Death Blow

by Isabella Maldonado

  Tossing her bag to Tiffany, she grasped the man’s outstretched hand. He led her onto the floor near the band. The beat thrummed like a pulse in her veins. He swung her in tight against his hard chest. A reckless impulse drove her to slide along his body before spinning away. Moving with the rhythm, he twirled her before catching her waist.

  Her partner danced well. She felt the wildness in him matching her own. The music grew louder, and the crowd clapped as they whirled together, apart, then together again. Behind the mask, his dark eyes watched her every move. She felt alive again. Hot, vibrant as the red edging her dress, and untamed.

  As the song ended, he pulled her close and bent his head down to hers. She felt his chest heave from the exertion of the dance. She moved a fraction closer, raised her hand to the edge of his mask, and began to pull it away. His voice came out as a harsh rasp. “Veranda, I—”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, recognizing the voice. “Lieutenant Diaz.” She yanked the top hat up with one hand and snatched the mask off with the other, flinging them to the floor. “What the hell?”

  Infuriated by the deception, she turned to leave, nearly colliding with a man in traditional white pants and shirt with a red sash around his waist holding a single long-stemmed rose. His face was painted as a skull like hers, with black around his eye sockets and the rest in white pancake. He completed the outfit with an old-fashioned sombrero trimmed with a red fringe.

  “Could I have the next dance?” he asked in formal Spanish, offering her the flower.

  Veranda reached out to take it when a muscular arm circled her waist. She considered whether stomping his foot with her stiletto heel or jamming an elbow into his solar plexus would cause Diaz more pain. Before she could decide, the man behind her spoke. She knew the voice. And it wasn’t her supervisor.

  “The next dance is mine,” Agent Rios responded in his native tongue. “And the one after that.”

  “Maybe she should decide for herself,” the man in white said, lowering the rose. “And I don’t think she wants you to hold her like that.” He continued the exchange in Spanish. “Looks like she’s trying to get away.”

  Lieutenant Diaz shouldered past the man in white and got in Rios’s face. “Get your hands off her.”

  Veranda was sandwiched between two snorting bulls. The man in white melted into the crowd. She would have spent more time wondering if she would recognize him without the elaborate face paint and hat, but she was too busy plotting agonizing deaths for Rios and Diaz.

  Rios grunted. “You’re not my boss, Diaz.”

  Diaz made a fist. “I’m going to enjoy my time off after I break your nose, cabrón.”

  The federale’s arm was still securely fastened around her waist. “Let me go.” She grabbed his wrist and tugged. No effect whatsoever. She lost her temper. “You will damn well listen to me, Rios.” She slid her hand down his arm, wrapped her fingers around his pinkie, and prepared to dislocate it. “This is your last chance.”

  Both men looked down at her hand clutching Rios’s little finger, their startled expressions telegraphing their understanding. Each man had enough close-quarters combat training to comprehend her maneuver. A fact she’d counted on. Diaz grinned. Rios cursed and released her.

  She took a step to distance herself. “You two don’t decide who I dance with or what I do on my time off. I’ll say goodbye to my mother, then I’m leaving.”

  She found Tiffany standing with Chuy and retrieved her purse. Chuy told her Lorena was in the house getting more food. She worked her way around the yard making small talk with guests and entered the kitchen to find Diaz with her mother. What was he up to now? Even more frightening, what was Lorena up to?

  “Ay, mi’ja.” Her mother’s hazel eyes were full of concern. “Why are you and Richard arguing again?”

  She always found it odd when her mother called the lieutenant by his first name. “Because he’s an overbearing—”

  “Stop.” Lorena held up a hand. “I don’t know why you will not see what I do.” She looked up at Diaz. “He is a good man. A man any mother would be proud to have as a son-in-law.”

  Veranda briefly closed her eyes and wished for a hole to open in the floor and swallow her.

  A ruddy scald crept into Diaz’s cheeks. He gazed down at her mother. “Lorena, I’ve already explained. Your daughter and I cannot date. It’s against the rules.”

  “Rules,” Lorena said, scowling.

  “I’m out of here,” Veranda said. The reckless abandon during the dance had been replaced by a strong desire to bolt. She stalked from the kitchen as fast as Tiffany’s heels would allow.

  Maybe Cole had been right about Diaz being attracted to her. But the man who touted following the rules would never break such a basic one. Supervisors could not be romantically involved with someone within their chain of command. As long as they both stayed where they were, Diaz couldn’t touch her, gracias a Dios.

  Footfalls crunched on the gravel and soon Diaz fell into step beside her. “Where are you going?”

  She quickened her pace. “Away.”

  “We should go somewhere and talk.” When she made no response, he added, “At least let me walk you to your car.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “I don’t need you to walk me to my car and I don’t have anything to say to you. My personal life is not your business. My dance partners are not your concern.” She crossed her arms. “Why did you dance with me anyway?”

  “Why not?”

  “And that move at the end. The way you held me. What was that about?” She instantly regretted the question.

  “That’s why we need to talk.”

  “Not going to happen. Good night, Lieutenant.” She emphasized the last word in an effort to remind him she was forever out of bounds for him.

  Lowering his head, he turned away and trudged back toward the party.

  She reached the Tahoe parked at the far end of the long driveway and wrenched the door open. Sitting on the driver’s seat, she snatched her boots from the front passenger’s seat, trading them for the high-heeled pumps before swinging her legs inside and slamming the door shut. She tossed her purse onto the front seat where her boots had been. Still furious with Diaz, she crammed her key into the ignition. As soon as the engine caught, she executed a three-point turn, spewing gravel as she raced to the main street.

  Muttering under her breath, she turned a corner and accelerated out of the neighborhood. Diaz still occupied her thoughts when she felt the muzzle of a pistol against her temple.

  Two words came from the seat directly behind her. “Keep driving.”

  23

  Villalobos family

  compound, Mexico

  Adolfo Villalobos pressed his fingertips to his lips and reached down to touch the gilded frame of his mother’s picture on the ofrenda. Her love had been his sole refuge. As the only one who understood him, her death five years ago had left him without an ally among his family.

  Salazar stood to his left, inscrutable as ever, and his father to his right, head inclined, lips moving in silent prayer. When he finished, Hector picked up the photograph and kissed the glass over his wife’s face.

  “She was everything a woman should be,” Hector said, placing the picture down next to a burning candle. “Lovely to look at, capable in the house, responsive to my needs, and obedient at all times.”

  Adolfo bit back a retort. “I miss her every day.”

  “Of the four children your mother bore, only you and Daria are left.” Hector reached out to rest a hand on Salazar’s shoulder. “I am grateful to have produced another son.” He squeezed. “One who is a fierce warrior like his father.”

  Salazar made no response. During their observance on the patio outside the main building, he placed no photographs on the altar, burned no candles for the departed, and no prayers left his lips. Adolfo wondered i
f Salazar had ever cared for anyone.

  Adolfo had struggled in vain for years to win his father’s approval. First, his younger brother Bartolo had undermined him, now Salazar had cheated him of his rightful place as El Lobo’s successor.

  His hands balled into fists. “I’m a warrior too. I have fought for our business.”

  Hector responded in his customary overblown style. “You are my chief financial officer. Your tools are spreadsheets, computers, and crypto currency. Salazar wields weapons of battle. He has proven himself to be capable, intelligent, and, most importantly, fearless.”

  The last word delivered the punch to the gut he was certain his father had intended. Throughout the entire organization, everyone knew he abhorred violence. The sight of blood and gore made him retch. He called himself a man of intellect. Hector called him weak.

  As Adolfo reeled from the verbal blow, Hector gazed up into the night sky. “The poverty and misery I suffered in my early life served me well. I craved wealth and power. That hunger drove me to create an empire out of nothing.”

  He’d heard his father’s self-aggrandizing speeches before and tuned this one out until a phrase caught his ear.

  “… and your secret is revealed,” Hector was saying to Salazar. “The DNA results leave no doubt that you are my son. They have your date of birth, so they also know you are my firstborn.”

  Until a few weeks ago, Adolfo had been the eldest. Then his father admitted an affair with a married woman thirty-four years ago. The result of that union now stood between Adolfo and his birthright. Salazar was not a firstborn son. Salazar was—literally and figuratively—a bastard.

  “Daria should not have planted that evidence,” Salazar said.

  Hector sighed. “I regret sending a woman to do a man’s job. She has made a mess of our North American operations.”

  Salazar moved away from the altar. “I called her this morning to relieve her of command. She understands that I’m flying in tomorrow to take charge. I ordered her to stand down until my arrival.” He withdrew a buzzing cell phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. “One of the coyotes at the Phoenix main base armory. They are under orders to contact me for emergencies.”

  At Hector’s urging, Salazar took the call. Spine stiff and face taut, he began to pace as he listened. In a rare display of anger, Salazar closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “How long ago?” he asked, his tone measured. Adolfo and Hector exchanged uneasy looks while Salazar pressed for details. “Where is she now?” A brief pause. “Track her cell phone and go after her. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He disconnected.

  Hector raised his brows. “Well?”

  Salazar crammed the phone back into his pocket. “Daria has disobeyed my direct order. She went to the Cruz family property to kidnap Veranda Cruz.”

  Adolfo couldn’t imagine what his sister had been thinking. Not only had she defied Salazar, but she’d exposed herself by personally attacking an enemy on her home turf. An enemy who had already proven herself to be hard to kill. He watched his father, curious to see how he would react when one of his offspring betrayed another.

  Hector rendered his verdict with the dispassionate finality of a judge. “I had hoped my blood in her veins would make Daria different from other women.” His lip curled. “But like all the rest, she cannot handle power.”

  Salazar gave Hector a slight bow. “I will have the pilot ready the plane immediately.”

  “The men must understand that I will not tolerate disobedience from anyone, not even my own flesh and blood,” Hector said. “Take Daria into custody. I want her brought before me in chains.”

  At first, Adolfo couldn’t believe his father would degrade his own daughter in front of everyone. Then he glanced at his brother Bartolo’s photo on the ofrenda. Hector had done much worse than merely embarrassing Bartolo. Apparently, Daria had not learned from her brother’s mistake.

  While Adolfo disliked his sister, he detested Salazar. Openly humiliating a member of the Villalobos family would only raise the bastard’s status in the organization. And lower his own even more. He grasped for something, anything, to change his father’s mind. “What if she succeeds in eliminating Cruz?”

  Hector arched an imperious brow. “Then it will be the worse for her. I decide who has that right. And it is no longer Daria.”

  By the satisfied look on the bastard’s face, Adolfo gathered Hector had transferred the kill order to him. The last vestiges of hope Adolfo had of following in his father’s footsteps flickered and died.

  El Lobo believed every detail of an execution warranted special attention. He selected the victim, the perpetrator, and the audience for specific reasons. Two months ago, when he proclaimed that Adolfo could never lead the family business while Veranda Cruz lived, Hector imbued more significance to her death than any other.

  Hector turned back to Salazar. “Use extra care traveling inside the US. They already believe you are there and will be looking for you.”

  “Another reason for Daria to set me up,” Salazar said. “She hopes to keep me away.”

  Hector ran a finger along his black and silver goatee. “We won’t have any family inside the US when you bring Daria here. I must move faster to acquire the Rook.”

  Adolfo’s ears pricked with interest. His father had recently mentioned intensifying his efforts to gain a new asset in law enforcement.

  “I wanted more time to work on my plan,” Hector said. “But Daria has forced my hand.” He looked at Salazar. “Report to me when you apprehend her.”

  Dismissed, Salazar pivoted and strode inside the main house.

  Determined to turn his rival’s absence to his advantage, Adolfo stepped in front of his father. “I can help you recruit the Rook.” He hoped his eagerness didn’t show.

  For years, Adolfo had tried to identify the target Hector had described as a prime asset. If he helped land the Rook, he could establish a relationship of mutual trust with him before his siblings had a chance.

  His father regarded him. “You still believe you can run this organization, don’t you?”

  He straightened. “I do.”

  “Then I’m sure you won’t mind attending to our guest of honor?” Hector reached into his pocket and removed what looked like a black plastic key fob.

  Tonight’s special guest, Pedro Carbajal, waited in the mini arena. Daria’s incompetent lackey had been beaten and starved in the dungeon since his arrival on the plane with her yesterday morning. The time had come to carry out his sentence.

  “He’s already been fitted with the collar then?” Adolfo asked, relieved no hint of a tremor registered in his voice.

  “Here is the detonator.” Hector held out the fob-like device. “You will watch, and then you will dispose of the remains. Personally.”

  A hot blast of bile shot up to the back of Adolfo’s throat. He had witnessed this particular punishment before. Pedro’s head would explode, spewing brain matter and skull fragments in a wide radius around his decapitated body. Anticipation of the blood, the smell, the carnage, weakened his knees.

  His father leaned closer, scrutinizing him. “Are you about to faint?”

  Cold sweat pricked his scalp. “No.” His vision blurred slightly. “Not at all.” He took the detonator with clammy fingers.

  Hector had orchestrated this execution as he always did, with all participants in mind. Had he originally intended Salazar to push the button? Perhaps, but once Adolfo tried to reassert himself, his father had seized the opportunity to demonstrate why he had chosen Salazar over him. Salazar would never flinch at the sight of blood, much less collapse.

  His father looked at him with disdain. “You will not use latex gloves, goggles, or coveralls. Any man who presumes to wear my suit must also be prepared to wear the blood that spatters it.” Turning away, he gave Adolfo a parting shot over his shoulder. “As Veran
da Cruz will find out when Salazar arrives in Phoenix.”

  24

  The gun’s muzzle pressed against Veranda’s temple, pushing her head to the left. She glanced in the rearview mirror and caught the glimmer of an enormous gold tiger-striped .50-caliber Mark XIX Desert Eagle pistol. Only one person could be holding that weapon.

  “Why don’t you shove a little harder, Daria?” She deliberately used her captor’s name. “Maybe you can force me off the road.”

  Daria leaned forward from her position directly behind the driver’s seat to peer at Veranda’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Don’t even think about driving off the road, puta. I’m watching your hands on the steering wheel.”

  “What do you want?” She kept her voice calm, but her mind kicked into overdrive. She had anticipated Salazar attacking her. He was behind the bombings according to the forensic evidence, not Daria. Was she acting on his orders? If so, why would he send her when he was such an efficient killer himself? Daria’s terse response halted her spinning thoughts.

  “Head east.”

  Veranda slowed as she drove, giving herself more time to plot an escape. Daria hadn’t shot her yet. She assumed her stay of execution would only last until she’d driven out of the more populated areas. Once Daria had her away from the main thoroughfares, her death would be easier to cover up in the inky darkness of the vast desert at night.

  “Keep a steady speed,” Daria said. “Don’t attract attention with your driving.”

  Veranda darted a glance at the front passenger seat where she’d tossed her purse. Her gun was still stashed inside the beaded bag along with her cell phone, the closure firmly snapped shut. Preparing to make a grab for the purse, she loosened her grip on the wheel and asked a question to keep Daria occupied.

  “Were you behind those bombings?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You have the background, but Salazar’s prints were at the scene.” She didn’t say where the latent prints were recovered, testing Daria’s reaction.