There were five other people seated around the opulent dining table. Anywhere else in Mexico, these men would be feared. But here, in the sanctuary of the Black Tosca’s private residence, they were the ones bowing to a higher power. They worshipped her the way abused animals served their vicious owners, doing anything for even an illusion of approval. Her displeasure, she could tell, made them all nervous.
“Why am I just hearing about this now?”
Only one man was courageous enough to look at her and speak his mind. Hector Mieles. Her cousin.
“It was a mistake to think Tony Garcia would simply roll over and go quietly,” Hector offered. He was her right-hand man. “As you know, over the years he and his father have built a solid distribution network. It would be wise for us to keep as much of it intact as we can. As for the reason why you’re learning about it tonight, I myself just got word from our man in Florida.”
The Black Tosca, dressed in an elegant nightgown, rose from the chair she had occupied at the end of the table. She looked at Hector. Even seated, he looked tall. He was her opposite. She was petite, barely five feet, and he was only four inches shy of seven feet. Over the years, most probably because of her physical appearance, many men had made the mistake of underestimating her. In several cases, it had cost them their lives. What she lacked in physical stature, she made up for tenfold in wit, determination, and a healthy dose of brutality. And what she couldn’t do by herself, Hector did for her. Her cartel had its own intelligence division, and most of the intelligence assets in her network were sources she had developed personally. Some were former lovers she had blackmailed; others she had bought outright.
“Be that as it may, Vicente needs to be stopped. He knows too much about our operations. He’s a threat to all of us.” The Black Tosca looked around the table. “Don’t think for a minute that you’ll be safe if the Americans come after me. Because you’ll be next.”
They were all aware of the far-reaching hands of the American special forces and the DEA. The new American president didn’t care much about his relationship with Mexico. He didn’t mind rattling the cage, which made him a very dangerous man.
“Do you hear what I’m saying, Hector?”
“I’ve already seen to it. Don’t worry, Valentina, I won’t let him testify against you.” Her cousin’s voice was surprisingly shrill for such an imposing man. “Right after we’re done here, I’m flying to Miami to oversee the operation. There will be no mistakes.”
The Black Tosca nodded. When it came to human resources, Hector was her greatest asset. The rank and file respected him, and her enemies feared him. It was his ruthlessness and his efficiency at eliminating her enemies that had propelled him to her side, not their family bond.
“I want the whole Garcia family gone and their operations shut down, at least until we’ve replaced them with people loyal to us.”
“That might be difficult,” Hector said. “Tony Garcia is well protected.”
“Maybe, but his daughter isn’t. Do whatever it takes, Hector. I don’t care. Just get the job done.”
CHAPTER TEN
Pompano Beach, Florida
Cole Egan’s lungs were burning as he sprinted the last quarter mile to his house. Egan embraced the pain. Thanks to Ranger school and countless missions in shitholes all over the world, it was a feeling he recognized well.
He was drenched in sweat by the time he reached the front door. In the kitchen he grabbed a bottle of water from the pantry and an apple from the fridge. He started the coffee machine and made his way to the master bedroom. Katherine was still sound asleep. He was fascinated by the way the early morning sun shined off her white, soft-as-silk skin. He stood for several minutes, watching her sleep before he silently walked to the en suite to shave and shower.
Katherine Egan knew her husband was staring at her. She couldn’t even hear him breathe, but she felt his presence. It had always amazed her—and maybe scared her a bit too—how he could remain perfectly still for so long. A couple years ago, while catching a movie at the theater, she’d noticed that he hadn’t moved once during the entire film. When she’d confronted him about it, he’d told her he had fallen asleep, which she’d known wasn’t true.
They had met five years ago in Mexico City during a dental expo. Bonding over too many drinks in the lobby bar of the hotel hosting the conference, they had quickly gone from business contacts to lovers. She didn’t remember if it was the wine or his rugged good looks and amazing physique, but bringing a complete stranger to her hotel room had been the craziest thing she had ever done. On the second night, he had invited her to his lush bachelor pad in Mexico City. Sharing a bottle of Dom Pérignon on the large balcony with the mind-blowing views had been so romantic that she still got goosebumps thinking about it. On that night, it hadn’t been the wine that had gotten to her—it had been his thick mop of golden hair and his eyes, so deep and blue but also full of secrets. They had made love in his sumptuous bedroom, tenderly at first and then with full abandon. Exhausted but utterly fulfilled, they had fallen asleep tangled in each other’s arms.
Over the course of the conference, she’d learned that Cole had been in the army and had served three tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was now a distributor of high-tech dental equipment and owned, in addition to his bachelor pad in Mexico City, a beautiful and very expensive house in Pompano Beach right on Lake Santa Barbara. She had moved in with him a week after the conference and never looked back, though a part of her wondered where the money to buy the house had come from. Dental reps earned a good living, but certainly not enough to afford a house like that.
One night, lying in bed next to him, she questioned him about it.
“You never asked me to contribute even a penny to the mortgage, baby—why’s that?”
“You’re my wife. What’s mine is yours.”
She had hoped he’d reveal a bit more, but he had remained silent. Cole didn’t share much about his past, at least not voluntarily. She didn’t mind. Everyone had secrets, right? And who knew, maybe his parents had left him a bit of money before they passed?
But even to her, it didn’t ring true. An aura of mystery hovered over Cole, but one she actually found attractive. He was a kind man with a sharp edge. She had always been attracted to bad boys anyway. And seriously, how bad could he really be?
Egan dried himself and combed his hair back. The next few days would be busy. He had clients to meet in Mexico tomorrow night and wasn’t sure when he’d be able to swing back to Florida to spend a couple days with Katherine before leaving again. Truth was, in his line of work, he never was quite sure if he’d actually be back. He had made his fair share of enemies over the years, and the very real possibility of never seeing his wife again made him feel queasy.
He pushed the negative thoughts aside and stepped out of the en suite, wearing only a white towel around his waist. His wife was standing next to their bed, waiting for him, naked. She held her belly in that proud and protective gesture only pregnant women could do. Her breasts were larger now, rounder and fuller. Her sheer beauty mesmerized him.
Even though the studies Egan had read about pregnancy implied that most women had reduced sexual desire and activity during the early weeks of a pregnancy, this didn’t hold true for Katherine. On the contrary, it was as if her pregnancy hormones had supercharged her libido.
She took tentative steps toward him and placed her hands on his bare chest, her fingers running along the raised scar tissue crisscrossing his abdomen. His pulse spiked.
“How long will you be gone?”
He honestly didn’t know. He never did. “A few days.”
“Can I come with you?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Not this time, baby, I’m sorry.” He cupped her head in his hands. “Mexico City isn’t the nicest place to travel to when you’re pregnant. Because of the pollution, you know? And aren’t your days filled with patients who need their teeth removed?”
She sighed
but tugged on his towel nonetheless. It fell at his feet.
“I’m gonna miss this.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Federal Detention Center
Miami, Florida
While he waited for the US marshals to get Vicente Garcia, Hunt adjusted the waist straps of his soft body armor, remembering the morning before the start of Vicente Garcia’s trial when Leila had asked him how a soft piece of clothing could stop bullets. Hunt had found the question fascinating, and even though he was running late for court, he’d decided to answer her query, not knowing that the very next day, Jasmine—with his precious Leila in tow—would walk away from him after he told her what had happened in the courtroom. Kneeling next to Leila, he had taken her hand and placed it against the fabric of his body armor.
“Think of it as a soccer net,” he’d told her. “What happens to the net when you kick the ball into it?”
“It moves!”
“You’re correct, sweetie; it does. When the ball hits the net, it pushes back against the tethers at that specific point, dispersing the energy all around it, so no matter where the soccer ball hits the net, the whole net absorbs the impact.”
His daughter thought about what he had said for a second, then said, “But bullets are much faster than a soccer ball, Dad.”
“That’s very true. Bullets fly superfast, but you know what?”
“What?”
“My body armor is also much stronger than a soccer net.”
Hunt had guided his daughter’s hand over his soft body armor and continued, “This material is five times stronger than a piece of metal.”
“No way!” his daughter had cried out. “It’s so soft.”
Hunt was brought back to reality by a crackling in his earpiece: “They’re on their way. Be ready.”
Hunt drank half of the water in his water bottle. He wasn’t exactly nervous, but it would have been a lie not to admit he was anxious about seeing Garcia again. Hunt was seated next to Chief Inspector Zorita in the third row of the second Suburban; two members of the US Marshals Special Operations Group occupied the front passenger and driver seats. John Robbins, the highest-ranking deputy US marshal in the motorcade, was in the second row so he could be next to Garcia.
Earlier that morning, Robbins had shown Hunt the route they’d take to the safe house. With traffic, he didn’t expect the travel time to take more than an hour.
Eager to draw as little attention to the motorcade as he could, Robbins had ordered the three-vehicle convoy to park inside the underground garage of the federal detention building.
“Here they come,” the driver said.
Hunt couldn’t take his eyes off Garcia as he approached the Suburban. Garcia was six feet tall but had gained a few pounds since Hunt had last seen him. His hair was still black, but his stubble bore flecks of white. Even in handcuffs and sporting an orange jumpsuit, Vicente Garcia was a man to be reckoned with. His green eyes didn’t miss much, and his natural charm easily masked the cruelty he was capable of inflicting on his adversaries. To his right, Hunt felt Zorita stiffen.
Two US marshals wearing green combat fatigues and armed with automatic weapons flanked Garcia. One of them opened the door and helped him climb aboard.
Garcia spotted Hunt right away and smiled at him before taking his seat next to Robbins.
“What a pleasant surprise, Terrance. Or do you go by Pierce now?”
“Nice to see you too, Vicente.”
“You know you broke my daughter’s heart, don’t you?”
Hunt bit his lip.
“She really cared about you,” Garcia said while Robbins fastened his seat belt. Garcia sounded sincere, but Hunt knew better than to fall for it.
“You smell good, Vicente. Someone splash some cologne on your neck? Is it for me, or do you have a special someone in prison?”
Garcia twisted in his seat but didn’t reply directly.
“And who are you again?” Garcia asked, looking straight at Zorita. “I’ve seen you before, yes?”
“No, I’d remember if we’d met before.”
Garcia sat with his back straight, his eyes fixed on the front of the vehicle. “I wouldn’t trust this one if I were you, Pierce.”
Garcia was a narcissist and a master at pitting people against each other. Nonetheless, Hunt glanced at Zorita, who simply shook his head and rolled his eyes, not even bothering to reply to Garcia.
“Enough, Vicente,” Robbins said, poking Garcia with his elbow.
The motorcade started rolling, and Hunt had the uneasy feeling he had just boarded his own funeral hearse.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Miami, Florida
Hector Mieles’s phone chirped in his pocket. He looked at the screen. His lookout in the vicinity of FDC Miami had just confirmed that the convoy was en route. He had also attached a picture of the three-vehicle motorcade. Hector and fifteen other members of the Black Tosca’s cartel had taken position on the first and fourth floors of two construction sites. As it was Sunday, the sites were vacant except for four security officers the builders had contracted to patrol the perimeter. All four of them were now in the bed of their pickup truck, their throats cut.
Hector had one more phone call to make before he could focus exclusively on the upcoming ambush.
Someone picked up on the first ring.
“What’s the girl’s status?” Hector asked.
“She’s mobile with her regular driver and a new bodyguard.”
“Is she alone?”
The man hesitated. “No, she isn’t,” he finally said. He sounded disappointed. “She’s with another girl.”
Hector shook his head. That was unfortunate. Sophia—Tony Garcia’s fifteen-year-old daughter and the granddaughter of Vicente Garcia—rarely had friends with her. Hector, himself a father of two, wouldn’t take any pleasure in what was coming next, but he had his orders.
“Execute,” he said.
“Understood.” This time, his interlocutor seemed relieved. “I’ll call you back once it is done.”
With that out of the way, Hector switched his focus back to the operation at hand.
“It’s time,” he said to his men over the radio. “Take your positions.”
Most of his men were either like him, former Infantería de Marina—the Mexican Marines—or ex-members of the Brigada de Fusileros Paracaidistas—the Parachute Rifle Brigade. They didn’t need to be told twice what to do. The plan was simple and made even easier by the fact that they weren’t going to worry about collateral damage. Hector tapped the magazine of his FX-05 assault rifle to make sure it was well inserted while the man next to him checked on his RPG launcher. One after the other, his men confirmed they were in position.
It was going to be a bloodbath.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Miami, Florida
The first half mile went without a hitch. The motorcade had just turned north on Second Avenue when Hunt caught a puff of light gray-blue smoke coming from a construction building ahead of them. He could have easily missed it, but his eyes were at the right place at the right time. Not that it made any difference. Hunt recognized the situation for what it was—an ambush—only an instant before the rocket-propelled grenade’s rocket motor ignited.
“RPG!”
Traveling at close to three hundred yards per second, it took the high-explosive round less than a second to reach the lead Suburban. The warhead went through the windshield and exploded inside the SUV, killing all its occupants instantly. The explosion momentarily blinded Hunt, and a millisecond later he felt the Suburban ram the rear of the lead SUV. Fortunately, the driver of the Suburban providing rear security was able to brake in time and was initiating an evasive maneuver. He didn’t get far, as scared motorists on the road were leaving their cars and running in all directions. The US marshal in the passenger seat was already on the radio calling in the ambush and requesting immediate assistance. A second RPG hit a car to their left, flipping it to its side. The deflagra
tion rocked the Suburban.
“Everybody okay?” Robbins shouted.
Hunt looked to his right at Zorita to check whether the Mexican chief inspector was all right. His head was slumped over his chest.
“Zorita?” Hunt said, unbuckling his seat belt so he could reach the injured man.
Zorita raised his head and slammed his left elbow into Hunt’s face. Hunt was flung backward. Through his blurred vision, he saw Zorita pull out his pistol, aiming it at Garcia’s head. Hunt shouted a warning and lunged at Zorita just as he pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hallandale Beach, Florida
Leila DeGray couldn’t stop thinking about her father. She knew he wanted back in her life, but after what he’d done to her mother, how could she let him in? Still, it couldn’t hurt to see him for a few hours every second Saturday, right? He wasn’t a bad man per se, just different. He didn’t live the same kind of life she did. His was filled with violence and pain, hers with nonalcoholic piña coladas and days at the beach with her friends. And homework. Tons of homework.
Maybe one day she’d open up to him, but for now, she was happy she didn’t share the same last name.
She would have loved to have a father like Sophia’s. He was the nicest guy ever. For her fifteenth birthday, Sophia’s dad had bought her a monkey. How cool was that? A monkey! And he had drivers and bodyguards and really, really expensive cars. But Sophia didn’t have a mother. Which was sad. Sophia’s mom had died in a freak skiing accident many years ago.
Truth was, Leila couldn’t complain too much. Since her mom had moved in with Chris five years ago, she was living the high life too. She attended the best private school money could buy, she vacationed in the most exotic spots on the planet—her favorite was Tahiti—and Chris had even bought her a WaveRunner for Christmas. So yeah, she had it good.
Chris had dropped her at Sophia’s for lunch. Since Monday was a day off from school, the plan was to pick her up again tomorrow right after breakfast. Leila loved sleepovers, especially at Sophia’s colossal mansion. Plus, Tony, Sophia’s dad, was a great cook, and he had promised the girls he’d bake them fresh blueberry muffins. But for now, it was movie time.
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