Phoenix Burning

by Isabella Maldonado

  She was taken aback. “Proud?”

  Lorena nodded. “What you said about Hector is true. But I know he cheats justice by killing those who stand in his way. He has no mercy. No soul.” Lorena had switched to Spanish, something she would never normally do around Sam. Veranda waited for her mother’s next words, aware she would have a compelling reason to exclude someone from a conversation.

  Her mother cupped Veranda’s chin. “That is how I know you are truly Ernesto Hidalgo’s daughter. No child of Hector Villalobos could act with honor as you do. My heart overflows when I see you because I know Ernesto is still alive inside you, my daughter.”

  Tears spilled down Lorena’s cheeks as she finished speaking. She pulled Veranda up from her chair and into a tight embrace.

  As she hugged her mother, the tainted blood rushing through her veins boiled hot with shame. Her mother didn’t know about the DNA test, and had come to believe Veranda was Ernesto’s daughter.

  She saw the sparkle in her mother’s eyes as she looked at her with a heart full of love. And knew her mother must never find out the truth.

  26

  Veranda hadn’t seen fit to dress up for her outing with the team at the Hyatt. After coming home from the gym and showering, she’d thrown on blue jeans and a red stretchy T-shirt. Choosing comfort over style, she’d completed the outfit with her favorite shoes, black tactical boots. Not as stylish as Marci’s Manolo Blahniks, but she wasn’t out to impress. Her muscles ached and she would have fresh bruises tomorrow, but the kickboxing session with Jake had left her physically exhausted and mentally drained. Exactly what she needed.

  When she first arrived in the Hyatt lounge, Diaz had tried to grab the seat next to hers, but Marci beat him to the spot, an ingenuous smile on her bright red lips that deceived no one. Sam sat to her other side, and she stifled her laughter at the comment he muttered under his breath for her benefit.

  Surrounded by her Homicide squad for the past half hour, Veranda had scarcely spoken to the Federal agents at the other end of the long row of high-top bar tables. She pushed the half-empty glass across the glossy black-lacquered tabletop. “That’s a phenomenal prickly pear margarita, Marci, but I’d better not finish it. Still have to drive home.”

  Tony swigged his beer and banged it down next to hers with a loud thunk. “You could always get a room here.” He craned his neck to take in the swanky bar area. “Hell, we could all get smashed and get a room.”

  Marci sidled closer to him and placed her martini glass next to his pilsner. “This place is a bit high rent for you, Tony.” Her voice dropped to a soft purr. “There aren’t any hookers in the lobby and they don’t rent rooms by the hour.”

  Veranda chuckled. Marci and Tony loved to spar. It occurred to her that many cops enjoyed banter when among their own. Probably a side effect of the job. Constant exposure to the worst humanity had to offer caused an odd comradery that included dark humor and permitted only the most oblique compliments.

  “Why are you always busting my balls, Marci?” Tony exaggerated his Brooklyn accent and tried to look offended, but he couldn’t hide his amusement.

  Marci looked over the length of his body. “As Stormin’ Norman Schwarzkopf used to say, you ‘present a target-rich environment.’”

  Everyone at Veranda’s end of their section joined in the laughter.

  Doc returned from the bar clutching a beer. “What did I miss?”

  “Some good-natured ribbing,” Sam said. “We’re supposed to be relaxing, remember?”

  Tony rolled his eyes. “Lieutenant Diaz referred to this little gathering as ‘team-building.’” He sketched air quotes. “But I call it blowing off steam after a fucking fiasco of a day.”

  Veranda agreed. She still felt the sting of the tense exchange at the Fusion Center that morning. Her Homicide squad had defended her while others in the break room, especially Tanner, the junior FBI agent, questioned her tactics, her leadership, and ultimately, her competence. Self-recrimination had gnawed at her all day.

  Their mandatory get-together in the Hyatt lounge had started off well enough, despite the separation between the PPD and the Feds. Lieutenant Diaz, Sergeant Jackson, and the Mexican agents seemed to be trying to bridge the gap, sitting at a bar table between the two groups.

  DEA Agent Wallace’s words carried to Veranda above the background murmur of conversation as he spoke to his fellow Feds. “I’ve been part of both types of operations, and this one’s too critical to take it slow.” He rubbed the fine stubble on his shaved head with the palm of his hand. “There’s a body count and the public is demanding results. They want to know someone from the Villalobos cartel is going to prison.”

  Tanner grew animated. “But the immediate battle will stop now because the turf war is over, thanks to Detective Cruz.” His tone held judgment. “There’s only one side left now, right?”

  At the mention of her name, she slid off her barstool and sauntered down the row of tables to the Feds. If they were going to talk about her, they would damn well do it to her face. The Homicide squad trailed her.

  “Problem is,” Wallace said as they approached, “taking down a major criminal enterprise leaves a vacuum. And somebody’s always ready to fill the void.” Ice clinked in his glass as he tilted it. “Somebody worse. That’s how the largest cartels formed. Cobbled together from what was left of organizations we took down over the years.”

  Agent Flag from Homeland addressed the group, which now

  included the entire task force. “The same is true of governments. Whenever a despot falls, there’s a violent struggle for power, and often someone worse ends up in charge.”

  Agent Gates crossed her arms. “So we should leave Hector Villalobos to run his empire?”

  Sam raised his whiskey in mock salute. “Sure. We’ll leave El Lobo to it.” He let out a derisive snort. “Please.”

  Wallace held up a calming hand. “It’s true about the power vacuum, but I’m not saying we give up. Exactly the opposite. We need to maintain constant pressure on the cartel … keeping in mind our actions will have unintended consequences.” He cut his eyes to Veranda. “Like what happened this morning.”

  She held his gaze. “El Lobo uses spies, and he murders or terrorizes anyone who gets in his way. He’s taught his children to do the same from the time they were born.” She put a hand on her hip. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Adolfo run Phoenix the way Hector runs every place else.”

  Agent Rios inserted himself into the discussion. “The cartel already has a hold on parts of Mexico.” He exchanged a knowing look with Lopez. “Trust us. You should stop them before they gain more power in the US.”

  Marci tipped her head toward him. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Lopez appeared to weigh his words, then drew in a deep breath. “Do all of you know the expression, plata o plomo?”

  Veranda and some of the others nodded, while the rest looked nonplussed.

  Lopez’s grip tightened around the glass of bourbon in his hand. “When a cartel recruits someone to work for them, they ask, ‘Plata o plomo?’ In English, it means, ‘silver or lead.’ ”

  His eyes hardened and, for the first time, Veranda discerned icy determination behind Lopez’s warm exterior. “More than thirty years ago, El Lobo approached me with an offer. I could take his money or take his bullet.”

  Tension suffused the room as she waited with the others for Lopez to continue.

  “Right after Ernesto Hidalgo’s funeral, I left the graveside and went home. Hector was waiting for me. I walked into my apartment to find him alone, in the dark, sitting in my favorite chair.” Lopez shook his head. “I am sure he waited for that moment to approach me. He must have thought seeing the man I loved like a brother murdered would make me afraid. But Hector was wrong.” He looked directly at Veranda. “I told him to go to hell.”

  Aware Agent Lo
pez believed Ernesto was her father, she sucked in a breath. Heart pounding, she listened in silence as he continued.

  “I attacked Hector and we fought like animals. I would have killed him with my bare hands, but he pulled out a knife.” Lopez unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his shirtsleeve, revealing two jagged scars from wrist to elbow. “I have marks like these all over my body.” His mouth twisted. “I locked my gun in my car before coming up to my apartment—a mistake I have never made since.”

  “Fuck,” Tony breathed, summing up Veranda’s feelings.

  “I woke up later in a hospital bed. To this day, I do not know why Hector spared my life.” He opened his hands, palms up. “Perhaps he thought I would change my mind and come to him out of fear, or maybe he had other plans for me.” He shrugged. “I didn’t care. I went in to headquarters the next day and got warrants to arrest Hector.” Lopez lowered his eyes. “Not that it mattered. He is still free. Still powerful. Still rich with possessions. But he knows he will never own me.” His voice dropped to an almost imperceptible whisper. “I would rather take his bullet.”

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking the spell. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. CAPT. COLE ANDERSON, PFD. She tapped the icon and heard the strain in his husky voice. “Can we talk?”

  She turned her back to the others and walked to an empty corner of the room. “What is it, Cole?”

  “I saw a clip of the press conference on television this morning. You made national news.” She waited through a long pause before he finished. “I’ve had it with this whole task force thing.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nerves already frayed, she heard the bite in her tone.

  “You led multiple raids against a street gang and a drug cartel. You were directly in the line of fire. How am I supposed to deal with that on a regular basis?”

  After the recriminations she’d endured all day, Cole’s overprotectiveness was the last straw. “You want a woman who will stay at home in the kitchen?” She didn’t hide her anger. “I’m not that woman, Cole, and you knew that before we got involved. Don’t ask me to change who I am.”

  “Dammit, Veranda, I’m on your side.”

  “Yeah, I’m overwhelmed by your support.”

  “Can we talk this out when I get back?”

  “I have a splitting headache from too much talking already.” She noticed Marci next to her and ended the argument. “Goodbye, Cole.” She disconnected.

  “Judging by the way you ended that call with your fireman boyfriend,” Marci said, “he’s acting like an ass.”

  Too exhausted to put on a front, she went with the truth. “I went five rounds kickboxing with Jake this afternoon, and that conversation hit me harder than any punch.” She closed her eyes for a long moment.

  Marci stepped closer. “Have I ever told you why I took up karate, Veranda?”

  “Actually, you haven’t.”

  “I learned to defend myself because people refused to accept me for who I am.” Marci raised her chin. “I was a teenager when I realized I was a lesbian. Didn’t make me popular in high school, especially because I don’t fit the stereotype. The other kids thought a girly-girl who likes makeup and fashion had to be into boys. A few of the jocks thought I was playing hard-to-get. So when I turned them down for dates, a couple of them decided to force the issue.”

  “Ay, dios mío, Marci, that’s horrible.” She pictured Marci as a lovely teen girl, alone, terrified, subjected to a ruthless attack. Her heart lurched.

  “Get that look off your face. I’m not telling you this to get your sympathy. In fact, if I detect the slightest trace of pity, I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll think Jake was giving you a gentle massage.”

  Veranda held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, it’s a no-pity zone. But you wouldn’t be telling me this without a good reason.”

  “Exactly.” Marci pointed at her. “People will always judge you without knowing all the facts. Whether it’s personally or professionally, they will second-guess you every step of the way.” She narrowed her eyes. “Get used to it, Cruz.”

  Marci couldn’t have known how close to home her story had hit. Acceptance was the core issue. Would Cole accept her job? Would the task force accept her as leader? From the deep well of thoughts she preferred not to examine too closely, a question bubbled to the surface: Would her mother accept her if she knew the truth?

  Agent Rios came up beside her. “Everything okay?”

  Completely drained and in no mood for polite conversation, she said, “I’m out of here.”

  Lieutenant Diaz materialized at her other side. “I can drive you home.”

  Rios touched her elbow with his fingertips. “You can stay in our room here if you’re not comfortable driving.” After an awkward pause he added, “There’s an extra bed.”

  Diaz looked over her head, directing a venomous glare at the younger federale. “No way in hell am I going to let that happen.”

  “She doesn’t need help from either of you.” Sam had joined the group. “She’s fine to drive home. Only had half a drink.” He glowered at Diaz and Rios in turn. “You two need to dial it back.”

  “I’ve had it.” Veranda jammed a wad of cash into Sam’s hand. “That should cover the margarita.” She leaned around him to give the rest of the team a quick wave. “See you all tomorrow morning at the Fusion Center.” The sound of Rios and Diaz’s raised voices carried to her ears as she stalked out without another word.

  Driving the short distance to her house, she replayed her short argument with Cole. She knew he’d prefer her to be in a less dangerous line of work. In moments alone together, he’d made his stance on relationships clear. If they got serious, especially if they had children, he would expect her to stay home. The idea of a traditional happy family life felt so abstract that she couldn’t decide how she felt about that.

  She swung into her driveway and parked the Tahoe in the carport. Opening the rear hatch, she tugged out her black nylon tactical bag. Shoulders aching after her session at the gym, she hoisted the duffel and wearily trudged to the front door. As soon as she twisted the knob and pulled, an alert tone sounded. Once the door was opened, she had fifteen seconds to deactivate the alarm before it began to wail.

  She felt a vibration at her waist and shifted her bag to her other arm to yank out her cell phone. She glanced down. UNKNOWN NUMBER appeared on the small screen. Wrinkling her brow, she touched the display as she slipped inside her house and began to enter the alarm code on the wall panel.

  “Detective Cruz, Homicide,” she said automatically, scrunching her shoulder to trap the phone under her ear so she could speak while she finished tapping in the code.

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  “Damn.” Figuring she’d inadvertently disconnected the call as she juggled the bag and deactivated the alarm, she snatched the phone from her shoulder and bent her head to peer at the screen while she stood in the open doorway.

  Weary and distracted by her bag, the alarm code, and the phone call, she was a gazelle mindlessly grazing on the savannah. She did not hear the predator stalking, smell his musky scent, or see his form silently emerge behind her.

  Two hundred pounds of savage male slammed into her at full force, knocking her to the floor inside her living room. The phone flew from her hand and skittered away into the kitchen. Her duffel hit the carpet by her feet as she landed on her stomach with a thud. Before she could react, a strong hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head around, flipping her onto her back.

  Winded and stunned, she struggled to marshal her thoughts. Realization hit her with the force of another blow. The phone call had been a setup, distracting her until she entered her alarm code. Someone had ambushed her. But who? She blinked rapidly as her nightmare came to life.

  Salazar’s feral eye
s bored into hers as he pushed himself into a kneeling position astride her hips, pinning her arms against her sides with his knees. His hands free, he pulled a slim black case out of a cargo pocket on the side of his pants, dug into it, and removed a syringe.

  She opened her mouth and shouted. “Hel—!”

  Salazar silenced her instantly with a powerful open-handed slap to the side of her head. She recognized the technique. A palm-strike to the temple, properly delivered, was nonlethal but left the victim disoriented for up to a full minute. Bright spots burst in front of her eyes and her vision swam.

  Fight! her kickboxing coach’s voice echoed in her head. She commanded her lethargic body to react, but Salazar’s full weight rested over her abdomen, and his knees completely immobilized her arms, limiting her options. She struggled to draw her legs up, hoping to buck him off. A malicious grin lit his face as he leaned forward, lowering the length of his body down to cover hers. When he shifted position, her arms were freed for a split second. Taking full advantage, she made a fist and aimed for the bridge of his nose. With expert timing, he angled his head and her knuckles smashed into his rock-hard jaw instead. She readied her other hand but, lying on her back directly underneath him, she didn’t have enough space to throw a decent punch.

  His strong hand, encased in a black leather glove, shot out and clutched her fist, squeezing it until she arched her back in pain. Still reeling from the blow to her temple, she formed a claw with her free hand in a desperate attempt to gouge his eyes. He dropped the needle and caught her wrist before she reached his face.

  A part of her mind remembered Salazar had extensive military training and could counteract her strikes. If he’d researched her background, he knew she’d been taught to fight as well, and had devised a way to catch her off guard. The element of surprise served him well. He had her at a complete disadvantage.

  She felt his muscles ripple with tension as he dragged both of her arms above her head. She struggled to pull free, but he jammed her wrists together, wrapping one large hand around both of them with bone-crushing force. Now he had effectively restrained her, with one hand free to pick up the dropped needle.