, and work cases as a team.” Under intense pressure from the relentless pace and scrutiny of several high-profile investigations, the crew had bonded over the past few weeks. “Chief Tobias introduced all of you. I’ll do the same for my squad.”

  She glanced to her right. “Sam Stark. Senior detective.” She went down the row. “Marci Blane.” Agent Tanner gave Marci a second look. Her long blond hair, flawless skin, and lithe figure under fitted clothes always turned men’s heads. Veranda smiled to herself. If Tanner made a play for Marci, he was in for a disappointment.

  She motioned across the table to a dark-haired, slender man with horn-rimmed glasses. “Doc Malloy.” Detective Malloy had earned his nickname from attending too many autopsies. His unofficial medical expertise was highly useful, but such intimate knowledge of human physiology came at a price—hypochondria. For Doc, every bump was a tumor, every twinge, a fatal illness, every cold, pneumonia.

  She inclined her head at the next seat down. “Frank Fujiyama.” Doc’s opposite in many ways, Frank’s skin had bronzed from hiking desert mountain ranges throughout Phoenix in all weather. An avid outdoorsman and introvert, Frank often ventured on solitary wilderness camping trips.

  She indicated the last member of her squad. “Tony Sanchez.” A proud Puerto Rican raised in New York City, Tony had joined the NYPD right out of college but was among hundreds of officers laid off during budget cuts early in his career. He’d moved west to the PPD and flourished, eventually earning a coveted detective slot. Despite living in Arizona for over two decades, Tony had never acclimated. Complaints about the blistering heat, peppered with expletives in a heavy Brooklyn accent, emanated from his cubicle all summer long.

  Introductions
out of the way, Veranda lifted a remote from the table next to her laptop. “The Villalobos cartel is one of the largest and most sophisticated criminal organizations in the world. They feed their growing empire with money from drugs, sex, weapons, explosives, fraud, smuggling, and murder. I’ll explain their methods shortly, but first, we all need to be on the same page about why we’re sitting here today.”

  She tapped the remote lightly against her open palm. “Let me start by briefing everyone on our current situation. Speak up if you have questions.” To explain the sequence of events bringing them to this point, she started with the first domino to fall. “Six days ago, a dope slinger from a gang called the South Side Soldados expanded his business onto Villalobos cartel turf. The Villalobos enforcers responded.”

  She raised the remote, aiming at the smooth wall opposite her. She clicked a button, and all eyes turned to see the image of a patient in a hospital bed projected in vivid detail. Swathed in white bandages with tubes protruding from every visible orifice, the man looked like a disjointed lump of pulverized flesh.

  Tanner’s mouth dropped open. “Who are the South Side Soldados?”

  “Soldados is the Spanish word for soldiers,” she clicked the remote again. An image of three interlocking S-shaped snakes replaced the grisly hospital photo. “They go by SSS. Strictly local drug dealers out of South Phoenix, but their supply chain leads to a cartel in Colombia that’s at war with the Villalobos family.”

  Veranda flashed back over her two years in the Drug Enforcement Bureau before transferring to Homicide. Her experience as the leader of an inter-agency task force targeting the notorious Villalobos cartel had provided ample opportunity to research the frequent coups and skirmishes among various cartels in South and Central America.

  When her audience stopped scribbling, she continued. “After the attack on their dealer, SSS retaliated. Three days ago, a mid-level distributor for the Villalobos cartel was gunned down.” She pressed again, displaying a crime scene photo of a body splayed in a pool of blood on the stoop in front of an apartment building. “His stash went missing.” She inclined her head to her squad supervisor. “Sergeant Jackson assigned the case to me as my first lead.”

  Jackson adjusted his rimless glasses. “The victim had a black wolf’s head tattooed on his chest, so we knew he was with the Villalobos cartel. Because of Detective Cruz’s experience as a narc, I gave her the lead.” He seemed anxious to justify his decision.

  “Did you make headway?” Agent Wallace asked the sergeant.

  Jackson was quick to answer. “We began with the premise that the shooting was retaliation against the cartel for attacking an SSS dealer. Detective Cruz arranged for her former DEB squad to stage a buy-bust the next day. When the bust went down, the narcs found the stolen Villalobos cartel stash being cut for sale by SSS distributors. They even found the wolf logo on the discarded heroin packaging. The narcs arrested four SSS members, who all pointed to their leader, Raymond Castillo, as the shot-caller.” He spread his hands. “We swore out a warrant for Castillo within forty-eight hours of the murder.”

  Jackson had taken a risk by giving her a lead spot after only six weeks in Homicide, and he clearly wanted to show she’d been an asset to the investigation. Her success or failure directly reflected on him.

  “How did you locate Castillo?” Agent Gates asked.

  Sam spoke for the first time. “He ghosted on us. Couldn’t catch him at his residence. That’s when Veranda came up with a plan.” He looked over at her, giving her the floor.

  “In my experience, you don’t find drug dealers at their listed addresses. There’s three places they go. She counted off on her fingers. “Girlfriend’s house, Mama’s house, and their gangbanger hangout—in that order.” She had offered the sanitized version of the investigative technique she’d learned when she first became a narc years ago. One of the senior detectives in the Unit had told her how to track down informants by checking the most likely places. “Maslow’s Hierarchy for street punks. Get laid, get fed, and get paid.”

  Veranda continued. “But Castillo couldn’t lay low in any of those places. The Villalobos cartel was after him, and his own SSS crew had sold him out to the cops.” She shrugged. “He was a dead man, and he knew it. He only had one play left, and he reached out to turn himself in. Offered to provide intel on his suppliers in exchange for a deal. He named the time and place for the meet.”

  Tanner’s eyes widened. “So you just went where he told you to go?” A note of censure edged his question.

  She clenched her fists, unsure if she was more annoyed with Tanner or herself. “No one knew about the meeting. I still can’t figure out how Roberto Bernal got there right when we did.”

  The mystery had gnawed at her. How had the Villalobos cartel known where and when to deploy their urban assault vehicle? Castillo had been taken out with the precision of a surgical strike. What she couldn’t understand, she couldn’t prevent happening again.

  Diaz glanced at her tightened hands and interjected. “Perhaps you should go over the structure of the cartel, Detective Cruz.”

  Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she exited the file and clicked open a different part of her PowerPoint program. She understood why, but the lieutenant had messed up the flow of her presentation.

  Flicking through the first few images, she found the section she wanted. “The public believes this is all about warring narcotics trafficking organizations, but this goes much deeper than drug dealing. It’s about the Villalobos empire.” She inclined her head to the Mexican agents. “Jump in if you have updated information as I go through the cartel hierarchy.”

  She pressed the remote, and an image of Hector Villalobos glowered at the group. Cold dark eyes peered out above an angular nose and cruel mouth framed by a trim black goatee with a silver stripe down the middle of the chin.

  Revulsion and fury fired her core as she gazed upon her birth father’s countenance. This man had caused untold suffering and death for over thirty years. He had no mercy, no allegiance, no creed other than a lust for power. The trail of destruction in his wake proved he would stop at nothing.

  She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. To be associated with such a person was beyond shameful. Tantamount to guilt. If the truth came out, she knew Sam would understand, but her colleagues would label her a threat and suspect her motives. And the department would never allow her to investigate the cartel again. Unthinkable.

  She made an effort to pull her thoughts together. “El Lobo means ‘the wolf.’ That’s what Hector Villalobos calls himself. The name comes from his surname, which means ‘village of wolves’ or ‘city of wolves.’ Since the family coat of arms features two black wolves, he’s turned it into his logo. The cartel stamps a wolf head on bundles of narcotics, personal weapons, and vehicles. Loyal members of the cartel have a black wolf’s head tattooed over their hearts, and enemies are branded with a wolf-shaped iron.” She suppressed a shudder, remembering photos she’d seen in the past.

  “El Lobo patterned his cartel’s organizational structure as a cross between a paramilitary organization and a wolf pack,” she said. “And he’s the alpha.”

  She clicked again, and an aerial view of a sprawling group of buildings in an isolated area replaced Hector’s picture. “This is a satellite image of the Villalobos family compound in Mexico. The structures include living quarters, a private airstrip, airplane and helicopter hangars, a landing pad, an outdoor auditorium, servants’ quarters, and a huge covered building we haven’t been able to identify yet.”

  Lopez, the senior Mexican Federal Police agent, cleared his throat. “I believe we can help with that,” he said in accented English. At Veranda’s encouraging nod, he continued. “We’ve been able to get intelligence from people we have arrested. What you are looking at is an indoor shooting range.”

  A murmur went around the room. Veranda digested this befo
re posing her question. “What else can you tell us about the compound?”

  Lopez stood, skirted the table, and walked to the projected image on the wall. “Hector’s private property covers about twenty square kilometers. There are guard stations around a two-kilometer perimeter, and another internal ring of sentries about half a kilometer out from the compound. This way, he has multiple layers of protection.”

  Lopez pointed to a central structure. “This is the main living area. We have had one report of a dungeon underground where he tortures prisoners or holds them for execution.” He hesitated. “We have also heard that some of the executions take place in the indoor shooting range, and others occur in the outdoor auditorium.”

  Doc looked appalled. “You mean like gladiators in a Roman coliseum?”

  Lopez nodded. “We are told the killings serve both as an example and as entertainment. Of course, we cannot prove this, or El Lobo would be in prison.” He returned to his seat. “Our problem is that we’ve never been able to turn anyone from the cartel. They are all scared for themselves as well as for their families. We’ve sent in undercover agents, but … ” He trailed off, a bleak expression clouding his face. “They died … badly. But we will keep trying.” He lifted his chin. “One day, we will succeed.”

  Veranda thought about the brave Mexican agents who had gone deep undercover in the cartel, never to be heard from again. All over the world, it seemed, the Villalobos family kept a step ahead of law enforcement.

  Lopez dropped his gaze. “Over the years, El Lobo sent spies inside our agency. We have uncovered moles and arrested corrupt officials taking bribes for information. We are still cleaning up.”