Ignoring the commentary on her footwear, Veranda held up Chuy’s cell phone. “And where am I supposed to put this? I couldn’t even slide a credit card into these pockets.”
“Same place I put my phone.” Tiffany plucked it from Veranda’s fingers and stuffed it into a small pouch sewn inside the top of the boot Veranda now wore. The phone rested against her thigh within easy reach.
Veranda gave Tiffany a slight nod. “Okay, I’ll admit that’s pretty cool, but still … this outfit of yours leaves nothing to the imagination.”
Chuy gave his girlfriend a lascivious grin. “It leaves plenty to my imagination.”
Unfortunately, the bustier also exposed her new Villalobos cartel tattoo with the family mark, but there was nothing she could do about that now.
She turned to Chuy. “May as well complete my transformation to outlaw biker chic.”
Grinning, Chuy tugged Diaz’s leather belt and empty holster out from his vest. The lieutenant’s duty weapon remained tucked into Chuy’s waistband while she tried several configurations with the belt. Finally, she wrapped it once around her upper thigh, then crisscrossed it to circle her waist, buckling it at its farthest hole before sliding the holster in place.
She held her hand out to her cousin. “Gun.”
He slapped the Glock into her open palm.
She pulled back the slide just enough to see that a round was chambered before easing it into place again. Next, she released the magazine, made sure it was topped off, then shoved it firmly back into the grip, listening for the snick that told her it was properly seated. Weapon check complete, she thrust the gun into its holster, where it hung low on her right hip.
Tiffany’s eyes widened as she gave Veranda a long perusal. “You are a total badass.” She turned to Chuy. “I want a gun like that. She looks fucking hot.”
“I’m a convicted felon, mamacita. Can’t have a firearm.” He wrapped an arm around Tiffany’s shoulders. “Nothing stopping you from buying one though.” He considered Veranda. “Gotta say, it does look bitchin’.”
Veranda rolled her eyes. “Ay, yi, yi. You’ve met your match, Chuy.” She gave her head a small shake as Chuy pulled his girlfriend against him.
Tiffany playfully pushed away from Chuy, bent to scoop up a jet-black helmet from a nearby table, and held it out to her. “This is for you.”
Veranda took it. “I’m glad you wear a full-face.”
Tiffany nodded vehemently. “Fuckin’ A. Going down once was enough for me to learn my lesson.”
Her cousin’s pierced brows drew together. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I bet it’s something completely loco. You want some backup?”
“No, Chuy, I can’t involve you in this. You’re a civilian. But thanks.” She pulled the helmet over her head and flipped the black-tinted visor down. Reaching around to the back of her head, she draped her thick ponytail over her left shoulder, fanning the hair out to cover her tattoo. “No one will recognize me like this while we leave the hospital. Where did you park the bikes?”
“Follow me.” Chuy and Tiffany led her through the maze of corridors to the ER’s public parking area. Two customized Harley Fat Boys occupied a space. One was flat black with leering white skulls on each side. The other was silver with chrome pipes and a vivid green marijuana leaf airbrushed onto the gas tank.
Veranda put her hands on her hips. “Seriously, Chuy?”
He held out a key ring. “Just bought the weed one. Haven’t had a chance to repaint it. The skull bike’s better for, uh … stealth mode.”
She took the proffered key and slung a leg over the seat. She’d learned to ride when she was a teenager and a refurbished motorcycle was the only vehicle she could afford. After the engine caught, she looked over her shoulder to thank Chuy and Tiffany again as they clambered onto the marijuana bike. Tiffany made a face, pulling the legs of the pantsuit tight against her calves to keep them away from the pipes. Veranda thought she wasn’t the only one who prayed not to be recognized as she watched Tiffany jam the spare helmet on and secure the chin strap.
Veranda shouted to Chuy over the din of his bike. “I owe you, Chuy.”
He gave her a thumbs-up. “Keep the rubber side down, mi’jita.”
Veranda sped onto the street, heading to the location Mia had given her for the warehouse. Earlier in her career, she’d worked patrol in the Maryvale precinct, which covered that part of West Phoenix. She knew the area well, and planned her approach to allow maximum cover. Accelerating onto the freeway, she thought about Diaz. He would have an uphill battle to convince the others she wasn’t a traitor, a criminal, and a rogue cop.
As she neared the target area fifteen minutes later, she checked for the hundredth time to be sure no one followed her before she downshifted and turned onto a parallel street. When she thought she was close enough, she stopped in the empty parking lot of an abandoned factory, cut the engine, and dismounted, leaving her helmet on. She peeked around the corner at the building Mia had described, directly in front of her and across an alley, about thirty yards away.
Her heart skipped a beat, then went into overdrive when Adolfo stomped out of the warehouse, Carlos and Salazar on his heels. She edged out a bit farther from the crumbling corner of the paint-chipped factory wall to keep the trio in view.
Too far away to make out their words, she watched the men, who were apparently embroiled in an argument. Carlos waved his hands and gesticulated at the warehouse they had exited. Speaking rapidly, he jabbed a finger at a van parked nearby. There were no other vehicles in sight. Veranda observed their body language. Carlos pointed at the warehouse again and Adolfo shook his head.
If the rest of Mia’s information was correct, crammed inside the building were at least thirty terrified women, information that would exonerate Veranda, and enough evidence to put Adolfo out of business for good. She prayed they hadn’t been able to pack everything up in the time it took her to get here from the hospital. Her stomach clenched as she envisioned a fleet of moving trucks hauling contraband toward the border.
She slid Chuy’s phone out of her boot and checked it. Diaz still hadn’t called. He certainly knew Chuy’s number, so that wasn’t the reason for the delay. He must be getting a fresh phone. The cartel could listen in if she contacted anyone with the task force on their cell, so she resisted reaching out to her team. She stuffed the mobile back in its hidden pocket and forced herself to stay put and wait for Diaz to get in touch.
Carlos and Salazar both reentered the warehouse. Moments later, they emerged hefting large red plastic canisters with yellow corrugated nozzles protruding from the top. Veranda looked on in horror as they began splashing liquid from the canisters around the perimeter of the warehouse. The stench of gasoline wafted to her even at this distance. Muffled yells emanated from inside.
Her pulse kicked up. Those screams. The women were still in the building. Adolfo must have figured he didn’t have enough time or vehicles to transport them in addition to his property. He had done the math and decided Carlos’s captives could be more easily replaced than his cache of computers, weapons, money, and drugs.
Veranda yanked Chuy’s phone out again and glanced at the screen. No calls. Shit! What’s keeping Diaz? Her mind raced, searching for options.
She could call someone outside the task force and tell them to get to the Fusion Center to explain what was going on.
No good. First, her own department wouldn’t trust her now, and second, even if it worked, SAU couldn’t gear up and get to the warehouse fast enough from a cold start.
She could call 911 anonymously and tell dispatch to send officers out right away for a crime in progress.
She discarded the thought. Even if the dispatcher took her seriously as an anonymous caller, responding units would go completely unprepared into a situation involving armed suspects with incendiary devices. Officers and rescue pe
rsonnel could get killed. And if she identified herself as Detective Cruz, the dispatcher wouldn’t believe her. According to media reports, she was a criminal and a traitor.
Carlos and Salazar finished their circuit around the warehouse and returned to speak with Adolfo, who waited near the van. Adolfo jerked his chin at Carlos, who patted his pockets before pulling out something that fit in his palm. Veranda couldn’t see what the object was, but tendrils of fear prickling the back of her neck gave her a clue. Then Carlos flicked his thumb, igniting a bright orange flame.
As Adolfo and Salazar watched, Carlos ambled toward the corner of the building, lighter in hand.
After several anguished seconds, a new plan formed in Veranda’s mind. A desperate, insane, suicidal plan. She pulled her helmet off, laid it on the ground, and stepped out from behind cover.
35
Veranda recalled her training at the police range. First course of fire: shoot from behind a barricade at the twenty-five-yard line. She’d trained for this. Breathe in, breathe out. She drew a bead on her target and curled her index finger, smoothly squeezing the trigger.
Simultaneous with the report of her gun, Carlos’s head snapped back and he collapsed in the gravel in front of the warehouse. The lighter dropped from his slackened hand, harmlessly extinguishing on the ground beside him. She had used the shot snipers took when an armed suspect held a hostage at gunpoint, aiming for a headshot to prevent his dying brain from sending a signal to his hand.
Adolfo raced to his brother’s side as Salazar whipped a pistol out from his waistband and leveled it in her direction across the street. For a fraction of a second, their eyes met.
Cracks of gunfire rang out as the corner of the cement block factory wall exploded into pieces inches from her head. She ducked, whirled, and scurried along the side of the building.
Salazar’s harsh command cut through the air as he barked at Adolfo in Spanish. “Drag Carlos into the van and torch the place. I’ll deal with Cruz.”
Heavy footsteps pounded in her direction. In seconds, Salazar would round the corner and shoot her in the back. She sprinted toward an open window and flung herself inside, tucking and rolling onto the cement floor. Using her momentum, she slid behind a wooden crate.
When Salazar peered through the window, she popped up and sprayed a rapid-fire barrage in his direction. Shit. She missed. Worse yet, she’d given away her position again.
Salazar’s rich, deep voice called to her. “I went to find you earlier this morning, hermosa. Now you’ve found me. Why don’t you come here?”
She couldn’t help but admire his tactical prowess, taunting her while he zeroed in on her location.
Something scraped along the windowsill as he continued to goad her. “You’re all alone too. No backup. Not for a disgraced cop and a member of the Villalobos family.”
Anger blazed through her. The conscious part of her brain knew the emotion was unproductive at best, fatal at worst. She tried to turn the tables. “There’s a whole SWAT team coming, Salazar.”
“So, you know my name. I assume the federales told you about my special talent for eliminating problem cops. They call me El Matador because my kills are up close and personal.” He let out a malevolent chuckle. “And I’ll take my time with you, Detective Cruz. Or should I call you Veranda Villalobos?”
His words had their desired effect. She seethed with revulsion as a part of her mind processed the truth. That could have been her name. She realized he had used the distraction technique to approach the window as he spoke. Refocusing, she prepared to shoot another burst of rounds, waiting until he was silhouetted in the open frame.
He edged onto the sill, his bulky form momentarily backlit.
She loosed a fusillade of bullets, the staccato sound deafening in the enclosed space.
He thudded to the ground and she knew she’d hit him. His blasts of return fire told her the wound had not been fatal. A stream of Spanish expletives assailed her ears as she rushed for the side exit door. She peered over her shoulder to see him slumped on the floor, clutching his thigh. If she’d hit the femoral artery, he’d bleed out right there.
She tore out of the abandoned factory, doubling back to the cartel warehouse, scanning the parking lot. She couldn’t see Carlos anywhere. A pool of blood saturated the ground where he’d dropped, and a dark red trail led to the waiting van. Fifteen yards away from her, Adolfo picked up the lighter and trotted toward the gasoline-soaked side of the warehouse.
She raised the Glock and took aim. “Stop!”
Adolfo flicked the lighter and glanced down at the gasoline sinking into the gravel by his feet. Eyes on Veranda, a sneer of contempt on his face, he gradually lowered the flame toward the liquid.
She tightened her index finger a fraction, taking the slack out of the trigger. “Don’t do it, Adolfo!”
He bent at the waist, stretching his arm down farther.
She pulled the trigger.
No bang.
She tilted the pistol to examine it. The slide, partially locked back, exposed a round lodged at an angle in the chamber. During the shootout with Salazar, the magazine had double-fed, jamming the weapon.
While she began the clearing procedure, Adolfo crouched, touched the lighter’s flame to the ground, and sprinted toward the idling van. Bright, hungry flames forked out, licking up the side of the warehouse.
Still unable to shoot, she raced after him, but Adolfo lunged into the driver’s seat before she could get close. He accelerated and the vehicle fishtailed, tires spewing chunks of gravel in her face.
She flung her hands up and watched the van disappear. She assumed Adolfo moved his equipment and contraband before he fled. Now, every hope of recovering evidence to clear her name and arrest him had vanished. In the next second, her prey drive kicked in. She could jump on Chuy’s bike and chase Adolfo down. No way could a van outrun a motorcycle. Adolfo behind bars. A huge chunk of the cartel’s business shut down. Her gun and badge returned to her. She could make it all happen if she caught him.
The crackle of fire drew her attention to the warehouse. She turned and gaped at the outside wall, now completely engulfed in flames. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky. Still clutching the jammed gun, she finished the clearing procedure and shoved it in its holster before pulling out her cell phone to punch in 911. She had to call the fire department and let trained professionals handle the rescue.
When the dispatcher answered, Veranda blurted out the address. “There are about thirty people trapped inside. It’s arson. They poured gasoline everywhere, so it’s going up fast … coordinate fireboard response with Lieutenant Richard Diaz of the PPD.”
Keyboard keys clicked in the background as the dispatcher inputted more information. “What is your name?”
She ignored the question and told the dispatcher the arsonist had fled and gave a description of the van. “Hurry,” she added. “The building’s not going to hold up much longer.” The dispatcher’s response faded into the background as she considered her options. Without fire protection, she’d roast before getting anywhere near the victims in the building. Besides, firefighters were on the way. She was a cop. Her job was to arrest bad guys, not rescue people from burning buildings. She had done all she could for the women, and she still had a chance to catch Adolfo. But that window was closing fast.
Her eyes darted to the motorcycle parked next to the abandoned factory across the street. Time to decide. Try to help the women, or pursue Adolfo. She couldn’t do both. Her adrenaline kicked in, ramping up for the chase.
Her mind cleared, and she made her decision.
Drawing a deep breath, she interrupted the dispatcher, who peppered her with more questions. “I’m going inside.”
She disconnected before the dispatcher could ask any more questions or try to dissuade her. Almost immediately, the phone buzzed in her boot. The dispatcher,
following protocol, attempting to reconnect with her. She ignored it and charged around to the rear of the structure.
As she drew near, waves of heat blasted her. Raising an arm to protect her face, she saw flames blanketing two sides of the warehouse. The back hadn’t caught yet. Perhaps they ran out of gasoline before they could douse the entire perimeter. She heard a muffled crack, then a thunderous rumble shook the ground beneath her feet. It sounded like a section of the roof had given way.
The women were out of time. She pictured Gabby and her mother. If they were trapped inside, she would want someone to help. Even if it meant risking everything. She shut down her emotions and formulated a plan. Running to the back wall, she spotted a window and tried to push it open.
Locked.
Cupping her hands against the glass, she peered inside the room.
Empty.
She drew the Glock, angled the gun to avoid blowback from shattered glass, turned her head aside, and fired. The window exploded into the room. She used the barrel to break out remaining shards jutting from the window frame.
Stuffing the gun back in its holster, she placed both hands on the sash and hoisted herself inside the room, which only contained long rectangular tables and office chairs. Photos of members of the task force covered the walls. This must be the computer room Mia described.
She reviewed the details in her mind, recalling the sketch of the warehouse Mia made while they waited for Chuy and Tiffany to arrive at the hospital. Diaz had taken the drawing with him to show the team. According to Mia’s diagram, the women’s quarters were nearby.
Heat washed over her when she opened the computer room door. Smoke gusted through a short corridor and shrieks filled the air. She followed the sound to a reinforced metal door. A sliding deadbolt secured the women inside. Veranda went to slide the bolt free and yanked her hand back when the metal burned her fingers. Her tight-fitting outfit offered no shirttails or sleeves to use as a barrier. She pulled out her gun and used the barrel to ease the bolt to the side. Gritting her teeth, she used her left hand to grasp the scorching metal doorknob and fling the door open.
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