Veranda appreciated his candor. Rumors of corruption and infiltration in Mexican law enforcement made some of her colleagues wary of their inclusion in the Fusion Center, but she had no such reservations. She’d worked with Mexican officials during her days in DEB and respected their determination to prosecute criminals despite threats, assassinations, abductions, and other forms of intimidation.
“Thank you,” she said. “We’ll add your information to our database.” She touched the remote again. A picture of Bartolo Villalobos appeared, the word DECEASED stamped in red letters above his head. “Bartolo was Hector’s second-born son.”
Veranda’s stomach tightened. This man had systematically terrorized her entire family. Bartolo had broken into her home, burned her family’s restaurant to the ground, and abducted her sister. Before he died, he’d inflicted deep wounds causing lasting damage for two of them. Especially Gabby.
Agent Wallace with the DEA furrowed his brows. “That bastard certainly gave us enough trouble over the years.”
Veranda had planned to lay out the structure of the cartel at this point in her presentation. Thanks to media coverage, everyone would have seen pictures of Hector and Bartolo, but she guessed some agents may not recognize the rest of the Villalobos family or understand their business model.
“If you include Bartolo, El Lobo has three sons and one daughter, all adults,” she said. “They visit the family compound in Mexico often using the family jet, but they mostly live in their Phoenix area homes. Hector made sure all four of his children were born in the States, so they’re citizens and can travel freely across the border.”
She emphasized an important aspect of the Villalobos family, which was more formidable due to its leader’s careful planning. “Hector grew up poor, but his children have advantages he never did. They got the best of everything, including top schools. They’re not your average low-life crime family. They’re well-educated, disciplined, and strategic.”
She tapped the remote and an organizational chart flashed up on the wall. Every rectangle contained a name and photograph. “Each child has a specific area of responsibility in the cartel. It’s a key to the Villalobos family’s power. Like any Fortune500 company, they’ve diversified.”
She picked up her pen and used it to point to the top box. “Hector, head of the family, named his children alphabetically by birth order.” She swept the pen along a row one level down from the top. Four squares formed a tier directly below Hector. “Bartolo is the second born, after Adolfo. I mentioned Bartolo first because, until recently, he was the heir apparent to the entire business. He was the comandante in charge of narcotics trafficking, the lifeblood of their operation. He lived in the Phoenix area, which is the cartel’s main US distribution hub. Bartolo’s death six weeks ago disrupted the drug market here.”
Tanner raised a hand. “You’re saying this whole situation we’re in was caused by one man’s death?”
She nodded. “While the Villalobos cartel scrambled to reorganize their second echelon, SSS picked up the slack on the streets of Phoenix.”
“I can confirm that,” Agent Wallace said. “SSS is supplied by a cartel from the Andean region in Colombia. They’ve had a few dust-ups with the Villalobos organization, which also has some grow operations in South America. A few firebombs here, some mass graves there, and both sides pretty much carved out their territory and settled down to grow their dope without bothering each other too much.”
“Except the truce collapsed because of this man.” Veranda used her pen to point to the photo of a slender, dark-haired man in an Armani suit occupying the square next to Bartolo. “Adolfo Villalobos is the firstborn son and the cartel’s CFO. He’s responsible for money laundering, gambling, loan sharking, collections, and payroll. When Bartolo died, he tried to step up and take over drug sales as well. Looks like he’s making a play to be named El Lobo’s successor. Problem is, others in the underworld don’t take him seriously, so they poached on Villalobos turf. Never would have happened while Bartolo was alive—”
This time, Agent Gates interrupted. “How does this manifest itself within the family dynamic?” She seemed to rethink her words. “That is, how does this play out inside the cartel?”
Veranda didn’t mince words. “Adolfo must crush any opposition, whether internal or external, to show he can be the next alpha in the wolf pack. Adolfo is especially dangerous because he’s an insecure leader trying to gain respect.”
She indicated the next sibling on the chart. “The youngest brother, Carlos, runs a team of coyotes in a human-trafficking operation with a network of drop houses and brothels with sex slaves in several border states. We’ve managed to shut down a few in Phoenix, but we haven’t gathered enough evidence to prosecute Carlos.”
She ran the end of her pen along her jaw, considering the last photo in the chart’s second row. “Daria is Hector’s only dau—” She broke off, face flaming.
Her mind balked at the fresh reminder of the change the DNA results brought to her life. She flicked a glance at Sam, who gave her an encouraging nod.
Drawing a deep breath, she rephrased the comment. “Daria is the youngest sibling.” All eyes studied the image of a willowy woman in her twenties. With liquid brown eyes set in a smooth face, Daria would be beautiful if not for a harsh set to her lips that reminded Veranda of El Lobo. “Her team smuggles US weapons into Mexico to feed the ongoing battles between the cartels and the police. We don’t have much intel on her. She flies below the radar compared to the rest of the family.”
Agent Flag with Homeland spoke up. “We’ve heard she’s building a weapons and munitions manufacturing plant, but we can’t confirm it yet. We know there’s an armory at the Villalobos family compound that’s used to modify and repair firearms and ammo.”
Now certain Flag was affiliated with some sort of covert intelligence organization, Veranda thanked him before wrapping up the briefing. “That’s an overview of the situation as it stands.”
She shut her laptop. “Has everyone listed their cell phone and email on this page?”
“We didn’t put our information down,” Lopez said. “Our orders were to keep our participation secret for the safety of our families.”
Veranda nodded. “We’ll loan you burner phones and use code names.” She signaled one of the techs working at a terminal across the room. “Can you hook them up now?”
A heavyset man in a rumpled button-down shirt nodded his assent as he ambled over. He looked like he’d pulled an all-nighter to get the workspace ready. She pressed a thumb drive into his palm. “Please add the two extra phones before you download this file and send it as an attachment to everybody on this list, including me.” She quickly jotted her contact info and thrust the paper at him. “As a second attachment, create a spreadsheet with everyone’s cell phone and email so we can reach each other quickly.” She peered at his bleary eyes. “When you’re done, go home and get some rest.”
Veranda watched him slouch off before she started again. “This is one of the two documents I asked him to send you.” She held up a second sheet of paper. The room grew still. “It’s a preliminary ops plan.”
The moment had arrived for her bold strategy.
9
Fourteen-year-old Sofia Pacheco’s slim fingers danced over the keyboard. She hunched forward, staring at the computer screen. If she didn’t take this chance, she might not get another. Holed up in a cramped room in the two-story house, she’d lost track of the days.
The Villalobos coyotes had lied when they brought her, along with her mother and twin sister, from Mexico. Instead of changing her family’s lives for the better, they made her an indentured servant to the young man they called Nacho.
She’d learned that Nacho, American by birth, had grown up playing with computers. Judging by the way Señor Adolfo favored him, his advanced hacking skills made him valuable. Nacho’s appearance told
her he was probably in his late teens, much younger than the rest of the cartel’s men. Despite their similarity in age, or perhaps because of it, Nacho insisted she call him “sir” in English as a sign of respect.
Cutting into the silence, Nacho blurted a torrent of expletives in English. She jumped, eyes darting to her overseer, who sat at a scarred wooden desk facing hers. Having learned English in school and by watching TV, she didn’t understand some of the more colorful words, but got the gist from his reddened face and harsh, guttural grunt as he glared at his screen and pounded the desk’s surface with his fist.
The day after she arrived, he’d set up two computer stations to double their productivity, forcing her to help him as he tried to hack into an American federal agency’s database. Judging by his outburst, she assumed he’d been snagged in a honeypot or bounced out by another anti-hacking measure. The corner of her mouth angled up. Bad news for Nacho was good news for her.
She returned her attention to the screen in front of her, concentrating on her own agenda. She dragged the mouse down, highlighting several lines of text, checked to make sure Nacho wasn’t looking, then hit the delete key.
Sweat beaded on her forehead as she selected the print command. Raising her chin to look at him above her monitor, she cleared her throat. When he lifted narrowed eyes to meet hers, she pointed to a card table set up in the corner of the room. “Sir, you should check the printer.”
Nacho huffed out an exasperated sigh at the interruption. “What’s so important?”
The line of perspiration had trickled from her forehead down her temples, sliding past her jaw. “You told me to watch Detective Cruz’s email. She got a message with two attachments.” Sofia found it easy to look unsure of herself. “I think one of them is a list of the task force people. The other attachment looks like a list of addresses and some other stuff.”
Nacho shot out of his chair and stalked to the printer that had spit out two sheets of paper. He snatched them from the tray and quickly scoured each page, eyes widening as he read. Face drained of color, he glanced back to Sofia. “Tell no one about this.”
She chewed her lip, fear creeping down her spine. What have I done? “I won’t, sir.”
He spun on his heel and barreled out the door clutching the papers.
After he left, Sofia crossed herself and wrung her hands before clasping them in prayer. Certain Nacho would take the documents straight to Señor Adolfo, she stole a glance at Nacho’s unattended laptop. Would she have enough time to cover her tracks?
If he caught her sitting at his desk, she would have no explanation. No excuse. He would call in the horrible coyotes and they would beat her until she confessed. Then they would kill her. Probably her mother and sister too.
No, she couldn’t chance it. She’d risked enough already. She would have to hope Nacho would be so busy he wouldn’t do a cross-check. If her plan worked, she and her family would be free soon. If it didn’t, they would be dead even sooner.
10
Veranda saw the tech in the rumpled shirt give her a thumbs-up from his computer station across the Fusion Center. She acknowledged him with a nod, slid a small stack of papers from a manila folder lying next to her laptop, and handed them to Sam. “Everybody take one.” As each member of the task force pulled a page from the top and passed it on, she continued. “This is a hard copy of the attachment the admin just sent to all of us by email.” She turned to Lopez. “They’re loading your burner phones with the same information right now. They’ll be ready by the time we’re through.”
Anticipating push-back from the Feds, she’d worked out a strategy to introduce her plan. A form of psychological gamesmanship to gain support—she would get preliminary agreement before pitching the most controversial part. Sizing up the group, she decided to start with the agency likely to have the most opposition.
She swung an arm out to encompass Agents Gates and Tanner. “The FBI is known for coordinating federal agencies on long-term
investigations. With this tactic, they’ve gotten the most successful large-scale prosecutions in US history.”
She waited until both agents nodded in silent assent. Gates looked wary, but Veranda plowed on. “I’m using the same approach, tweaking it to fit our current situation. We can work with the intel we have, add a bit more through surveillance, and gather enough probable cause to get search warrants for multiple locations.”
Tanner interrupted her. “A search warrant requires cause to believe evidence of a crime can be found in a particular location.”
For several seconds, no one spoke. Even Marci, normally quick with an acerbic comment, stared with a slackened jaw. A newly minted agent, fresh out of Quantico, had spouted a textbook definition of basic search and seizure rules to a group of senior law enforcement professionals, some of whom had been on the job before he was born.
Veranda’s gaze slid to Agent Gates. As Tanner’s superior, she should be the one to deal with him. Veranda thought she saw the senior FBI agent’s left eye twitch. Apparently fighting an inner battle, Gates said nothing.
Finally, Det. Tony Sanchez from Veranda’s Homicide squad delivered the obligatory verbal smack-down. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger along his stubbled jaw, tilted his head, and widened his eyes in an exaggerated look of wonder. “No shit.” He endowed the words with his heaviest Brooklyn inflection.
Tanner’s face reddened as several people around the table turned snorts of laughter into coughs. Doc banged Agent Wallace on the back as he choked on his coffee.
Veranda moved the discussion forward. “It takes months, if not years, to get solid evidence against upper-echelon distribution operations like cartels, or even organized local gangs. We don’t have that kind of time. Our mission is specific and we need quick results. This isn’t a lengthy white-collar investigation.” She kept any semblance of judgment out of her voice. “People are dying, the city’s in a state of panic, and the media’s stoking the fire.”
“And that’s why search warrants should be our main tool?” Agent Flag asked. “To speed up the process?”
In her comfort zone from her experience as a narc, Veranda elaborated. “Search warrants, if executed when certain people are on the premises, let us make key arrests on the spot if we find contraband. It’s a double shot. We gather intel from the scene, interrogate anyone found in possession, and file further charges as we go. We can build from the initial cases on the fly.”
As her fellow task force members mulled her words, she pressed her point. “To prevent suspects in the first site we hit from destroying evidence and alerting the following locations, we need to execute all warrants at the same time.”
Diaz, who had been typing into his iPad on a portable keyboard, looked concerned. “Detective Cruz, you’ve explained the theory, now describe the plan.”
She straightened, took a deep breath, and used her most professional language. “I propose we conduct simultaneous operations at known SSS locations and Villalobos cartel properties, including their front companies. That way, both organizations get shut down. Even if they regroup—and the cartel definitely will—it halts the current war.” She spread her hands. “We accomplish our objective.”
Diaz raised an eyebrow. “And where do we get evidence to justify requesting these search warrants?”
An answer was ready on her lips. “Detectives from our police department’s Gang Unit and Drug Enforcement Bureau can concentrate on the SSS sites. They already know some target locations and can do increased surveillance, maybe a couple of undercover buys. They can also pump their confidential informants for more.”
“That’s going to take coordination through chain-of-command.” He angled his head, regarding her. “I can brief Commander Webster this afternoon. He can reach out to Commander Montoya from DEB—”
Bureaucratic wrangling set her teeth on edge. She cut him off. “I’ve already asked the Gang U
nit and my former DEB team to work with what we have so far. The narcs are planning an operation tonight.”
A ruddy scald crept up Diaz’s neck. “You violated protocol.” His furious gaze traveled across the room to the DEB and Gang detectives listening from nearby tables.
She indicated the cluster of detectives. “They work late hours. It made sense for me to call them last night.” She arranged her features to appear contrite. “I wanted to be efficient.”
One of her former DEB teammates winked after Diaz turned back to her. Sam stifled a chuckle, and Doc buried his nose in his notes.
Diaz’s glare told her he hadn’t bought her act. “In the future, you’ll go through channels. Is that clear, Detective Cruz?”
She nodded, preferring to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.
Diaz switched topics. “That takes care of SSS, but how will you get PC for the Villalobos searches?”
To her surprise, Diaz had turned out to be her biggest obstacle. “Before he was killed a few weeks back, my CI provided good intel about the cartel’s Phoenix operation. Federal databases will fill in some gaps once we compare notes.” She worked to hide her irritation with her new supervisor. “We don’t need proof, Lieutenant, just probable cause.”
Diaz crossed his arms. “I’m asking a lot of questions because it sounds like you’re loading up the bait and tackle.”
Her patience cracked at the provocation. “You might call it a fishing expedition,” she shot back, “but I call it good police work.” Damned if she would let Diaz’s skepticism taint the others. This was her best chance to strike at the heart of the Villalobos family and she intended to take it. “If we get enough evidence during the raids, we might even be able to arrest Adolfo. A serious hit to the cartel.”
Before Diaz could respond, Agent Wallace from the DEA came to her defense. “I like the plan. Look at it this way, a mass high-profile warrant service would interrupt their routine operations at the very least. Guaranteed we seize a lot of dope, cash, and weapons on both sides. If we also make a bunch of arrests”—he shrugged—“icing.”
Phoenix Burning Page 8
