Ana Rocha_Shadows of Justice

  No way. I hear every single one of Cap’s words, but I can’t believe them. An operation this huge? Is it even feasible?

  “Holy—” Bryan barely stops himself from saying the next word. “When’s it all going down?”

  “Three days from now. It’ll all go down at exactly one in the afternoon. With every business hit simultaneously, she’ll have nowhere to hide her goods. And we’re playing it tight to the chest. Right now, only the FBI, judges involved, and everyone my rank and higher know—outside of you two. The officers involved won’t know until the morning of. Even if she finds out, she won’t have any time to move the drugs.”

  “So how do you want us to prepare?” I finally ask.

  Cap is slow to reply. “You, Ana? Nothing. Bryan will be assisting with the raids. We need every man we can get. But you—you’ll be home until this all goes down. And you won’t be back here until next week.”

  “Si—”

  “That’s an order, officer.” After a long moment, Cap looks away. “Now get the hell out of my office.”

  Chapter 15

  The Raid

  Minutes after Cap throws me out of his office, I’m leaving the station. I can’t stay here anymore. My fists are clenched and my heart is racing. The whole place has become sickening. How can this all be happening? In one day, my entire world has been shattered. One of my sister’s killers is in this wretched building. The fact that he’ll be spending the next decades of his life in prison does not console me. After all, it won’t be for killing my sister that he’s locked away. He got off easy for that. And he will never see the pain that he caused my family.

  But now I’ve discovered the mastermind behind all my family’s suffering and the things I’ve seen over these last months… and I won’t have a hand in putting an end to it all. I won’t be there to bring down the woman responsible for my lost childhood.

  When I’m a few feet from the exit, Bryan’s hand lands onto my shoulder from seemingly nowhere. “Merry Christmas.”

  I whip around to arrive face-to-face with him. Seeing what’s in his hands, I take the unmarked, brown folder before looking back up at him. The pages in there feel warm, as if they were freshly printed. Is this what I think it is?

  “It pays when people owe you favors.” He keeps his voice low enough so nobody else can hear us. Bryan gives me a quick wink before turning. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  He leaves without giving me a chance to thank him. I immediately head through the parking lot before arriving at my car. I don’t even bother switching my vehicle on before I rip open the envelope and the copy of a file spills out.

  Ebony Thorne

  b. October 13, 1962

  Height: 5’5’’ Weight: 140 lbs.

  In all my months here, I have never seen her face. But now it’s right in front of me. The photo isn’t a mug shot. It’s recent—only five-years-old according to the date on the bottom—and was taken without her knowing. I have heard and uttered her name so many times, but I never thought about what she might look like.

  She has fiery, red hair. The photographer took the shot from afar, not wanting to be seen. She’s turned at an angle, so I can only see the right side of her face. But even from seeing just one of her emerald eyes, I notice something in them: authority. She’s standing outside her nightclub speaking to a couple of men dressed as bouncers and pointing at something. Studying the expressions of the two men, it’s clear that they know who’s in charge.

  Underneath her leather jacket and pants, she possesses a relatively strong physique for a woman. She’s only half an inch shorter than me, but definitely stockier. I read through the file. The photo was taken outside of her largest nightclub & restaurant: The Green Beetle Club. Apparently, she can be seen their often and is in a relationship with the place’s manager.

  Putting the file into my dashboard, I start up my car and pull out of the lot.

  ***

  The Green Beetle Club. Oddly named since it’s not even a club, even though there is one—also owned by Ebony—just down the road called Desire. But as for the Green Beetle Club, the first two floors are a five star restaurant while the third is a private meeting and dining room. I’m glad I changed into some of my more fancier clothes before coming here. Dressed in a knee-length flowery dress and a white bolero, I fit right in.

  Soft piano music reverberates through the restaurant. It’s played live by a well-dressed pianist on a raised stage. It’s too early for dinner but too late for lunch right now, so the place is nearly empty. However, a man dressed in a white shirt and red vest greets me at the door.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Hi.” I give a quick, polite smile.

  “For how many?”

  “Just myself.”

  He leads me to a table not too far from the pianist, but far enough so that the music won’t be right on top of me. The tables are all draped in white linen. Brightly lit chandeliers hang from the ceiling. As I arrive at my destination, the waiter pulls out the red leather seat for me. Last time I came to a place this fancy, mama and dad were still paying my bills.

  “George will be with you shortly, ma’am. Can I offer you something to drink? Some wine, perhaps?”

  “Just a Sprite would be nice.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” With a slight nod, he leaves.

  From a first glance, I estimate this place could probably seat at least 175 people between both floors. A beautiful spiral staircase draped in an elegant red carpet leads from the first to the second floor while another staircase leads to the third floor.

  An opening allows a view into the kitchen. The chefs are dressed in the kind of attire you’d expect at a nice restaurant, and the kitchen seems spotless. I look around at the other patrons. There are about twenty in all. They’re all dressed nicer than the average person off the street and seem to be here in groups of two or three. They remain engrossed in their own conversations and don’t pay me any heed.

  Out of seemingly nowhere, another handsome waiter—presumably George—places my drink in front of me. And along with it, he sets down a basket of assorted breads. God, that aroma is mouth-watering.

  “Is this your first time here, ma’am?”

  “Yes it is.”

  The expected pleasantries continue between us like they would at any restaurant. I don’t even pay much attention when I do order my appetizer—I think it may have been shrimp in lobster sauce. But that’s not what I’m here for.

  I’m here to see the enemy.

  It doesn’t take long. The file claimed that Ebony Thorne is seen here and at Desire more than anywhere else. She supposedly uses the meeting rooms on the top floors of each place for her high-level deals. For all I know, she could be up there right now. Of course, that’s never been proven. Hearing something from behind me, I turn around.

  The world stops.

  My eyes widen. My heart freezes. It… it’s her. I’m staring at her—at Ebony Thorne. I looking at the one I came searching for.

  She pushes through the front entrance. Her fiery red hair hangs freely, and she’s dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans while a loose blouse covers her fair skin. She storms in and the host at the door doesn’t dare say a word to her. In fact, it seems as if everybody ignores her, acting as if she’s not there. Even from here, I notice several wrinkles on her face. I’d imagine that half are from age and half are from the memories of what she’s done. But her eyes are fierce.

  Is this really her? Is this monster really just a woman? Behind her is a man no less than 6’5’’ and 250 pounds of pure muscle. He possesses a face similar to Vinny the Rat’s. Not in the sense that he looks like a twin, but in the sense that he’s a fighter too. He walks as if he owns the place. But it’s obvious that he’s just her loyal dog who follows her around, barking at anybody that gets too close.

  The surreal feeling vanishes and is replaced by something else. Rage suddenly courses through my veins—the same rage that flooded me at th
e station. My vision tunnels onto her, blocking out everything else. My heart quivers and I feel my clenched fist start to quake.

  If I hadn’t left my gun in my car, I would have pulled it out and shot her.

  Instead, I watch her make her way through the restaurant and towards the kitchen, her loyal henchman at her side. Why do I get the feeling she’s not here just for fun? Her expression says that somebody here has a price to pay.

  The kitchen doors swing open and a man dressed as the manager steps out with a smile on his face.

  “Hey—”

  Clap!

  Before the manager finishes the word, he’s picking himself up off the floor. Spitting out a bit of blood, one of his teeth seems to chip off. The man lets out a loud groan as he tries to get himself back together. He crawls onto all fours, but Ebony again kicks her boyfriend, knocking him back down.

  A few of the guests turn and look at the scene, but many of them ignore the commotion. It’s as if this whole thing is invisible to them. Holy crap, is this really happening?

  “You ever pull a stunt like that, and I’ll have Pedro rip your damn head off.” She looks at Pedro and gives him a quick nod. The intimidating bodyguard steps up with a vile smile. Without seemingly much effort, he cocks his leg back and powerfully kicks the manager in the head, keeping him down.

  The manager stays down this time. He lets out another long groan of pain. My first instinct is to get up and stop this. But I don’t. Nobody else is acting strangely. Either they’re affiliated with all this or they’re regulars. Either way, if I pick a fight, I’ll be fighting on her turf and her terms. Big mistake.

  And so I sit and watch as Ebony turns and leaves her half-unconscious boyfriend on the floor. She pushes through the doors and walks out as if nothing happened. Pedro follows her out like a dog.

  So this is the enemy.

  ***

  The next days pass by slowly. It’s almost like I’m trapped in some vortex where time is standing still. I spend the days aimlessly wandering around my apartment. I don’t hear from Bryan, Cap, or anyone at the police station. Not really a surprise there.

  I try to keep my mind off everything. But all I can think about is the bust. This kind of setup is what every cop lives for. It’s going to be the operation of the decade and I won’t be a part of it. I try going for a run every morning, but can’t get into it. I try switching on the television, but ever since taking on this job, TV shows don’t exactly hold my attention for very long and the news only upsets me. To top it all off, I can barely sleep.

  Crap, I hate this.

  I’m literally isolated. My phone doesn’t ring even once. Nobody comes to visit: no neighbors, no friends—actually, I probably don’t have any real friends outside of Bryan—and, not surprisingly, no family. I’ve literally given up everything for this forsaken duty. I threw my chips in with this lot. But now the duty has abandoned me and I’m left with nothing. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I deserve to experience the punishment of loneliness.

  Every time I’m in my living room, all I can think about are the last words I said to my mom. I’m hardly eating one meal a day, and I’m not even sleeping three hours a night. I can’t do anything—anything but live with a heavy heart and the feeling that I’m powerlessly letting sand slip from between my fingers.

  My days are spent in the larger bedroom—the one that is completely bare, save for the web of facts that covers one wall. I spend hours of my days staring at the web. Angela’s face is at the center of it all. I always knew that somebody had ordered a hit on that soup kitchen the night she was murdered. I had searched for a name for years but always came up empty. The largest thing written on the wall is a simple question:

  WHO ORDERED IT?

  Now I know. But that knowledge does not serve me any good.

  As I sit there, staring at the wall, I relive the night she was killed countless times. Sometimes, my face is blank. Other times, I feel myself shaking with an uncontrollable rage. But many times, streams of tears flood my cheeks and my sobbing consumes the entire apartment.

  I don’t want to go on. I can’t breathe. Without Angela, I feel like I’m suffocating. I’ve never felt her loss as badly as right now. Maybe I’ve just been suppressing it all along. But now that I know the name of the shadowy figure I’ve searched for—now that I know the name and have seen the face of the villain behind everything—my entire world is crashing down on me.

  By the end of this week, Ebony Thorne will either be behind bars or she will have made a fool of the entire FBI and Houston Police Department. I don’t know how she can get away with it, even if she does somehow hear word of the operation. And if they don’t bust her on this, it will be nearly impossible to get any local judge to sign off on any search warrants for Ebony’s businesses any time in the near future. Once again, she would get away with her crimes.

  The woman responsible for Angela’s death is on the ropes to being brought to justice. And even with my badge, even with my gun, even with my title and accomplishments, I can’t do a damn thing.

  This must be what helplessness feels like.

  ***

  Thursday night finally arrives. The evening news starts off with a breaking news report. It’s the one I’ve been waiting for. The news anchor sits behind a desk as a large banner on the bottom of the screen reads: ‘BREAKING NEWS: BUST GOES BAD’

  My face suddenly turns white. The world stops. No… please no.

  “Today, an unprecedented operation manned by Houston PD and led by the FBI searched over 75 businesses. The linking chain between these businesses is that they are all owned directly or indirectly by a native Houstonian, Ebony Thorne. The police say they were under the belief that the businesses were a front for drug importation. However, nothing was found.”

  Without thinking, my fist slams against the armrest, sending a loud thud throughout the apartment that nearly shakes the walls. No! No! No!

  “Here’s what Ms. Thorne had to say about the situation.”

  The scene switches from the news room to outside one of Ebony’s restaurants. I find myself staring into Ebony’s eyes through the screen. A crowd of people surrounds her—many of them reporters—but she focuses on the camera as she speaks. Unlike in the restaurant, her voice is civilized and so are her eyes. She knows how to mask them as she wears a charming smile.

  “Well, I’m not sure what brought the FBI and police down on us, but I’m sure glad they didn’t find anything. And, who knows? Maybe the publicity will help out!”

  The crowd around her lightly laughs.

  I slowly rise to my feet, shaking in rage. The television goes back to the newsroom. But I don’t hear a word. She got away. Again. The FBI went after her and they couldn’t touch her. They couldn’t do anything more than the police. Once again, she gets away scot-free. But this time, she made a laughing stock of everyone involved. Ebony Thorne… she can’t be caught. She’s untouchable. The snake is always one step ahead. And if anybody does get a hand on her, she just turns around and bites them.

  Suddenly, my arms run in a wild fury and my fist collides with the wall. The thud echoes through the room. Then again. And again. Each strike is harder and faster than the last. “God! God! God!”

  With each word, my hands slam into the wall as if the wall was Ebony Thorne herself. I let out all my anger. I don’t care about the pain. I can’t even feel it right now. My face is red and my eyes let out tears of anger and sorrow. Once again, a person responsible for Angela’s death has gotten away. “God! God! God!”

  And I was powerless to stop it.

  ***

  My cheeks are wet with tears when the night is at its darkest. Ebony Thorne. Queen Bee. Those two names fill the confines of my mind down to each and every crevice. And as I hear the snake’s names over and over and over again, all I can see is the face of my dead sister.

  When she was stripped from me, I was a child and could not do a thing. But now, when her killer was so close to being brought to justic
e, she slipped through the law’s fingers just like the shooters did. And once again—even as an adult—I couldn’t do anything to stop her. Again, she was protected by the shadows.

  My head bows lower with every passing moment. It’s all over now. I’ve failed… I’ve failed… I’ve failed. I’m sorry, Angela. I’m sorry…

  No!

  I suddenly sit upright. The tears stop. And the sorrow disappears from my eyes. It’s replaced by something else. One of my hands clenches into a tight fist as my body shakes with a rage that has never befallen me before. Angela’s face is replaced with the eyes of the woman responsible for everything: Ebony Throne.

  The name Ebony means darkness. She thinks she rules the darkness and that it protects her. But she hasn’t seen anything yet. She has not gotten a load of me. She has not gotten a load of Ana Rocha. I’m not afraid. I’m not sad. And I’m anything but helpless.

  I’m angry.

  ***

  Friday morning, I disobey Cap’s orders and charge back into the station. There’s no way I will wait until next week. I’ll go mad if I do. I nearly went mad last night—madder than I’ve already become.

  The place is in a frenzy, no doubt from yesterday’s debacle. What is normally a calm place is loud and rancorous. Everybody seems up to their necks in work, scurrying from one office to another. Am I at the right place?

  A few steps into the building, Bryan spots me. And like I expect, he tries to get me to leave. “Ana!”