46

Villalobos family
compound, Mexico

Adolfo opened heavy double doors. Unsure what to expect, he peered inside his father’s expansive office.

Hector Villalobos had been secretive all morning. An hour earlier, Adolfo had rapped his knuckles against the polished wood. His father had opened the door, a frown creasing his brow. Before Adolfo could speak, the secure satellite phone signaled an incoming call. Hector had shoved him outside with orders to wait until he was invited in.

Now his father greeted his return with a triumphant expression, gesturing to the ornate mahogany conference table and speaking in his customary elegant Spanish. “Take your seat.”

As patriarch and pack leader, El Lobo claimed the chair at the head of the rectangular table. Each of his offspring had assigned seats along either side.

As Adolfo padded across the thick Persian rug, his gaze swept the table, drinking in the visual representation of his success. He hid his pleasure at the sight of empty chairs where Bartolo, Carlos, Daria, and Salazar would have been. He was the last man standing. He had won.

His father sank into his plush leather seat. “What have I always taught you about adversity, mi’jo?”

Adolfo began to bounce his foot repeatedly. He’d listened to enough of his father’s dramatic speeches to recognize one on the launch pad. Grateful Hector hadn’t chosen a clear glass tabletop, he crossed his legs to stop his wayward foot and answered by rote. “A true leader turns adversity to his advantage.”

Hector offered Adolfo a rare smile. “I have secured the Rook.”

That explained the mysterious phone call. Years of cautious overtures had finally paid off. El Lobo had scored a particularly well-placed inside man in law enforcement. He wondered if his father would reveal the Rook’s identity at last.

“Congratulations.” He returned the smile. “I’m sure he will serve us well.” He’d deliberately used the Spanish conjugation for we, emphasizing his new place as second-in-command. He may have won by default, but he’d take a victory in any color package.

“Forget the Rook. I’ll get to him later.” Hector stroked the streak of silver hair that ran down the center of his goatee. “Now, we discuss Nacho. What has he told you?”

His father had put him in charge of interrogating their computer expert. A task made more difficult because of his fondness for Nacho. As CFO, Adolfo needed someone with computer skills. Two years ago, he’d hired a tech firm to trace an unauthorized withdrawal from one of the accounts. When an impressive number of false trails eventually led to a teenager, Adolfo recruited him. Others prized Nacho’s hacking, but Adolfo saw his potential as a future top lieutenant in the organization. He hoped this mistake hadn’t been a fatal one for his protégé.

“Nacho told me Daria went rogue. When Salazar put her in chains, she shanked the coyote assigned to watch her and escaped before the police surrounded the armory. Salazar ordered Nacho to take Sofia Pacheco here and went after Daria himself. He doesn’t know what happened to them after that.”

“I had plans for that girl.” The lines in Hector’s face deepened with his scowl. “Elaborate plans.”

He’d seen the aftermath of El Lobo’s “plans” with young girls. Sofia had no idea how fortunate she was. Suppressing a shudder, Adolfo hurried to do damage control.

“Nacho assured me she has no knowledge of, or access to, any of our accounts or other sensitive information. He only used her for hacking. When the police interview her, they’ll only learn how to strengthen their firewalls. Nothing about our operation.”

Hector didn’t appear mollified. “You might believe his story about the girl’s escape, but I do not. He must be disciplined as an example to the others.”

“Nacho’s in the dungeon.” Adolfo spoke quickly. “I’ve told him he will only have a daily ration of water and nothing else for an entire week.” He hoped the punishment would be enough to appease his
father.

“His loyalty must be reinforced.”

Dread rushed through Adolfo as he waited for his father’s verdict.

Hector pronounced his sentence with the casual indifference of a traffic court judge dealing with a jaywalker. “You will use the branding iron to sear our logo directly over Nacho’s tattoo. I will supervise.” His dark eyes glinted with malice. “And if you pass out this time, Adolfo, you will awaken to the heat of the iron on your own chest.”

“Yes, sir.” His face flamed with humiliation. He’d ordered many brandings but couldn’t carry out the torture himself. Between the shrieks of agony, the scent of burning flesh, and the sight of charred skin, his overwrought brain shut down. More than once, he woke up to the jeers of his siblings and the disapproving glances of his men. Coming out of his reverie, he realized his father had changed the subject and struggled to catch up.

“… a full report from my lead counsel this morning,” Hector was saying. “Salazar told him Veranda Cruz is lying. She is the one who pushed Daria into the blast pit just before it detonated. He tried to save Daria when Cruz struck him in the back of his head with her gun. She will pay for that.”

He kept his reservations about Salazar’s account to himself. “Did the Phoenix legal team provide an update?”

“Salazar has an extradition hearing tomorrow. I don’t understand the details, but the lead attorney says the process will take at least six weeks if everything goes smoothly.”

He felt his brows climb up his forehead. “Salazar could be in Mexico in six weeks?”

Hector pointed at the floor. “And he will be standing right here less than twenty-four hours after that.”

Adolfo clenched his fists as if they could hold onto his fading dreams. He had won. No one else was left. He would be his father’s true heir. Except that Hector Villalobos was planning to break his bastard child out of prison to give him what was rightfully Adolfo’s. He stared straight ahead in numb disbelief as his father continued.

“The Rook’s first assignment is to provide an opportunity for Salazar to escape once they’re in Mexico City.”

Aware he should say something, he cleared his parched throat. “How will you get word to Salazar?”

Hector looked at him like he was an idiot. “The attorneys have already told Salazar about the plan. He’ll be ready when the time comes.”

A loud tone interrupted the awkward silence that followed his father’s words. Adolfo recognized the incoming call signal from the secure satellite phone. Hector leaned forward to press the intercom on the table.

A male voice penetrated the muffled static in the background. “Señor Villalobos?”

“I am with Adolfo. It’s time you two met.”

Adolfo tensed. This must be the Rook. He wondered why his father didn’t activate the view screen.

“I’m sure we’ll have a chance to shake hands at some point.” The Rook’s tone dismissed Adolfo, then he moved on to more important matters. “As we discussed earlier, I’ll stay in Phoenix for the extradition hearings. The politicos are happy to have my regular reports, especially when the two presidents are asking for constant updates.” He spoke like someone giving a report to a superior.

Hector’s response reinforced their respective roles. “Do you foresee any problems?”

“No, sir. Bustamante has the upper hand since POTUS wants concessions. He’ll pay on the back end though.”

Clearly, this man had access to sensitive information from the highest offices in both countries. Adolfo detected an unfamiliar accent in the Rook’s Spanish. It wasn’t the intonation of an American who had learned Spanish in school either. He sounded like a native speaker, but from where?

“I’ve finally found something Bustamante and I agree on,” Hector said. “He wants Salazar back in Mexico as badly as I do, but for different reasons.” He chuckled. “I will enjoy watching Bustamante squirm at his own press conference when his prize bull gets out of the pen.”

Apparently too excited to remain seated, Hector got to his feet and began pacing. He seemed to be thinking out loud. “After I have Salazar back, I will deal with Veranda Cruz.”

“What do you have in mind?” the Rook asked.

Adolfo thought it was a bold question for a new subordinate, but Hector didn’t take exception. In fact, he seemed eager to share.

Hector spun to look at the intercom as if it were the Rook sitting on the table. “In the past, I have sent others after her. This time, she will come to me. Let’s see how long she survives without an entire police department behind her.”

Adolfo couldn’t hide his shock. “You’re going to drag an American police officer here?”

“No,” Hector said. “Salazar is. Which is why I must get him freed before I deal with her.” He gave Adolfo an enigmatic smile. “You have a role to play as well.”

Adolfo’s hands, still concealed under the table, twisted together. None of his father’s schemes ever went well for him. He was certain this one would not break with tradition.

Eyes narrowed, Hector resumed pacing. “Detective Cruz has a debt to settle. She will stay in my dungeon. Receive my sentence. Face my justice.”

Adolfo wondered if the Rook was familiar with El Lobo’s overblown speeches or if he understood their significance. The more agitated Hector became, the more dramatic the verbiage. In a man who didn’t express strong emotions, this was a rare tell.

He gazed at the intercom, thinking about the man it concealed, and decided to prod the Rook. “Why are you helping us?”

“Your father and I have an understanding,” the Rook said without hesitation. “I don’t need your chavos.”

Adolfo tilted his head. “You don’t need my … boys?”

The speaker crackled with laughter. “My slang is obviously different from yours,” the Rook said. “I mean money. I don’t need your money.”

Adolfo exchanged a look with his father, who seemed amused by the confusion. He turned back to the table. “To me, chavos is a street word for boys. Your Spanish isn’t Mexican. Where is your accent from?”

Hector strode back to the table. “Stand by while I connect your video feed.” He pushed a button and the image of a man standing in front of a plain white wall filled the flat screen.

Adolfo’s first sight of the Rook caught him off guard.

The Rook smiled at his surprise. “Not what you expected?”

Hector stood next to Adolfo, admiring his newest acquisition. “I’ve never explained why I call him the Rook.”

“I thought it was because you love chess, and he’s an important piece.”

“True, but also because of his name.”

Adolfo struggled to make the connection. Spanish-speaking players call the rook el torre, the tower. He shook his head, unable to work it out.

The man on the screen laughed. “My mother’s maiden name is Torres. I learned Spanish from her side of the family. My looks are inherited from my father. His people are Irish. My great-grandfather immigrated through Ellis Island a hundred years ago. Back then, the Irish faced discrimination like Latinos do today. Nobody would hire a man named Flanagan, so he hid his accent and changed his surname. By dropping four letters, he converted it to a symbol of national pride.”

Hector clapped a hand on Adolfo’s shoulder. “Meet Special Agent Nicholas Flag of the Department of Homeland Security.”