Phoenix Burning

by Isabella Maldonado

  She considered screaming again. Someone might hear beyond the partly open front door. Then she dismissed the idea. He would use his free hand to knock her unconscious this time, and she couldn’t allow that. She had to stay alert and wait for another opportunity to strike.

  They both heaved ragged breaths for a moment, then he brought one gloved hand down to caress her face. He trailed his fingers languidly down her jawline to the side of her neck. His lips curved into a smile as he pressed his fingertips on the spot where her pulse raced. She felt the smooth leather covering his thumb as he slid it over to encircle the front of her throat.

  She read his intention in an instant. Compressing her carotid arteries and pinching off her airway would render her unconscious in a matter of seconds. If he continued to constrict the flow long enough, she would die. If he released the pressure, she would regain consciousness quickly, but he would have several seconds to inject her with whatever was in that syringe.

  Rage seethed through her. She fought savagely, twisting her body, writhing under his solid weight.

  His fingers pushed down harder and he lowered his head until she could feel his hot breath against her lips. “You are at my mercy now,” he whispered in heavily accented English.

  She gnashed her teeth and thrashed with all her remaining strength.

  His final words drifted to her ears as her vision constricted to a pinprick and darkness engulfed her completely.

  “Too bad for you … I have none.”

  27

  Salazar inhaled the intoxicating scent of feminine fear. The instinctive fight for survival always left a residual trace his nose could detect if he was close enough to his prey. Their intimate position, with the length of his body pressed down on hers, gave him a particularly potent rush. She had been a worthy adversary, but he had won, and now she would pay the price for her failure.

  After her struggles subsided, he released his hold on her neck and reached out to pluck the syringe from the carpeted floor. He had to hurry. She would come around soon now that blood was flowing unrestricted to her brain again.

  Reaching down to tug the leg of her blue jeans up from her boots, he exposed her smooth calf. He jammed the sharp point of the needle deep into her muscle and pressed the plunger down. She moaned and her eyes fluttered open.

  Returning his gaze to her face, he pulled out the syringe and waited. Her pupils dilated and her body slackened as the customized ketamine-based cocktail rushed into her system. She would be fully compliant within seconds. Planting his hands on either side of her, he pushed himself up to his feet, went to the front door, and looked outside. Reassured no one had heard the brief scream before he silenced her, he shut the door.

  He slid his phone out, tapped a saved number, and spoke in his native tongue. “I’m ready.” He disconnected and squatted next to the woman. After regarding her for a moment, he leaned forward, grasped the hem of the fitted red shirt near her waist, and yanked it over her lolling head.

  He tossed the garment to the floor and reached toward her again when a light rap on the door interrupted him. He opened it to Omar, who held a leather satchel.

  Salazar searched the immediate area for a place to restrain her. His gaze settled on the kitchen table. Well-lit. Good height. It would do.

  When he removed her bra, he caught Omar staring. “We have work to do.” He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “Put your bag on the counter and help me carry her to that table. We’ll turn on the light and you can get a good look before we get started.”

  Wordlessly, Omar put the satchel down and came back to the living room. Salazar grasped the woman’s limp form under her shoulders, gloved fingers digging into her armpits as he lifted her. Omar wrapped his hands around the ankles of her boots and straightened.

  Hanging between the two men, she groaned. He backed toward the table and hoisted her onto its hard surface.

  Omar released her legs and stepped back to turn the overhead light on. “She’s fucking hot,” he said.

  He agreed. Veranda Cruz was indeed a lovely woman. Stripped to the waist, her supple caramel skin and silky black hair glistened in the harsh light. But he had to keep Omar on task. Admiring their captive wasn’t on the agenda.

  “She’s out of it, but not unconscious. Can still react to pain, even though she won’t feel much.”

  He ran a thumb and forefinger along his goatee as he scrutinized her. She must have no visible signs of restraint, although it appeared fresh bruises were blooming all over her upper body. He’d learned she kickboxed during his research, and the GPS tracker showed her at the gym this afternoon, which would play perfectly into his plans. Any marks from their scuffle would be written off as sparring injuries. He continued to peruse her body. Her boots would cushion her ankles from rope burns, but the soft skin of her slender wrists would show abrasions.

  He decided on a course of action and motioned to Omar. “We can tie her ankles to the table legs, but I’ll have to hold her arms down to keep her still.”

  Omar pulled two nylon ropes from his bag and held them out. “I’ll do the left side.”

  Salazar took one of the ropes and coiled it around her right ankle. He dragged her foot to the edge of the table, lashed the other end of the rope around the table leg, and tightened the cord. He checked Omar’s knots on the left side to be sure they were secure before he glanced back at the satchel on the kitchen counter. “Did you bring plastic sheeting to put under her?”

  “Yes. I brought everything we need.” Loud snaps echoed off the Saltillo tiles as Omar pulled on latex gloves.

  Salazar sat in a wooden ladder backed chair at the end of the table near Veranda’s head. He picked up her wrists and maneuvered them until her hands were crossed behind her neck, pillowing the back of her skull. He leaned forward, trapping her bent elbows beneath his biceps. His face brushed against her cheek, and her soft moan caressed his ear. He splayed his hands across the smooth skin of her rib cage, anchoring her torso firmly in place. Veranda was beautiful in repose, lips parted, eyes closed, breathing steady.

  He pressed his mouth against her delicate ear and whispered a promise. “When I am finished tonight, you will never be the same again.”

  He looked up at Omar, who stood holding the equipment, and nodded. “You may begin.”

  28

  Veranda raced through dense underbrush in the forest, sharp branches scraping her bare flesh. She chanced a glance over her shoulder to see the black wolf gaining on her. Its massive paws pounded the ground behind her. Lungs burning, she tried to run faster. The thudding of the beast’s feet grew louder, thundering in her ears. Its hot breath blasted the nape of her neck. She braced for the impact of claws raking her back.

  Gasping, she shot bolt upright in her bed as the sound of fists hammering on her door woke her from the nightmare. The dream had recurred many times over the past week, but it was far more vivid this time.

  Bleary-eyed, dry-mouthed, and sweat-soaked, she glanced at the sunlit curtains, then turned to the digital clock on the nightstand. 9:03. How had she overslept? As she shook the cobwebs from her head, a deep, muffled male voice boomed, “Open the door!”

  She jumped up from the bed and almost passed out when the room spun. Clutching the edge of the nightstand to steady herself, she called back. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The pounding on her front door stopped, and she assumed whoever it was had heard her. She was nude, which was odd because she typically wore an oversized T-shirt to sleep in. She lurched to the bathroom, grabbed the satin robe dangling from its hook, and pulled it on, the smooth fabric clinging to her clammy skin. Her disheveled hair cascaded almost to her waist, forming a dark curtain around her upper body. Whoever was knocking would be in for a fright.

  When she stumbled to the front door, bolts of pain shot through her body. She ached everywhere. Obviously, she’d gone one too many rounds wit
h Jake. Still confused and disoriented, she peered through the peephole. A gold police badge took up the entire view space. Sighing, she unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.

  Lieutenant Diaz barged in without asking permission, Sam in his wake. Diaz laid his briefcase on the coffee table in front of her sofa. She closed the door and followed them into her living room on unsteady feet.

  Radiating anger, Diaz rounded on her after giving the room a cursory look. “Are you alone?”

  She lifted a brow. Odd question. Even stranger than the wrath on his face as he asked it. “Of course. I live by myself.” She looked at Sam. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Sam said nothing, his face inscrutable.

  Diaz stepped toward her. “Open your robe.” At her look of outrage, he added, “Just the top.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “You can go f—”

  Sam cut her off, stepping in front of her to face Diaz. “Lieutenant or not I’ll cold-cock you if you don’t let me do the talking.”

  Still bristling, Diaz crossed his arms, stepped back, and nodded.

  Sam pivoted toward her, turning his back to Diaz. “Please sit down, Veranda.” He motioned to her sofa.

  Leery, she padded a few steps to the couch and perched on the edge of the cushion. The men took seats in the two armchairs across from her.

  Sam’s eyes searched her face. “What happened after you left the hotel last night?”

  When she tried to recall, disjointed hazy images and dark voids came to her. “I’m not sure.” She shook her head. “I don’t remember coming home, but I only drank half a margarita. I think.”

  “Do you feel okay?”

  “I feel like shit. Every part of my body hurts and I’m queasy.”

  “Do you feel pain in any specific area?”

  She did a quick inventory of her body. Dull aches throbbed everywhere, but when she focused her attention, a sharper sensation registered in a specific place. She touched the area and winced.

  She pushed her hair behind her shoulders, so only thin satin fabric covered her. Something wasn’t right. With trembling hands, she pulled the edge of the robe away from her neckline and gasped when she exposed her upper left chest. “Dios mío.”

  A five-inch-wide tattoo of a black wolf’s head had been inked just above her breast. Astonished, she looked at the two men facing her. “How did this happen?”

  Diaz’s eyes traveled up from her gaping robe to lock with hers. “Why don’t you tell us?”

  Sam’s bushy brows furrowed. “Are you saying you had no idea the tattoo was there?”

  She turned to him. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” She strained to remember details from last night. Nothing came. No longer concerned with modesty, she opened her robe wider, letting the top slide down to expose her bare shoulders and most of her chest. “Look, it’s fresh.” She pointed at the reddened skin around the edges of the design. She allowed the men to lean forward and examine the tattoo before she tugged her robe closed.

  Mind still stuck in low gear, she hadn’t thought to ask the most basic question. She looked at each of her visitors in turn. “What are you two doing here?”

  Sam tipped his head toward Diaz’s briefcase. “She needs to know what’s going on.”

  Diaz popped open the briefcase on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He slid out an iPad and set it up in front of her, then touched an icon on the desktop to open a saved video file.

  With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she recognized Kiki Lowell, the redheaded reporter, clutching a microphone. The banner above her read, TRAITOR IN THE PPD? With a dramatic flair, Kiki narrowed her eyes. “Early this morning, every media outlet in Phoenix received an email from an unknown source. The email contained images that shed new light on yesterday’s Operation Scorpion Sting debacle.”

  Kiki swiveled to another camera, and the screen split with a photo image on the left. “This is one of three files attached to the mysterious email. This picture shows members of the notorious Villalobos family sitting at a conference table in an office. Hector Villalobos, known as El Lobo, reputed leader of the world’s largest cartel, is at the head of the table. Adolfo, his oldest son, sits to his immediate right. His other two children, Carlos and Daria, are on the left. In the chair directly to Adolfo’s right is Detective Veranda Cruz of the Phoenix Police Department.”

  Her befuddled brain couldn’t process what she was seeing. In the photograph, she had on the turquoise blue dress she wore to the quinceañera. Her head throbbed with the effort of trying to understand something that made no sense.

  Kiki continued her exposé, breathless with excitement. “We must warn viewers that the next image is graphic.” Another picture replaced the first.

  Veranda reared back so hard her shoulders hit the sofa cushion behind her. Eyes wide with shock, she took in a scene that defied all reason and made her question her sanity. On the screen, she was naked from the waist up, her breasts pixilated over her nipples, sitting on the edge of her own bed. The loopy smile on her face made her look drunk.

  “This image depicts a partially clothed Detective Cruz.” A salacious glint crept into Kiki’s eyes as the camera zoomed in for a tight shot of the tattoo. “A close-up of the body art just above her left breast shows a Villalobos cartel tattoo worn by those who have devoted their lives to the service of the infamous criminal organization.”

  The camera zoomed in again, the image filling the screen as Kiki continued her voiceover. “A closer look reveals the most disturbing detail of all. About an inch above the wolf’s head is the letter V. This addition to the standard tattoo is reserved for Villalobos family members. Our sources confirm that an identical design was noted on Bartolo Villalobos’s official autopsy report after his recent death.”

  Veranda’s hand flew to her mouth. Dread sluiced through her as she waited to see what would come next.

  “The final attachment contained in the email was a document.” An official-looking paper took up the entire screen as Kiki narrated. “This is a copy of a DNA report from a paternity test performed at a laboratory in Mexico. Members of our news staff translated the document, which indicates Detective Cruz is the biological daughter of Hector Villalobos.”

  The screen cut back to a close shot of Kiki, who seemed to be vibrating with barely contained excitement. “We contacted the Phoenix Police Public Affairs Bureau for a comment. They confirmed Detective Cruz has never been on an undercover assignment with the cartel, and could not have been involved in a department-sanctioned activity when she met with the Villalobos family.”

  Kiki swiveled to face the first camera again. “The PPD claimed to have no knowledge of the tattoo on Detective Cruz’s body or the paternity test. They declined any further comment, citing the need to launch an official investigation.”

  A graphic of a Phoenix police badge materialized in the lower right corner of the screen as Kiki continued. “We remind viewers that this information was supplied through an unknown source. We have not been able to corroborate all allegations, however, since the same email was given to all Phoenix media outlets, this breaking story is being widely reported. Stay tuned for further developments.”

  A photo of Chief Tobias appeared to Kiki’s right, above the gold shield. “Such serious accusations certainly demand a response from the chief and the mayor. The task force, led by Detective Cruz, conducted a recent series of raids. This operation, dubbed Scorpion Sting, eliminated a rival drug gang that encroached on Villalobos cartel territory. Did Detective Cruz arrange to have her family’s business not only spared, but actually profit from the task force’s actions? We will have more as this story unfolds.”

  Diaz tapped the screen and closed the iPad cover.

  She felt paralyzed. A dull roar thrummed in her ears. The air in her lungs seemed to condense, making it hard to breathe.

  After a lon
g pause, Sam spoke softly. “This is bad, Veranda.”

  “No shit.” Her hand trembled as she pushed a stray tendril of hair from her face. This could not be real. Her wolf nightmare must have morphed into this hellish scene. She willed herself to wake up.

  “What aren’t you telling us?” Diaz asked.

  She latched onto the first coherent thought that came to her addled brain. “You were there,” she said to Diaz. “I wore that blue dress to Gabby’s quinceañera.”

  “I don’t see your point.” He furrowed his brows. “You also could have worn it to a meeting with the cartel.”

  “No, I couldn’t. I bought it last week for Gabby’s party, and that was the first time I put it on.” Her eyes darted desperately from one man to the other. “I’ve never been in that office, never joined the Villalobos family around a table. The picture had to be Photoshopped. Someone’s setting me up.”

  Diaz looked skeptical. “And the DNA test results? I recall Bartolo waving around a copy of the test in an envelope.” He didn’t hide the accusation in his next words. “Which went missing after he died.”

  Feeling cornered, she lashed out. “I didn’t take those lab results.”

  Diaz edged forward, eyes blazing. “Are you El Lobo’s daughter or not?”

  “Don’t answer that, Veranda,” Sam said. “These are serious allegations.” He shot an angry glare at Diaz before turning back to her. “You need legal representation.”

  Diaz seemed to recollect himself. “Before we talk to you any further, I’ll Mirandize you and give you an NOI.”

  “Why?” Veranda struggled to keep up as the conversation took another shocking turn. A Notice of Investigation meant the department had opened an official inquiry. Miranda warnings applied when the allegation was criminal in nature. Her head, which had only just stopped spinning, began to throb again.