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.

“Because I left them there for you to find.” Daria rapped her cheek with the gun’s sight. “Put your hand back where it was. Take it off the wheel again and see what happens.”

The Tahoe barreled through the darkness, bringing Veranda closer to whatever Daria had planned for her. Sparse streetlights contrasted with the impenetrable darkness of the surrounding desert. Aware her window of opportunity closed a fraction more with each mile they traveled, Veranda struggled to form a plan. Glancing down at the police radio mounted on a bracket stand bolted to the floor between the two front seats, she edged her right knee over to depress the mic button. Damn. Too far away.

“I am forever paying for my father’s mistakes,” Daria said after a brief silence.

Unsure what Daria was up to, she played along. “Paying for El Lobo’s mistakes?”

“The night he fucked your mother.” Daria allowed a moment for the slur to sting. “Worst mistake he ever made.”

She forced down all traces of anger, delivering a measured response. “Your father is a rapist.”

“He wanted your mother, so he took her.” Daria lifted her shoulder in a show of nonchalance. “After he killed her husband.”

Heart pounding, she felt the pull of Daria’s taunts sucking her in. Fighting for control, she gripped the wheel harder and said nothing.

“You are the product of a rape. Do you know what that means, Detective Cruz?” Daria moved so close her lips touched Veranda’s ear. “It means nobody wanted you to be born.” She leaned back and let out a throaty laugh. “Your mother only kept you because she thought you might be her dead husband’s child. Then she discovers you are my father’s bastard daughter.” She heaved a theatrical sigh. “How she must suffer every time she sees your face. You’re a constant reminder of the worst day of her life. The day she became a widow. The day her husband’s murderer raped her.”

Veranda’s control stretched to the breaking point. She had let Daria slip in through her defenses, raining cruel words down on her like physical blows. A moment in her sparring session at the gym a few hours ago cut through the rage. Just as Jake had done, Daria had her against the ropes and would batter her relentlessly until she did something about it.

The thought calmed her, and two priorities emerged. First, change the subject. Second, find a weakness to exploit. Mentally scanning her accumulated research on the cartel, she settled on the most likely point of internal friction. “And what does your father think when he looks at you? Has he made you second-in-command?”

Daria’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My father will put me in charge once he sees what I have done to you, puta.”

She’d scored a direct hit on both counts. The recent DNA results gave her more ammunition. “You call me a whore. Isn’t that what El Lobo calls all women?” She probed the exposed soft spot. “Your father didn’t pick you to take over the cartel when he retires, did he? I’ll bet he chose Adolfo.” She twisted the knife. “Or was it Salazar?”

“Adolfo had his chance.” All traces of jeering superiority gone, Daria’s anger seethed through every word. “And I’ll take care of Salazar after I’m done with you.”

Eager to keep her captor off balance, she pounced on the revelation of a power struggle. “So, Salazar’s on point. Must be frustrating to watch him cut in line in front of you.” Noting Daria’s silence, she decided to use the new information. “Of course, Salazar is his firstborn son.”

Daria’s eyes, locked with hers in the rearview mirror, widened with shock.

“We ran the DNA from the storage unit scene. I know about Salazar. Your father, being the progressive champion of women’s rights that he is, will turn the cartel over to him. And you’ll spend the rest of your life taking orders from your half brother. You should probably find out how he likes his coffee.”

“Shut up.” The command lacked conviction.

“You could turn this around, Daria. Testify against him. Make him pay. I can help you do it.”

“What? Put me in one of those witness protection programs?”

“Have they shown you any loyalty? Any respect? Why go to prison for them? Save yourself and get even at the same time.” She hesitated, then took a gamble. “Imagine Hector’s shock when two women, who also happen to be his daughters, unite to take him down.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she’d overplayed her hand.

“You dare to call me family?” Daria slanted her body sideways to squeeze farther between the two front seats. “We may have the same father, but you are a bastard child. Just like Salazar. I would die before I joined forces with you.”

Veranda noted Daria’s position and realized she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. The lap and shoulder restraint wouldn’t allow Daria to scoot so far forward in the roomy vehicle. She quickly hid the grin threatening to spread into a triumphant smile.

Daria had been carefully watching her hands, but not her feet. She pressed the accelerator gradually, hoping Daria wouldn’t catch on.

As the Tahoe sped faster, Daria finally seemed to notice. “Slow down.”

“Whatever you say.” Veranda took her foot off the accelerator and stomped the brake pedal all the way to the floor. The Tahoe’s tires shrieked in protest as the hood dipped down. Veranda’s seatbelt caught her, holding her in place. Daria flew forward, her body sailing between the two front seats. Her momentum carried her headlong into the dashboard.

As soon as the Tahoe came to rest, Veranda pulled her hand back, made a fist, and punched Daria in the face. She prayed the impact with the dashboard combined with the blow to the head had knocked Daria out.

No such luck.

Blood streaming from her nose, Daria lay on her right side, gun in her right hand.

Veranda flicked a glance at the front passenger’s seat. The purse, still containing her duty weapon, had catapulted forward when she slammed on the brakes. The beaded bag lay out of reach on the opposite floorboard. She unfastened her seatbelt, prepared to wrestle the Desert Eagle away from Daria. Still wedged between the front seats, Daria struggled to maneuver the massive pistol into firing position. Unable to get her hands on either gun, Veranda decided retreat was her best option.

Leaving the vehicle in drive, Veranda opened her door, took her foot off the brake, and rolled out of the car as it coasted forward, carrying Daria away from her.

She tumbled onto the pavement, scrambled to her feet, and raced toward the open desert, grateful she’d changed into her boots. The crescent moon barely disturbed the darkness that abetted her escape. If she could find a place to hide, Daria would be hard-pressed to find her.

The screech of the Tahoe’s tires reached her ears as she crested a berm covered with chaparral. Daria had managed to stop the car. Would she drive off or get out and hunt for Veranda? The driver’s door slammed as the engine idled, answering her unspoken question.

Eyes adjusting to the dark, Veranda spotted an enormous saguaro. She started toward the stately cactus, then paused. Daria would probably look there first. In this part of the desert, there weren’t many natural features to use for cover or concealment. She spun, darted to a small outcropping of rocks and flattened herself on her belly seconds before Daria crested the hill. Silhouetted by the faint moonlight, Daria crept forward in a low crouch, the gun pointing in front of her.

Daria swiveled her head one way and the other, then picked her way among the scrub brush toward the saguaro. As she bent to check behind the cactus, a tiny movement on a far knoll seemed to catch her attention. She charged after it, giving Veranda an idea.

Lure Daria farther away, double back to the Tahoe, get her weapon, and use the police radio to call for backup. She picked up a stone about the size of a golf ball and hurled it in a different direction.

The moment Daria pelted off in pursuit, Veranda jumped to her feet and sprinted to the Tahoe, still idling in the middle of the road. She yanked the driver’s door open and flung herself inside, sprawling across the seat. Her fumbling fingers searched the floorboard and found nothing. Daria had taken her purse as well as the gun and cell phone inside it. Shit. Her vision of slapping cuffs on Daria faded. She’d be lucky to survive.

Out of options, she sat upright in the driver’s seat and closed the driver’s door, prepared to make a fast escape. Belatedly, she realized the noise would alert Daria to her location. A .50-caliber round would tear right through a car door. A moment later Daria materialized at the top of the berm and took aim. Veranda threw the Tahoe into drive.

A bullet blasted through the side window, showering her with jagged shards. Most ammo would only make a hole in the tempered glass, but such a powerful round took out half of the window. She pinned the accelerator to the floor, fishtailing until the tires found enough traction to propel her forward. More shots hit the back of the SUV as she careened down the road.

She snatched the police radio’s microphone from its holder and pressed the transmit button. “Charlie thirty-four, nine-nine-nine.” She waited for the dispatcher to respond to her call for emergency backup. Silence. She lifted the mic to try again. The cord dangled, its end frayed. Daria had ripped it loose.

Unable to summon help, she would go and get it. The nearest police precinct was South Mountain. Catching Daria before one of her men retrieved her required a full-scale response with helicopter, K-9, and perimeter checkpoints. The duty commander, who might be on the far side of the city, would orchestrate the police response. But first, she’d have to convince the patrol units she wasn’t a drunk party girl when she showed up with her face painted like a skeleton, wearing a torn, dirt-streaked Calavera costume.

Her shoulders slumped, bowing to the inevitable. Lieutenant Diaz was her best option. Gritting her teeth, she headed back to her mother’s house. There wasn’t enough Preparation H in all of Phoenix for the hemorrhoid he’d get once he got a look at her Tahoe.