Phoenix Burning

by Isabella Maldonado

  Agent Gates stepped forward and extended her hand. “Detective Cruz, I apologize for blaming you for the failure of the raids. The leaks in the computer system were so pervasive nothing we did would have succeeded, no matter how much time we took to plan the takedown.”

  Veranda returned her handshake. “You were trying to make the operation a success. All of us were caught off guard.”

  Agent Tanner, ears reddening, bobbed his head in agreement. “We all share the same goal, Detective. No hard feelings.”

  Veranda willed herself not to roll her eyes. Agents Flag and Wallace snickered behind Tanner’s back as Gates grimaced.

  Agent Lopez crossed the room to face Veranda. “Detective Cruz,” he said in his accented tones. “I have never met anyone who crossed Salazar and lived. You must be as brave as everyone says. I will admit, at first I was afraid the Villalobos cartel had infiltrated the Phoenix Police as they have my own agency. Those pictures of you on the news, they were … Anyway, I know now that you are your mother’s daughter. It doesn’t matter who your father was.”

  Thoughts of her mother pained her. She pictured Lorena locked inside her house, too ashamed to show her face in public. At that moment, Veranda decided she would do something about it.

  Diaz tugged out his buzzing cell phone to glance at the screen. “The mayor just finished his statement to the media. Chief Tobias is about to introduce you, Detective.” He nodded in her direction. “You’re up.”

  Sam leaned down to whisper in her ear, “They’re looking for a hero. And they’ve chosen you. Go with it.”

  “I’m not the one who deserves admiration.” Determination welled inside her as she marched toward the greenroom door. “And everyone will know it by the time I’m done talking.”

  38

  Veranda entered the media briefing room through the rear stage door. At the sight of her, reporters erupted with a volley of questions and cameras flashed. She stood mutely on the stage behind him while the chief raised his hands for the horde to settle, then spoke into a bank of microphones. “Detective Cruz is a hero who put her life on the line to rescue thirty-two women who would have perished in a deadly blaze if not for her intervention.”

  The more he expounded on her courage, the hotter her face burned with embarrassment. At first, she had trouble identifying the emotion making her insides squirm. It wasn’t pride. Or satisfaction. Then it struck her: guilt. The suffering she’d brought upon her family had molded itself into a leaden lump and sank down to her gut.

  Chief Tobias announced her name, pulling her from her reverie. Her nylon jacket crinkled as she trudged to the lectern. A hush descended over the mass of reporters and camera crews while she adjusted the microphone.

  Grasping both sides of the lectern, she cleared her throat. “Thank you, Chief, but let me be clear … I’m no hero. I did what I’m trained to do.” Looking out at the hushed audience, aware of all the eyes upon her, she forged ahead. “The true hero is my mother, Lorena Cruz-Hidalgo-Gomez. She has remained silent about her ordeal for decades, but now everyone knows—or thinks they know—her story. I will use this opportunity to set the record straight in the hope that she can reclaim her life. Ever since my DNA results were leaked to the news, my mother shut herself away from the community she loves.” She narrowed her eyes. “And she deserves better.”

  No one spoke. No one moved. She sensed the tension in the room as they waited for her to continue. Even Kiki Lowell, sitting near the front on the edge of her seat, leaned forward in rapt attention.

  Telling her mother’s story would forever change both of their lives, but she was finished keeping secrets. “When my face was splashed all over the news as the daughter of El Lobo, many people jumped to the conclusion that my mother had an affair with a notorious criminal back in Mexico while she was married. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  The moment had arrived. Her mother might never forgive her, but she had to advocate for her anyway. She raised her chin and spoke in a clear, carrying voice, “Hector Villalobos raped my mother.”

  A murmur went around the room.

  “More than thirty years ago, Hector murdered my mother’s first husband, Ernesto Hidalgo, an honorable federal police agent working in Mexico City. After he killed Ernesto, Hector broke into my mother’s home and forced himself on her.” Her fingers tightened on the lectern’s wooden edges. “She barely escaped with her life.”

  She directed her next comments at the cameras in the room, speaking directly to the public. “My mother is a Christian woman, devoted to her husband. She’s devastated by the gossip and whispers. Her private nightmare has become public. No rape victim should ever go through that.”

  Some of the reporters fidgeted in their seats, others became interested in their notepads.

  “To make matters worse, she didn’t discover she was pregnant with me until she arrived in Phoenix. She didn’t know if my father was her husband, or his killer. She always hoped I was her husband’s child.” Veranda’s voice caught. “And she held onto that dream until early this morning, when she learned the truth from watching the news. Now she won’t come out of her house or speak to anyone because she’s ashamed.” Veranda paused to rein in her emotions. “My mother is a victim. No … a survivor. And she shouldn’t feel any disgrace, but she does.”

  Kiki Lowell tentatively raised her hand.

  Veranda ignored her and went on. “I’m grateful every day that my mother took a chance on me. She raised me and helped shape the person I am.” She straightened. “I can’t change who my biological father is, and some may hold it against me. But know this: I will fight Hector Villalobos with every ounce of strength I have. I won’t stop until there is justice.”

  Kiki got to her feet, waving her arm to attract Veranda’s attention. An older reporter sitting next to her reached up, clutched her elbow, and yanked Kiki back down into her seat. She quailed under his withering glare.

  Veranda released her white-knuckled grip on the lectern and spread her hands wide. “Six weeks ago, the Villalobos cartel burned down our family’s restaurant. But a new one is under construction. And it will rise from the ashes like a phoenix. A few days ago, I stopped by the construction site and saw my mother bringing Red Bird of Paradise bushes there to plant. She chose them because they make her think of phoenix fire and of renewal.”

  She paused, debating her next words. She’d chosen a course of action, but should she make it public? Knowing her mother would see the broadcast and might be too angry to see her again, Veranda realized this may be her only chance to communicate.

  She pictured her mother’s soft hazel eyes, came to a decision, and plowed on. “As soon as I leave this building, I’ll plant a Red Bird of Paradise bush beside the restaurant construction site next to my mother’s.”

  She hadn’t originally intended to disclose her plans, but was desperate to reach out to her mother. She would go to Mamá, beg her forgiveness for telling the world her secret, then ask her to help plant the new bush. “I want her to know she will get past this. We will get past this.”

  Veranda raised her voice, letting her passion fill the space around her. “My mother suffered in silence for decades, kept her misery and humiliation to herself while she helped and supported everyone around her. Family, friends, her community, strangers in need—it didn’t matter.” Veranda slammed her fist on the podium. “The secrets and lies are over, and Lorena Cruz-Hidalgo-Gomez should be able to go out into her community with her head held high. Because of this courageous woman, I am a better person. And our city is a better place.”

  Without another word, Veranda pivoted and strode from the dais, reporters shouting questions at her retreating back.

  39

  Villalobos family

  compound, Mexico

  Adolfo shrank deeper into the plush leather chair in his father’s office. He noted the vein pulsing in El Lobo’s
temple as he raised the television’s remote and clicked off the live newsfeed from Phoenix. When the screen went black, absolute silence pervaded the space.

  Three sets of hostile eyes turned on him. Adolfo knew an attack could come from anywhere around the mahogany table. Daria and Salazar didn’t trouble to hide their contempt, and his father’s cold glare chilled him to his core.

  He mentally reviewed the series of events after he set fire to the warehouse. He’d driven the van to his penthouse suite in downtown Phoenix when Salazar called his cell phone. Unwilling to double back to pick him up, he sent one of his men to collect Salazar in an alley a few blocks from the burning warehouse.

  The magnitude of his situation set in when he phoned Daria, instructing her to be at the helipad on the rooftop of his luxury high-rise in fifteen minutes or he would leave without her. Salazar was last to arrive, the propeller blades already churning as he dived into the chopper, crashing into Carlos’s blood-spattered corpse on the floor. They had flown straight to Mexico, where he now faced his father’s judgment.

  Accusation lit Hector’s eyes when he finally spoke to Adolfo. “Why are two of my sons dead when Veranda Cruz is still alive?”

  Adolfo offered the only satisfactory reply. “I accept responsibility, Papá.”

  Daria and Salazar remained conspicuously silent. He was sure they enjoyed watching him feel his father’s wrath.

  Hector glowered from his position at the head of the table. “You asked to be in charge. I trusted you. Now our business is in shambles, our suppliers are looking for other markets, and our distribution network is crumbling. The convoy of vehicles and equipment you packed up in Phoenix are currently traveling to the border. Let us hope they arrive here safely.”

  Adolfo’s pulse, already racing, kicked into overdrive. There would be consequences. He struggled to find purchase in the shifting sands of blame. “I had everything under control. I didn’t foresee the girl escaping. If she hadn’t gotten away—”

  “The girl escaped from one of your brother’s coyotes. Are you accusing Carlos of incompetence?” Hector asked in his softest, most deadly voice.

  The question concealed a trap. Adolfo had already accepted responsibility. If he tried to foist blame on his younger brother, he appeared deceptive. On the other hand, if he continued to shoulder all of the blame, he could end up a scapegoat. He traversed a field of landmines, any of which could explode in his face without warning.

  “No, sir.” Adolfo responded quickly. “I was in charge. I’m just explaining how—”

  “How you didn’t oversee every aspect of your operation. That is one of the hallmarks of effective leadership.” Hector placed his palms on the table. Nostrils flaring, he lowered his voice to a whisper—more menacing than any shout. “You must always know what is going on. You must hold your people accountable. You must only delegate responsibility to those capable of handling it.”

  Adolfo did his best not to flinch at the end of each declaration. “What’s going to happen now?” His father’s overblown speech about leadership surely preceded a lesson for him. And El Lobo was a brutal teacher.

  Before Hector answered, Daria spoke up. “You failed, Adolfo. Now it’s my turn. I already have a plan to regain our control of the narcotics market and expand it into a new area.” She turned her attention to her father. “Opioids. Everyone is getting hooked on prescription pain killers. The US government is taking steps to limit legal consumption, which opens a whole new market for us. All of those people won’t be able to quit, they can’t get their pills legally, and they’re not comfortable with shooting up.” She bestowed El Lobo with her most winning smile. “Perfect sales opportunity for us. Not only will we recover our losses from Adolfo’s disaster, we will be bigger than ever.”

  Hector’s demeanor shifted, taking on the air of a corporate raider scouting a potential conquest. “As I mentioned before, our chain has been severely compromised. I’m sure we can make the product, but how can we deliver it to customers?”

  “We will divert our distribution,” Daria said. “I already have networks in place for weapon sales. It’s easy to convert my arms dealers to drugs. Unlike my dear brother”—she shot him a disdainful look—“I can still travel freely across the border and take charge of our main hub in Phoenix.”

  Red hot coals scorched Adolfo’s belly. Daria had made her power play. Constantly undermining him, she’d made it clear she intended to take the reins of the family business.

  “Interesting.” Hector steepled his fingers. “Adolfo had big dreams of dominating the world markets, but he failed to take care of the details. And look what happened.”

  “I am not Adolfo.” She spat his name out like spoiled meat. “I solve problems. And the first one on my list is that bitch, Veranda Cruz. Bartolo is dead because of her, and now she killed Carlos. Now not only will she die … she will suffer until she begs for death. I will see to it personally. Then I will take my place as your successor when you retire, Papá.”

  Hector tilted his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Actually, I have other plans. You may run the US distribution network, but Salazar will run all divisions of the business outside of the States. He will also see to the development of our new opioid manufacturing division.”

  “What?” Daria lurched forward in her seat. “That’s most of our organization. And the pills were my idea.”

  Hector appeared unfazed by her display. “Salazar has proven his loyalty, and his skill, many times over.”

  Adolfo resented Daria, but he would choose her over the interloper his father had somehow come to trust above his own flesh and blood.

  Apparently anxious to take Salazar down a notch, Daria directed a question to her father. “Didn’t you task Salazar with killing Veranda Cruz?”

  Salazar, occupying the chair to Adolfo’s right, mustered a defense. “And I would have done it. Except that Adolfo canceled the hit and called me back to the warehouse after that cabrón Felix let the girl escape.”

  Daria’s hairstyle, a French twist high on the back of her head, revealed the scald creeping up her graceful neck. “What is it with Salazar? Why are you turning over the majority of our family business to him?” She flung out an arm. “He’s just a … a … foot soldier.”

  For once, Adolfo agreed with Daria and opened his mouth to join her protest.

  “Silence.” Hector stood and paced to the imposing family crest mounted on the wall. “Do you recall when I told you about my days as a Federal Judicial Police agent working with Ernesto Hidalgo?”

  “Yes,” Adolfo answered, noting that Daria dared to cross her arms and set her jaw without responding. El Lobo had always granted her more leeway, but Adolfo sensed she grew perilously close to the edge of his tolerance.

  Hector clasped his hands behind his back and studied the intricately worked shield featuring two black wolves standing on their hind legs against a gold background. “I explained how I was tipped off before Ernesto could arrest me, but I never said who gave me the inside information.”

  His father often went off on tangents, but Adolfo found this turn of conversation bizarre. Why had his father referenced an incident from over thirty years ago in response to a question about Salazar? The man was close to his own age. He couldn’t possibly have been his father’s source. Adolfo cut his eyes to Salazar, who wore his usual inscrutable mask.

  Hector pivoted to face them. “Our agency chief at the time was an older man with a much younger wife. She was quite beautiful, and I sensed a woman like her would likely be … unfulfilled in such a marriage.” A humorless smile crossed his features, then disappeared. “I flirted with her at every official function. Eventually we had an affair.” He shrugged. “She had no interest in leaving her husband and, at the time, I wasn’t looking for a wife. We had strong feelings for each other though, and when she overheard her husband talking about my impending arrest, she
told me all about Ernesto’s investigation and the charges he would place. I made my move that very night.”

  From his father’s previous stories, Adolfo knew his move had been to kill Ernesto and burn the evidence. Hector still had to leave the force, but he’d thwarted any potential prosecution against himself. Not only had he never been arrested, he had never even been charged with Ernesto’s murder. Information about the chief’s disloyal wife was new to Adolfo, but unrelated to their current situation. Perplexed, he studied his father, who appeared to select his next words with considerable care.

  “When the chief’s wife turned out to be pregnant a few months later, she convinced him the baby was his. I suspect he may have had his doubts, but he never mentioned them as far as I know.”

  Adolfo looked at Salazar with dawning comprehension. Shock gave way to rage.

  Hector stood his ground, gazing down at Adolfo and Daria in turn. “Of course, I knew the child was mine, and you each know how I feel about our noble bloodline.”

  Adolfo seethed. The fucking bloodline. His father’s religion. Preached to them from the time they were old enough to understand. El Lobo, born into poverty, sought to elevate his position in society. He justified his atrocities with references to his birthright. He traced his ancestry through the conquistadors back to Spain, when his family held vast wealth and power. Now it appeared his father had expanded the gene pool. Again.

  Either unaware or unconcerned about the impact of his revelation, Hector plowed on. “When the boy came of age, I introduced myself. I must confess I was impressed with how he’d turned out. He only needed a bit of prompting to understand how he could prosper working for me. The only caveat was that he would have to prove himself without using my name. He would rise or fall in the Villalobos organization on his own merit. He also couldn’t use his old last name anymore.” Hector scowled. “He had grown up with the last name of his mother’s husband, that pendejo chief of police, who wasn’t even his real father. With my help, he created a new identity using his mother’s maiden name as his surname before joining the military. By the time he got out, he had become known simply as Salazar, the fierce warrior. Only after he joined my organization did he become El Matador. Very few people outside this room are aware of his true background.”