Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  “Señorita, she arrested me two years ago. She knows who I am.”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Daria laughed. Okay, so José was gorgeous. Just not too bright.

  “There will be face painting, masks, and costumes,” she said. “Cruz won’t recognize you. Just get her to leave the party with you, and I’ll take care of the rest. Can you do that for me?”

  “Sí, Señorita.”

  “Good boy.” She slid her palm down his lithe flank. “Now you’ve earned a little reward.”

  21

  Veranda feinted left, stepped right, and slammed her gloved fist into Jake’s face.

  Her kickboxing coach recovered quickly, landing a jab before she could dodge it. “What the hell’s gotten into you today, Cruz?” he said around his mouth guard.

  “I’m bringing the girl power.” She planted a foot, pivoting into a roundhouse kick that nearly connected with his jaw.

  He batted her leg away and countered with a foot strike of his own. “You seem angry.”

  Marci leaned on the ropes surrounding the sparring ring. “Of course she’s angry. She just broke up with her boyfriend. As a member of the male species, you should be very afraid.”

  Like a lance to a blister, the comment pierced her, bringing the pain to the surface. After her morning meeting at the crime lab, she’d met Cole for lunch at their favorite sushi place. He explained how the bomb at her house had changed his perspective. Then he took her hand, looked at her with eyes full of longing, and gave her an ultimatum. Stop investigating the cartel or stop seeing him. As her heart broke, she gave him the only answer she could. When the check came, they parted as friends. She hoped.

  Jake momentarily dropped his guard. “Shit, Veranda, I didn’t know.”

  She would take his kicks and punches, but not his pity. Seizing the rare opening, she moved in with a speed combo that left her instructor reeling.

  Marci’s laugh echoed off the gym’s cinder block walls. “She doesn’t need a hug, Jake. She’s here to blow off steam.”

  An hour ago, she’d been moping at her desk in the Violent Crimes Bureau. Marci had badgered her until she regurgitated every detail of the breakup, then marched her into Diaz’s office to request time off to spar at her gym.

  Jake’s eyes narrowed. “You came here to work off pent-up frustration, Cruz?” He put his gloves back up. “A little angry with men right now?” His grin displayed a band of blue plastic covering his teeth. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  With consummate skill, he began a relentless attack. The onslaught drove her back against the ropes. Under a torrent of blows, she had to resort to covering her head. Still, he didn’t stop.

  In the back of her mind, realization dawned. Jake was providing a way to channel her grief. He would pummel her until she gathered herself and did something about it.

  Just like the cartel.

  Grinding her teeth in the mouth guard, she forced her sluggish brain to focus. Jake had fought competitively. He’d won tournaments. Over six feet tall and heavily muscled, he was well beyond her level in the ring. She couldn’t beat him in a fair fight. So why fight fair?

  She allowed herself to slump. Her spine dragged along the ropes as she slid down to the mat and went limp.

  Jake squatted beside her. “Veranda?”

  “What did you do to her?” Marci lifted the rope and put one foot inside the ring.

  Jake turned to answer Marci, and Veranda mustered all of her strength to deliver an uppercut straight to his oversized jaw. His head snapped back, and he fell to the mat in a heap.

  Marci put a hand on her hip and peered down at Jake. “That doesn’t count as a KO, Veranda. You cheated.” She bent to pick up his wrist and laid her fingers over his pulse point. “He’s alive.”

  Veranda tugged off her boxing gloves and leaned over her instructor’s unconscious form. “He is so gonna kick my ass for this.” She lightly patted his cheek and called his name.

  Jake groaned and opened his eyes with rapid blinks. His pupils, initially dilated, constricted into pinpricks as he turned them on her. Nostrils flaring, he sat up and spat out his mouth guard. “You’re going to pay for that, Cruz.” He flicked a glance at Marci. “Get out of the ring. Cruz is done with her warm-up. The real session begins now.”

  She had never seen her instructor even slightly irritated. He was the master of self-control in mind and body. Clearly, her little stunt had crossed a line. Way past angry, Jake practically had steam billowing from his ears.

  She held up a hand in a placating gesture. “I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t—”

  “Put your gloves back on.” He lurched to his feet and steadied himself. “You think I was hard on you before?” He snorted. “I don’t care if you just broke up with your boyfriend.” He banged his gloves together. “This time, I won’t hold back.”

  A male voice carried from the far side of the gym. “If you’re looking for a fight, I’ll give you one.”

  Veranda spun to see Diaz glaring at Jake. Agent Rios stood a few feet away, next to Agents Flag and Ortiz.

  “Careful, Lieutenant,” Marci said. “Your machismo is showing.”

  Ignoring Marci, Diaz kept his eyes on Jake as he advanced to the edge of the rope. “You will not use my detective for a punching bag.”

  His detective? What was her supervisor doing here, and how had he found her? She had asked Diaz for time off to spar, but how did he know where she would go? Then the last piece clicked into place. She’d seen Diaz here two months ago training boys in his at-risk youth program to box. He’d obviously noticed her too.

  Jake pointed a gloved hand at Diaz. “Your detective knocked me out with a sucker punch.”

  Rios, who had edged forward to join Diaz, clutched the rope and leaned into the ring. “That’s what happens when you let your guard down,” Rios said to Jake. “Or was your mind on something besides training?”

  “Whoa.” Veranda held up a hand to calm the brewing testosterone storm and faced Jake. “This is my boss.” She tipped her head toward Diaz. “I’m sure he had a good reason to track me down at my gym.”

  “We tried your phone, but you didn’t answer,” Flag said. “There’s been a major development at the lab.”

  Diaz reverted to his default setting. All business. “You should hear this in person anyway.” His dark eyes scanned the empty facility before coming back to Jake. “This is a police matter. We need privacy.”

  “I’m heading for the locker room,” Jake said before turning to Veranda. “I’ll have to decide if I want to keep coaching you.”

  Remorse gnawed at her as she watched him go. She’d deceived him. Violated her instructor’s trust. She’d understand if he dropped her. But she hoped like hell he wouldn’t.

  After the door closed, Diaz beckoned Marci and Veranda, who climbed out of the ring to join the four men. “There’s no easy way to say this,” he said. “So, I’ll be blunt. We’ve identified the DNA from the saliva on the piece of the water bottle from data supplied by Mexican authorities.”

  She didn’t like the way Diaz shifted his feet. Her investigative training had taught her the movement represented a subconscious desire to flee. Every part of his body language screamed in protest at whatever he was about to say, but his face betrayed no emotion. She braced herself and waited.

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “The DNA belongs to Salazar.”

  Marci’s penciled brows tightened into a frown. “Well, the prints on the bottle were Salazar’s. Why is this a surprise?”

  “You weren’t at the crime lab this morning,” Diaz told her. “You don’t understand what this means.”

  Marci put her hands on her hips. “Someone care to tell me?”

  His attention on Veranda, Diaz didn’t respond.

  Flag frowned at Diaz, huffed out a sigh, and gave Marci a
n overview. “This morning, the lab verified a familial DNA match from the water bottle sample with known Villalobos family members. This afternoon, we got a definitive hit on Salazar from that sample.”

  All at once, Veranda grasped the implication with sickening clarity. She turned to Marci. “It means Salazar is Hector Villalobos’s son. Adolfo and Daria’s half brother.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “And my half brother too.”

  Marci’s blue eyes widened. “Holy shit.”

  Shame and anger warred inside her. Of all people, she had to be related to Salazar. El Matador. Ruthless assassin. Cop killer. Cartel enforcer. How many times would another cold-blooded murderer show up in her bloodline?

  Diaz’s eyes never left her. “We’ll need to reevaluate our investigation in light of this information.”

  Distracted by her inner turmoil, she hadn’t fully processed the big picture. “If Salazar is El Lobo’s son, he’s in the running for control of the cartel.” She sucked in a breath. “Daria won’t give up without a fight.”

  “There’s no evidence against Daria,” Agent Ortiz said. “Everything still points to Salazar.”

  “Which is why you’re in more danger than ever,” Diaz said. “You mentioned your family’s annual Día de los Muertos celebration is tonight?” At Veranda’s nod, he stabbed a finger at her. “Don’t go.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If I don’t show up, my mother will murder me before Salazar has a chance.”

  “That’s not funny, Detective.”

  “I’m going. Deal with it.” She crossed her arms. “Sir.”

  Diaz looked up at the ceiling as if searching for patience. He muttered a few choice obscenities in Spanish before glowering at Veranda. “I’ll be there too. Stay close to me.”

  Rios gave Diaz a sidelong glance. “I’m coming with you.”

  Great. Just great. She would have an overbearing supervisor trying to guard her, a hot federale trying to entice her, and a Latina mother trying to marry her off—all at the same party tonight. The power-hungry psychopath trying to kill her was the least of her concerns.

  22

  Veranda stood still, allowing Tiffany to unwrap the layers of black lace covering most of her upper body. Veranda had draped the filmy shawl over her head and shoulders during the somber graveside ceremony. To her, Día de los Muertos was meant to honor the dead respectfully. Now that everyone had arrived back at the family property, however, a more festive atmosphere had taken hold.

  Tiffany, always ready to party, had dragged Veranda into her mother’s bedroom for a mini-makeover. “You look like my grandma,” she said, sliding the shawl away. “The one who died five years ago.”

  Mention of Tiffany’s relatives reminded her to ask about Chuy while they were alone. “Speaking of your family, how’s it going at your parents’ house?”

  “Dad and Chuy hit it off.”

  Veranda had expected disaster, mayhem, and possibly gunfire before the end of the week. “Wait. What?”

  Tiffany giggled. “I know, right?” She worked the pins out of Veranda’s updo. “Last night Chuy made margaritas. Dad said they were the best he’s ever tasted. He and Chuy got into a discussion about aged tequila, and it went from there. They stayed up half the night drinking and chatting.”

  She imagined Chuy in a cloud of expensive cigar smoke deep in conversation with Baz. “No way. Chuy’s sober.”

  “Chuy’s margaritas were virgin, but he definitely put the tequila in Dad’s,” Tiff said. “It’s turned into a bromance between those two. This afternoon they were behind closed doors in Dad’s office for two hours. Chuy wouldn’t tell me what they were talking about.” She ran her fingers through Veranda’s hair, pulling out the last pin. “They’re both acting real secretive.”

  Veranda tossed her head and her dark mane cascaded halfway down her back. “What about your mom?”

  Tiffany’s shoulders drooped. “Mom had an extra lock installed on her jewelry cabinet. And she had one of the security guards bring us Taco Bell for lunch.”

  Veranda grimaced. “This party should take your mind off things.”

  “Point taken. Time to get out there.” Tiffany stepped back to inspect her handiwork. “Much better,” she said, turning Veranda to face her mother’s full-length mirror. “What do you think?”

  Veranda studied her reflection, taking in the black and white paint forming an artistic skull design covering her face. Her eyes traveled down to the clingy black dress trimmed in layers of bright red ruffles at the neck and skirt. The asymmetrical hemline reached to the middle of her thighs in front and angled down to skim her ankles in the back. Matching red stiletto pumps completed the ensemble.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m Halloween Barbie.”

  Tiffany frowned. “You’re right. This is too cutesy.” She snapped her fingers. “Got it.” She tugged the elastic ruffled neckline down to the middle of Veranda’s arms, exposing her bare shoulders. “How about now?”

  “Halloween Barbie joins a cartel.” She pointed at the Villalobos tattoos clearly visible above the lowered neckline. The red calligraphy V and the black wolf’s head would cause her family pain. “I can’t go out like this.”

  Tiffany scooped two tubes of body paint from the nearby dressing table. “No one will know you have any tatts when I’m finished.”

  As Tiffany began dabbing on a thick layer of black base, her blue eyes went to the shrapnel wound. Veranda had taken off the bandages to let it air. “That Vick’s VapoRub stuff kicks ass. There’s not much more than a scratch now.”

  The corners of her lips tipped up in response. The mystique of the ointment in the blue jar lived on.

  After a few minutes, Tiffany straightened and stepped back. “Hmm.” She tugged the neckline down a bit more. “Perfect.”

  Veranda quirked a brow. “Only you could find a way to cover my ink and reveal my cleavage at the same time.”

  Tiffany gave her arm a playful smack. “You’ve got a smoking hot bod. Own it. Your idea of sexy is opening an extra button on your oxford shirt.” Her eyes widened. “Hey, you’ve got to buy new clothes anyway, come shopping with me and I’ll find outfits that show off those Latina curves.”

  She side-eyed Tiffany’s black spandex catsuit painted with a glowing white skeleton that matched her facial art. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re no fun.” Tiffany sent her a mock pout. “C’mon, let’s go. I don’t know what kind of costume your lieutenant changed into, but I’m sure he’s looking for you.”

  With no place to tuck a gun, Veranda had resorted to a beaded purse slung over her shoulder on a decorative cord to conceal her duty weapon and cell phone. She opened her mother’s bedroom door, stepped into the hallway, and stopped short.

  Tiffany followed her downward gaze. “What’s wrong with the

  shoes?”

  “These heels are even higher than Marci’s,” she said. “Can’t seem to walk in them without strutting like I’m on a catwalk.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “I left my tactical boots in the car. I can go get—”

  “I put that whole outfit together for you. The least you can do is wear it.” Tiffany jutted out a spandex-clad hip. “You owe me.”

  She blew out a sigh. “I’ll put my boots on in the car so I can drive home without killing myself.”

  She sashayed out to the front yard and forgot all about the formidable footwear. This year’s party was bigger than ever. Guests decked out in every imaginable Día de los Muertos getup packed the common area between the five casitas. A mariachi band blasted festive music while partygoers ate, drank, and danced.

  Tiffany peered at the throng. “I can’t find Chuy. Looks like he’ll have to find me.”

  She scanned for Diaz, but the darkness between the glowing outdoor lights and the sheer number of milling people around made it impo
ssible to pick him out. She shrugged. Tiffany had the right idea. He was the worried one, let him find her.

  Her skirt swished against her legs as she moved past tables festooned with candy skulls and heaped with platters of pan de muerto. She stopped at the ofrenda, an altar honoring the dead, which displayed tall glass-encased candles burned down by half and photographs of departed loved ones.

  Veranda paid her respects to all of them but lingered over two. She kissed her fingertips and touched a frame holding a picture of Ernesto, Lorena’s first husband, the man Veranda once believed was her father. She repeated the gesture and pressed a finger to the photo of Bobby, her young half brother, who had died from an overdose while still in high school. Both of them dead because of Hector Villalobos.

  She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see a man in a skull mask and black frock coat with matching trousers and a top hat eyeing her. Without uttering a word, he held out a gloved hand, palm up. He smelled of sandalwood soap. She vaguely recognized the scent, but the spice-laden air with the aroma of food wafting through the open courtyard played havoc with her nose and she couldn’t recall where she’d smelled it before.

  Tiffany, who had followed her to the tables, elbowed her. “He’s asking you to dance.” She looked him up and down. “He looks yummy. You should go for it.”

  “I can’t dance tonight,” she said to Tiffany in a lowered voice. “Had to put my my cell phone and Glock inside this.” The band had started a merengue, not ideal for carrying a heavy bag.

  Tiffany held out her hand. “I’ll hold your stuff while you’re on the floor. Then we’ll figure something out.”

  The music called to her Latin blood, but she hesitated. The aura of death from the ceremony at the cemetery and the cloud of sorrow surrounding the ofrenda weighed on her. Learning of her connection to Salazar had darkened her spirit further. She needed release to lighten her soul. If she surrendered to it, the dance would free her.