Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  “As you wish.”

  “Also, I will tell you who the Rook is.”

  Salazar was surprised. For years, Hector had unsuccessfully tried to recruit someone he referred to only as “the Rook.” He would only divulge that the man was in law enforcement and could provide unprecedented access.

  “Do you have him, then?”

  “Not yet,” Hector said. “But I want to put more effort in because of Daria. Her actions will make it harder for you to do your job on both sides of the border.”

  “That never stopped me before. I know how to travel undetected.”

  “A good chess player always thinks several moves ahead. I am creating a backup plan, and the Rook is a critical piece on my board.” Hector pivoted to continue down the passage.

  Salazar switched the briefcase to his other hand and fell into step beside him. “Isn’t the hacking program providing intelligence?”

  “The reinforced security on the police servers has slowed progress. The computer tech firm I am purchasing will speed things up.”

  The passage opened to two rows of prison cells separated by a cement floor the width of a city sidewalk. All cells stood empty except the one in front of them.

  “Good afternoon, Pedro.”

  Hector’s greeting was met with a whimper from the far corner of the cage.

  “Come forward so I can see you.”

  Pedro stumbled toward them, clutching the iron bars as if he feared he would fall. “P-please, Señor Villalobos, I—”

  Hector held up a hand. “I come bearing a gift.” He smiled. “You will be an honored guest at our Día de los Muertos celebration tomorrow night. You must wear this.”

  At Hector’s signal, Salazar bent to lay the steel briefcase on the ground and popped open the latches. He lifted the top and reached inside. Taking care to avoid touching any wires, he picked up the locking metal neck shackle and straightened.

  “Show Pedro what he will wear to the party, Salazar.”

  He extended his arms toward Pedro, who squinted in confusion. “W-what is that?”

  “It is a special kind of collar,” Hector said, baring his teeth in a feral smile. “The last one you will ever put on.”

  Pedro sank to his knees and sobbed.

  13

  Veranda had observed many suspects concoct stories, and Chuy’s girlfriend was exhibiting classic signs of deception. Fed up, Veranda steered the Tahoe to the side of the road. Thrusting the gear shift lever into park, she twisted in her seat to face Tiffany. “I’m not driving one inch farther until you tell me where we’re going.” She narrowed her eyes. “The truth this time.”

  Veranda had spent the last hour helping her cousin and his girlfriend pack enough clothing and other essentials to last a month in Tiffany’s trailer. After loading everything into the back, Chuy had climbed in amid the bulging green garbage bags.

  Tiffany stopped her incessant texting. Her thumbs had been feverishly tapping the screen since they’d left Chuy’s apartment above his auto repair garage. She flung her phone into her open handbag and looked up with wide, innocent eyes and a smile as believable as her platinum dye-job.

  Veranda lifted a brow. “You can’t bullshit me, Tiff. Whatever story you’re thinking up won’t work.”

  Chuy poked his head between the two front seats. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, mamacita,” he said to his girlfriend. “But you better come clean.”

  Tiffany crossed her arms, a defiant expression on her pretty face. “I was checking to see if we could stay with any of my other friends. But no one’s got room.”

  Chuy’s pierced black brows came together. “I thought you had a trailer.”

  Tiffany slapped a hand over her eyes and grimaced. “I lied.”

  Tiff had been dating Chuy for almost a year. She’d moved in with him six months ago, explaining that her single-wide needed a lot of work. Chuy had offered to fix it, but Tiffany had declined. Now Veranda knew why.

  “You never had a trailer at all, did you?” Veranda said.

  Tiffany separated her fingers a fraction to peek out at Veranda. “No.”

  “Then why have I been driving around for the past twenty minutes going nowhere?”

  “I thought I could keep you driving in circles until I came up with a way out.” Tiffany yanked her hand away from her face. “But I can’t.”

  Veranda didn’t like the edge of hysteria creeping into Tiffany’s voice. “A way out of what?”

  With a look of deep regret, Tiffany turned to Chuy. “We’ll have to stay with my parents.”

  “That’s not so bad.” Chuy’s finger traced the edge of a purple butterfly tattoo at the base of her neck. “I’ve had to crash at my dad’s place now and then. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Tiffany groaned. “You don’t understand. My parents’ house is not the kind of place you’d want to be. Not even on a bet.”

  Chuy moved his hand from Tiffany’s neck to cup her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “This is only for a little while, babe. Veranda doesn’t have time to hunt for an apartment because of her case. Besides, it’s better if her name isn’t on a lease. Makes her harder to find.”

  Veranda’s frustration at Tiffany for misleading her drained away. Chuy’s girlfriend was obviously deeply ashamed of where her parents lived. Chuy’s tiny apartment over the garage was far from palatial, so Tiffany shouldn’t feel uncomfortable showing them where she came from.

  Veranda tried to lighten the mood. “Don’t worry about the living arrangements,” she said, pointing at herself and her cousin. “It’s hard to scare either one of us.”

  Tiffany rounded on her. “You have no idea. This is the house I grew up in. It’s horrible. And my parents …” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I haven’t visited them since I left six months ago to move in with Chuy.”

  Veranda pictured a rundown shack on the outskirts of the city. In her mind’s eye, a grizzled older man in a sweat-stained wife-beater undershirt and boxers sat on a porch sofa next to an older version of Tiffany wearing a saggy tube top and too much lip gloss. Tiffany shouldn’t be embarrassed. Veranda and Chuy had grown up in a low-cost housing complex before their parents had pooled resources to buy land for the casitas.

  Chuy seemed to have come to the same conclusion about Tiffany’s upbringing. He ran calloused fingers through her hair. “Before I got my apartment above the garage, the last place I lived had a warden and a cell mate called Oso. That’s Spanish for ‘bear.’ The sonofabitch stood six-foot-five and weighed about three bills. I couldn’t turn around without bumping into him. And don’t get me started about his bathroom habits.” Chuy shuddered. “There’s not many places worse than that.”

  “Fine.” Tiffany lifted her chin. “You want to meet my parents? You want to see the old homestead? You want to stay there with me?” She crossed her arms and glared straight ahead. “Then let’s go.”

  Veranda put the Tahoe in gear. “Where am I heading?”

  Tiffany didn’t look at her. “Paradise Valley.”

  Veranda and Chuy exchanged glances. Paradise Valley was among the wealthiest suburbs of Phoenix. With its sprawling mansions, lush palm trees, and mountain views, PV was home to the rich and famous.

  “Babe, what are you talking ab—” Chuy began.

  Tiffany cut him off with an icy glare. “I’m done talking. You’ll find out when we get there. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Fifteen minutes later, following Tiffany’s directions, Veranda pulled up to a set of massive scrolled iron gates in front of a long cobblestone driveway. She stopped at a keypad with a camera mounted above it and punched in the number Tiffany provided.

  The gate swung open and she cruised the lengthy driveway, lined on either side by towering royal palms, until she reached a portico in front of a mid-century Frank Lloyd Wright–style estate
.

  While Chuy fired off a few choice words describing the expansive home, Veranda focused on the man standing in front of the towering bright-red double doors leading inside, barring their entry. Over seven feet tall and built like a Clydesdale, the man could only be described as hired muscle. With his black tactical outfit, dark shades, and a curling mic wire leading into his ear, he looked like a secret service agent who guarded the president of the underworld.

  He approached the open driver’s door window and bent low to peer inside. His gaze locked on Tiffany. “You have guests, Miss Durant?”

  She nodded. “I brought bags too.” Her manner had undergone a complete transformation. “Put them in the guest house.” Her tone was borderline haughty. “We’ll show ourselves inside.”

  Stunned, Veranda got out of the Tahoe to stand next to Tiffany and Chuy.

  The guard hadn’t moved to unload the heaps of garbage bags. Instead, he leveled a hard stare at Chuy, who reciprocated in kind.

  Tiffany stepped between the men and tilted her head back to give the guard a stern look. “I texted my father. We’re authorized.”

  The Clydesdale didn’t budge. “I’ll need to search these two.”

  Veranda put a hand on her hip. “You’ll find a .45-caliber Glock on me, and probably a few knives on my cousin, but you’re not taking them.”

  The guard’s head snapped toward her and he reached for the holster on his hip.

  “Stand down,” Tiffany said. “She’s a cop.” When the guard turned his gaze back to Chuy, she added, “And he’s … my boyfriend.” Silence stretched between them. “You have your orders. Move aside.”

  The guard turned and opened the massive double front doors. Without another word, Tiffany flounced inside. Veranda noted that the guard trailed them as they made their way through a wide hall toward the back of the house.

  Tiffany continued through a lavish family room, where an open glass wall led to the lanai. A distinguished-looking couple sat at a small round table covered in a crisp white linen cloth. They both rose to greet the new arrivals. Judging by the shock on their faces, Veranda concluded they were Tiffany’s parents, and that their daughter had drastically altered her appearance in the past six months.

  Tiffany’s halter top revealed brightly colored sleeves of tattoos decorating both arms from wrist to shoulder. Her atomic-blonde locks contrasted with dark brows pierced with silver barbell studs that matched Chuy’s.

  A teaspoon clattered to a china plate, breaking the silence. Tiffany’s mother, dressed in a casually elegant linen ensemble, seemed unaware that she’d dropped the utensil. Eyes fixed on her daughter, her mouth opened and closed several times before she managed a complete sentence. “Tiffany, what happened to you?”

  “I got a life, Mom. I’m twenty-four. About time, don’t you think?”

  “Your hair. Your clothes.” Her mother flapped her manicured hands in distress. “Your … tattoos.”

  “Your boyfriend.” Tiffany’s father spoke for the first time. While her mother had focused on their daughter’s appearance, her father had zeroed in on Chuy.

  Veranda had to give Tiffany credit. She straightened her shoulders and responded in a determined voice. “Dad, this is Chuy.”

  Tiffany’s father’s eyes drifted up and down her cousin. Veranda followed his gaze, trying to see Chuy from the perspective of a concerned parent. The black leather vest over his bare chest, faded jeans encased in chaps, and jagged scar on his cheek were the only interruptions in a solid tapestry of biker tattoos traversing every inch of exposed skin on his body. The wall-to-wall ink capped his shaved head, ending in a widow’s peak at the top of his forehead. Yeah, Veranda thought to herself, Tiffany’s parents probably weren’t trying to decide whether he was a Harvard or a Yale man.

  Bristling under the disdainful scrutiny, Chuy pulled himself up to his full height. Jaw rigid, muscles flexed, and eyes narrowed, he met the unspoken challenge.

  Now Veranda understood what Tiffany had wanted to avoid. Her parents turned their attention to Veranda, who felt their judgment shift to her. Their combined gazes rested on the clothing she’d borrowed from Marci, and a visible flicker of relief registered. Naturally, they recognized a Chanel suit. Perhaps perceiving her as one of their tribe, Tiffany’s mother gave Chuy a wide berth to approach Veranda.

  She extended a hand. “Jacqueline Durant.” She inclined her head toward Tiffany’s father. “And this is my husband, Sebastian. But everyone calls him Baz.”

  Jaqueline didn’t actually say at the club at the end of her sentence, but Veranda heard the words as if Tiffany’s mother had shouted them.

  “Veranda Cruz.” Shaking hands, she decided to have some fun. “And this is my cousin, Jesús. But everyone calls him Chuy.” She barely stopped herself from adding at the pen.

  Baz turned to Chuy. Neither man proffered a hand. Nor did they say anything in greeting. Veranda saw her cousin’s spine stiffen as his eyes went hard, flat, and cold. She recognized his posturing as something he would have used in the prison yard to intimidate other inmates. But Baz didn’t seem to be intimidated. Instead, his baleful expression became calculating.

  Jacqueline wedged a knuckle between her front teeth, briefly closing her eyes before nervously glancing at each man in turn. After a moment, her face cleared. She pivoted to give Chuy an overly bright smile. “Have you been in our country long, Mr. ah … Chuy?”

  When Chuy merely stared at her, Jacqueline turned to her daughter. “Does he speak English?”

  Tiffany whirled on her mother. “Stop that!” Clearly mortified, she turned back to the man she loved. “This is why I didn’t want to bring you here. To my parents, Latinos are cooks, landscapers, or cleaning ladies who come here illegally.” She marched over to Chuy and wrapped her hands around his bare arm. “He speaks English. And he might even answer your questions if you show him some respect.”

  Veranda glanced at Chuy, afraid of how he might respond. Then she remembered the guard, who had remained mutely behind them. The situation had all the earmarks of an impending disaster. She was planning a hasty exit when Chuy threw his head back and let out a full-throated belly laugh.

  Recovering himself, Chuy gave Tiffany a wry grin. “You shouldn’t have been worried about taking me to meet your parents, babe. I’ve dealt with people like them my whole life.”

  Jacqueline let out an indignant huff and stomped into the house.

  Baz watched her go, apparently deep in thought. After a long pause, he faced his daughter. “Sorry, about that, honey.” He gestured to Chuy. “But he does look a bit … rough.”

  “Don’t talk about him like he’s not here,” Tiffany said. “And he is rough.” She gazed up at Chuy with admiring eyes. “Like an uncut diamond.”

  “Of course.” Baz seemed hard-pressed to see any diamond-like potential in his daughter’s boyfriend. He gave Chuy a curt nod. “You’re welcome to stay with Tiffany in the guest house. There’s plenty of space and a separate garage.”

  Tiffany beamed. “That’s perfect. Veranda’s going to give us a ride back to South Phoenix to pick up our bikes. Your neighbors will have to get used to loud pipes.”

  Baz looked like he could use an antacid. “How long will you two be here?”

  Tiffany tilted her head. “Only until Veranda finds a place to stay or takes down the Villalobos cartel.”

  The color drained from her father’s face. “The Villalobos cartel?”

  Veranda suppressed an urge to smack her forehead. Tiffany could have talked all day without those words passing her lips. Why had she mentioned the damned cartel?

  “That’s who blew up her house, Dad.” Tiffany spoke with a matter-

  of-fact air, as if being targeted by one of the most dangerous criminal organizations in the world was no big deal. “It’s all over the news. She needs a place to stay, so she’s moving into Chuy’s apartme
nt.”

  “A Mexican drug cartel is after her?” Baz’s face went from pale to puce as he slowly swiveled his head toward Veranda. “That was your house on the news? And you hang around with Tiffany?”

  Baz had apparently concluded Veranda posed an even greater threat to his daughter than Chuy did, which was true.

  She rushed to answer before Tiffany tried to help her again. “Don’t concern yourself, Mr. Durant.” She shot Tiffany a repressive look. “I hardly ever see your daughter, and Chuy has nothing to do with the cartel at all. That’s why I can’t stay with him. They’ll both be safe here with you.”

  “You’re right about that.” Baz gave his daughter a sympathetic look. “Honey, you can stay here as long as you like.” His glance at Chuy seemed like an afterthought. “And you too.”

  Veranda was satisfied that at least Tiffany and Chuy would be out of danger. And quite comfortable. She imagined Chuy sitting poolside ordering drinks from the domestic staff. The Durants’ palatial estate would never be the same.

  She owed them both. Chuy, a proud man, was prepared to deal with constant humiliation for however long it took for her to find a new place to live. And Tiffany had revealed a secret she’d been hiding for months because she knew her parents’ racist attitudes would cause pain. They had sacrificed for her, and she could never repay them.

  She regarded Chuy’s girlfriend, who had held his scarred, oil-stained, and work-worn hand while fiercely defending him. She would never give Tiffany a hard time about her wardrobe again.

  14

  Veranda grasped her ankle and slowly pulled it back, lengthening her quadriceps and testing the limits of Tiffany’s form-fitting hot pink Lycra shorts as she stretched. She had just released her grip when a rough male voice catcalled from across the street, interrupting the final phase of her warmup.

  “Hola, morrita!”

  She turned to see who had called her a hottie. A man in his twenties, dressed in baggy jeans and a sweat-stained undershirt, grabbed his crotch and grunted at her. Charming.