Adolfo froze.

  Hector placed the black pistol on a lower shelf. “I had planned to discuss bringing Bartolo here to Mexico permanently. Unfortunately, I just received a disturbing phone call from Camacho, which forces me to change my strategy.”

  With infinite care, he lifted his personalized gold-plated Desert Eagle from its display stand on the next shelf up.

  Daria asked, “What did Camacho tell you just now?”

  Hector gripped the slide and racked it back, chambering a round. “That Bartolo abducted Detective Cruz’s young half sister, and that he is trying to ransom her for the evidence against him. To make matters worse, he is holding her in one of our warehouses.”

  Adolfo suppressed a grin. His brother had just sealed his fate with this desperate scheme.

  He arranged his face to show a mixture of bafflement and concern. “That will expose us all,” he said. “They’ll get search warrants for every property holding we own.”

  El Lobo turned his dark, pitiless eyes on Adolfo. “I discussed the legal implications with my attorneys. Our front companies should provide us some cover.”

  Adolfo quailed under his father’s gaze. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I can now see that Bartolo has become a liability,” Hector went on.

  His words hung in the air. The three siblings exchanged nervous glances before looking back at their father.

  “I have other business to discuss with all of you before we decide what to do about Bartolo,” Hector said. “While my men set up the shooting range for our target practice, I will give you the history of Detective Veranda Cruz.” He glanced at Adolfo. “I have told you part of this information, but I did not know all of the facts when we last spoke.”

  Hector’s expression became grave. “When I joined the Federal Judicial Police more than thirty years ago, I was assigned to headquarters in Mexico City on a team with another new agent, Ernesto Hidalgo. I have never spoken to you about him, but today, you will hear his story.”

  His voice took on a disdainful tone. “Hidalgo was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His family paid for an elite law school, but he claimed to have high ideals, so he went into criminal justice instead of his family’s law firm.”

  Adolfo straightened as his father continued. Bartolo had attended an elite law school as well. In fact, all the Villalobos children had the finest education money could buy. He wondered if his father knew he was describing his own children’s upbringing when he scoffed at Hidalgo.

  “Soon, Hidalgo was the golden boy,” Hector continued. “We were on the same team and worked cases together, but he moved effortlessly up the ladder while I scratched and clawed for every advancement.” His father’s face twisted into a sneer. “Then came the final straw. We were both up for the same promotion. Hidalgo used his connections to get the position that I had earned.”

  Hector turned the gleaming weapon over in his hand. “After that, he immediately ran out and asked the woman I loved to marry him. He stole her from me.”

  Adolfo had never heard his father speak of romantic love. He struggled to imagine El Lobo ever having such an emotion. Whoever this woman was, she had left an indelible mark.

  A muscle in Hector’s jaw worked. “From that moment, I was finished being an underpaid public servant with no future. I saw how crooked the upper echelon was.” He slid the pistol into his empty holster. “I met with a local crime boss and got on the payroll that very day. I kept my badge but sold information. Earned more in one month than I had the previous five years.”

  His father rarely discussed his time in law enforcement and had never mentioned Ernesto Hidalgo. Hector was not one to prattle for no reason. Adolfo had the sense their current situation had direct ties to something that had occurred decades earlier.

  “Next, I arranged to meet a young woman whose father was the head of a powerful crime family,” Hector went on. “I courted and married your mother within a few months.” He glanced at Adolfo. “You were born the following year.”

  Hector gazed up at the ceiling as if dredging pictures from a distant memory. “I worked my way into a position to consolidate both organizations under my rule. I still held onto my badge, but Hidalgo grew suspicious and set a trap. I learned he was about to arrest me.”

  “What did you do?” Adolfo asked.

  “Hidalgo was working late. Alone. I shot him at his desk and burned the office building to the ground.” Hector waved a hand as if the killing was of no consequence.

  Adolfo tried to place this story in their current dilemma, but couldn’t figure out why his father was recounting this dark tale from the past.

  “After I eliminated Hidalgo, I paid a visit to his wife at their home,” Hector said with a feral smile. “I had . . . unfinished business with her.”

  Adolfo noticed that Daria had crossed her arms tightly across her body as their father spoke the last words.

  Hector either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he’d upset his daughter. “After our . . . encounter, his wife fled to the United States with her younger brothers and sisters. They filed for asylum because of Hidalgo’s murder. I decided not to pursue them further. I had other business opportunities to develop at the time.”

  Hector rested a hand on the butt of his holstered pistol. “I did not realize it until recently, but Hidalgo’s wife gave birth in Phoenix a few months after her arrival in the States.”

  Daria gasped. “Veranda Cruz.”

  Hector smiled. “You always were quick to grasp things, mija.”

  Adolfo recalled his earlier meeting with his father. This must be the secret Hector had wanted to investigate further.

  “So Veranda Cruz is your daughter?” he said, motioning toward the others. “Our half sister?”

  Hector flicked a glance at him. “That is not what I said.” He ran a finger along his goatee. “Do you remember that I asked you to bring me a package from our mole when you flew here to meet with me four days ago?”

  “Yes.” Adolfo had been uncomfortable about transporting the parcel. His father had assured him it didn’t contain contraband but ordered him not to open it. It had been the first thing his father asked for when Adolfo arrived.

  “That package contained DNA taken from Detective Cruz without her knowledge,” Hector said. “I provided a sample of my own and had them both analyzed at our laboratory here.”

  Daria looked stricken. “What did the test reveal? Are you her father or not?”

  Hector’s smile was enigmatic. “I prefer to keep that information private for now.”

  “Do you think Veranda knows her father may not be Ernesto Hidalgo?” Carlos asked, speaking for the first time since their meeting in the armory began.

  Hector nodded. “Lorena would have told Veranda she was born of her poor martyred Ernesto.”

  Carlos looked perplexed. “I still don’t understand how this makes Veranda dangerous.”

  Hector’s lip curled. “Because from the time Veranda was old enough to understand, Lorena would have filled her head with stories of how I killed her father and forced the family to leave Mexico.”

  Carlos nodded in understanding. “Her mother taught her to hate you.”

  Hector clasped his hands behind his back. “There’s more.” He paced across the armory as he spoke. “After I told Bartolo about the paternity question, he hired a private investigator to research her family’s background.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I have a copy of the report.”

  “Hold on,” Adolfo said. “You told Bartolo you might be Veranda’s father? Why did you confide in Bartolo rather than me?” Adolfo remembered he was trying to recruit his younger siblings and included them in a sweeping gesture. “Why couldn’t all of us have been trusted with the same knowledge?”

  Adolfo sensed he had gone too far when his father strode over to stand directly in front of him. Unable to withstand the intensity of his father’s lupine gaze, Adolfo looked down in submission.

  Hector leaned in to whisper in his son’s ear. “Never question me again.”

  It took all of Adolfo’s self-control not to cringe. “Yes, sir.”

  Apparently satisfied, Hector continued. “Bartolo’s investigator found out that Lorena married again and had two more children. In fact, that is how Bartolo knew about Veranda’s half sister.” He resumed his steady pacing. “The other child was a boy, Roberto, who attended South Phoenix High School when he died of an overdose three years ago. Veranda’s half brother bought the drugs that killed him from one of our dealers. It turns out the dealer we sent to replace him was none other than Flaco.”

  He paused for emphasis. “Veranda’s snitch. The one who began this entire sequence of events.”

  Carlos knitted his brows. “Let me be sure I’m clear on this. Veranda believes that our family murdered her father, forced her mother out of Mexico, caused the death of her kid brother, and has now kidnapped her little sister?”

  Hector stopped pacing. “Now you see why she is dangerous to us. I am quite certain she recruited Flaco specifically to target our family after her brother died.” He crossed his arms. “I’ve told you time and again that genetics rule our destiny. In this case, it does not matter who her father is. If she is Hidalgo’s daughter, she’ll continue on a self-righteous suicide mission in a foolish quest for justice. If she’s mine, she will ruthlessly pursue all of us until she exacts her revenge. Either way, she will never stop.” He lowered his voice. “Until she is dead.”

  Hector looked at Adolfo. “That is what I meant when I told you she could be more dangerous to us than even she knew.”

  They followed Hector into the cavernous indoor range and gathered in a circle at the twenty-five-meter mark. A range assistant handed each of them eye and ear protection.

  Hector slid the clear plastic shooting glasses onto his nose. “You may wonder why I wanted us to meet at the range today. You will understand when we have finished shooting.”

  Adolfo turned down range to survey the targets. A line of five metal poles stood erect from the poured cement floor. A man with a black cloth sack over his head was lashed to each pole. Adolfo dreaded his father’s idea of shooting practice, which often involved live targets.

  El Lobo moved to the fifteen-meter line and swung an arm out to encompass the tableau in front of them. “All of these men are my employees. I’ve just had them brought up from the dungeon.”

  He looked at each of his children to drive the point home before turning to face down range. “The first target is Digoberto Ruiz, one of my bill collectors. He took part of the payments for himself. He is a thief.”

  Muffled sounds of protest from under the sack reached Adolfo as his father took aim with his pistol. Adolfo jammed the ear covers on just before Hector pulled the trigger.

  Even with sound-dampening hearing protection, the blast from the .50-caliber gun thundered through the vast indoor shooting range. Ruiz crumpled against the ropes that bound him to the metal pole. What was left of his head dangled against his chest in the tattered remains of the blood-soaked bag. Bits of scalp and brain had showered the man tied to the next pole.

  Hector strolled to the second firing position. “This is Renaldo Perez. His shipment of heroin was intercepted at the border by law enforcement.”

  A stream of urine ran down Perez’s pants to puddle on the floor at his quivering feet. Hector took aim and fired. This time, the prisoner’s chest exploded in a spray of blood and chunks of flesh.

  Adolfo swallowed the bile that had surged into his throat. He stole a glance at his siblings, who seemed to relish the spectacle.

  Hector lowered his pistol as he stood next to the third spot. “The next target is Manuel Garcia. He hired a worker to plant crops in one of our grow operations. The worker turned out to be an informant for the police.” He faced his children. “The last three are for you. Who would like to go first?”

  Daria raised a hand to get her father’s attention. She spoke in a loud voice so everyone could hear her with their ear protection on. “I will.”

  El Lobo beamed at her and stepped aside. Adolfo couldn’t miss the gleam in her eye as Daria assumed a shooting stance at the line. She raised the enormous weapon, leveled it at her target, and fired. Even though her arms were locked, she struggled to maintain her footing as the recoil from the blast forced her to take a step backward.

  The prisoner’s legs gave out. He dangled from the pole, writhing. Adolfo narrowed his eyes to see that Manuel Garcia was still alive. He had been gut shot.

  “You need more practice, mija,” Hector said to Daria.

  She looked indignant. “I aimed for his waist.” Her eyes were bright with bloodlust. “The bastard deserved to suffer. He will be dead soon enough.”

  Part of the prisoner’s intestines dangled from his body. Adolfo averted his gaze to avoid puking.

  His father pointed down range at the next prisoner. “This is Ignacio Lopez. He took it upon himself to attack a rival organization without my authorization.” Hector turned to Carlos, raising his eyebrows in unspoken invitation.

  Carlos swaggered over to the firing line. He assumed a stance reminiscent of an Old West gunslinger. Adolfo looked on in horror as Carlos whipped the pistol from its holster in a quick draw and fired in less than a second. The echo of the missed shot reverberated through the range. The terrified prisoner thrashed against his bindings.

  “Quit playing, Carlos,” Hector said, his face set in grim lines. “This is not a game.”

  Apparently chastened, Carlos took aim and effected a clean headshot on his next attempt.

  There was one more prisoner left. Adolfo’s hands grew damp. He had tried to conceal his distaste for violence over the years, but was sure he had fooled no one. He was an intellectual. In a war, he viewed himself more as a general than a foot soldier. Bartolo was the one who enjoyed bloodshed. Knowing Hector always acted with a specific purpose in mind, Adolfo felt certain his father had deliberately saved his firstborn’s target practice for last.

  Hector moved to stand beside him, but his eyes were fixed on the whimpering figure strapped to the last pole. “That one is Eduardo Ochoa. He was careless when he executed a high-ranking government official in Mexico City. A witness identified him. He tried to cover his mistake by killing the witness. Instead, he compounded his error and left evidence at the scene. When Ochoa was arrested, a police officer on my payroll arranged for him to escape and turned him over to me.”

  Trembling, Adolfo drew his pistol and pointed it at the prisoner.

  Hector laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “No, mijo.”

  Adolfo turned to his father. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you want me to shoot him?”

  Hector pulled off his ear protection and slowly shook his head.

  Adolfo slid the gun back into its holster and prepared for another one of his father’s lessons. He looked at the figure struggling against the ropes, then back at his father’s pitiless dark eyes. Dread filled him as realization took hold. He pulled off his ear covers and tossed them to the ground.

  Never taking his eyes from his father, Adolfo fumbled to unsnap the sheath that held the ornate dagger against his left hip. He inched the knife out and held up the glistening blade.

  El Lobo nodded his approval. “I am aware that you wish to take your rightful place in the family,” he said. “Leading an organization is not just about keeping the books. At times, you must get your hands bloody.”

  This was it. His father had issued a challenge. If Adolfo wanted to assume Bartolo’s role as heir apparent, he had to prove he, too, could spill the blood of his own men. He knew that none of his siblings would have hesitated. His father knew it too.

  Adolfo grasped the handle firmly and strode toward the row of targets, all of them slumped against their bindings except Eduardo Ochoa. When he finally stood in front of the condemned man, Adolfo knew what his father would expect. He reached behind Ochoa and lifted the black bag off his head.

  Ochoa blinked in the glare of the fluorescent range lights. Eyes wide with fear, his nostrils flared as air whistled into his nose above the duct tape that covered his mouth.

  Adolfo inhaled the acidic stench of perspiration that coursed through the dark stubble on Ochoa’s face. He raised his dagger to the man’s throat. He replayed Bartolo’s killing of Flaco in his mind’s eye and tried to recall how his brother had done it. Unfortunately, Ochoa was in a different position. Adolfo had never killed with a knife and had no idea how to go about it.

  He muttered a halfhearted apology, pulled his arm back, and plunged the dagger into Ochoa’s throat with all his strength. Ochoa thrashed wildly, jerking and gurgling as blood spewed from the gaping wound.

  Crimson droplets spattered Adolfo’s face. Spurts of red saturated his crisp white shirt. He yanked the blade back and brought it down again in a fierce arc, stabbing Ochoa in the center of his neck, ramming the knife in until he heard it hit the metal pole. Satisfied that he had delivered a fatal blow, he forced himself to stand in place and watch Ochoa die.

  Still clutching the bloody knife, Adolfo pivoted and marched back to his family. He thought he glimpsed respect in their eyes for the first time.

  Hector signaled his children to gather around. “I selected those five particular men to make a point. Each of their crimes was worthy of the death penalty in my organization. Bartolo has committed not just one, but all the same crimes they did.”

  Everyone listened as Hector recited Bartolo’s offenses.

  “He embezzled money from his part of the business. Something I learned only recently.” Hector gave Adolfo a brief nod. “He allowed a spy to infiltrate his crew. A spy sent by Detective Cruz, who took millions in product from him.” A scowl crossed his face. “So he broke into her house without my authorization. Finally, he burned her family’s restaurant after I ordered him to stand down. In doing so, he compromised himself and tried to correct the problem with a stupid kidnapping scheme.”

  Adolfo thought he should say something that appeared to defend his brother. He didn’t want to look too mercenary. “Papá, perhaps Bartolo just needs to go into drug treatment. He’s not using his best judgment right now.”