“What are you thinking about?” Sophia asked her, bringing her back to reality.
“Nothing,” Leila replied. “I’m just looking forward to watching that movie.”
“Me too! And the popcorn. Don’t forget the popcorn!”
“With a ton of butter,” Leila added.
“You bet, girl! Are you gonna have popcorn too, Charlie?” Sophia asked her bodyguard, who was seated in the front passenger seat of the huge Mercedes SUV.
Even though Leila had only recently become close friends with Sophia, she’d been around her long enough to know she was only teasing him. Charlie was a new guy, but Leila was pretty sure he’d say no. Sophia’s previous bodyguard had once explained his job was to protect her, and in order to do so to the best of his ability, he needed to have his hands free. Leila loved traveling with Sophia and her bodyguards. It made her feel important, especially when people tried to take pictures of them.
Charlie twisted in his seat to look at Sophia. “Of course I will. But no butter for me,” he said without a hint of a smile. Then he asked the driver. “What about you, Antonio?”
“Same thing.”
Sophia looked puzzled. By Charlie’s tone of voice, Leila knew he was joking, but Sophia had no idea her leg was being pulled.
“I’m joking, kiddo,” Charlie said, this time with a smile.
A quick look outside the SUV told Leila they were less than five minutes away from the theater. The traffic light in front of them turned red, and the driver stopped just behind a silver Hummer H2. To their left and right, two identical Dodge Caravans abruptly stopped, even though they both had room to move forward another three car lengths.
Leila saw Antonio take a look in the rearview mirror. Charlie wasn’t smiling anymore.
“What the hell?” Antonio said.
Leila turned around. There was another black Dodge Caravan. It was so close to the Mercedes’s rear bumper that Leila couldn’t see its headlights.
“Shit!” Charlie said.
Alarmed, Leila turned her attention back to the front, only to see the hatchback of the Hummer open. Two men dressed in black and wearing balaclavas were holding guns in their hands.
Sophia screamed.
To Leila, everything happened in slow motion. Charlie reached for something inside his jacket while Antonio tried to shift the Mercedes into reverse. A pistol appeared in Charlie’s hands. He briefly looked at Leila and yelled something she didn’t understand. Then white and red sparkles appeared at the end of the big guns the men in black were holding. Leila wanted to close her eyes but couldn’t. She was mesmerized by what was going on.
Holes appeared in the windshield. Two at first. One in front of Charlie, another in front of Antonio. Leila was surprised how forcefully Charlie was shoved back in his seat. It was as if someone had punched him hard in the stomach. Charlie screamed. He raised his pistol in front of him, and two more holes appeared in the windshield. He dropped his pistol.
Men climbed out of the black Dodge Caravan. One of them had something that looked like a hammer, a kind Leila had never seen before. The driver’s side window exploded, a hand reached inside the vehicle, and suddenly her door opened. Leila felt Sophia’s hand grabbing her forearm. Men were taking her friend away.
She had to stop them.
The gun. Charlie’s gun.
Leila leaped forward, her hands searching for the pistol she knew was there. Strong hands grasped her ankles. Her heart jumped. She was being pulled backward.
No!
Dad, I need you!
Her fingers touched metal.
The gun.
It was much heavier than she thought it would be. She tried to twist to face the man who was pulling her, but it was too late. They had already dragged her outside the Mercedes. Her arms were pinned to her side. Someone was holding her tight. She screamed and pulled the trigger. Again and again. Chips of concrete cut through her pants, slicing her skin.
Someone swore. Her arms were released. She pointed the gun toward one of her aggressors, but something hit her hard on the back of the head.
Everything went black.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Miami, Florida
Hector Mieles didn’t lose any time. The moment he confirmed the motorcade was immobilized, he ordered the men he had in flanking positions to attack. The first phase of the ambush had gone well, but he was a hardened combat veteran who knew he needed to press his advantage.
Their first objective was to get to Vicente Garcia and to make sure he was dead in case Chief Inspector Zorita failed to do his job in the opening seconds of the engagement. Their secondary objective, almost as important as the first, was to secure and evacuate the chief inspector. As much as the Black Tosca could be merciless and cold-blooded toward her enemies, she was loyal to those who served her well. And Zorita had served her valiantly for close to two decades. The intelligence Zorita had provided had allowed them to enact numerous takeovers of rival cartels. Knowing when and whom to strike had given her an edge over her adversaries.
Hector had no problem risking his men’s lives—even his own if it came to that—to help a fellow warrior. That was exactly what Julio Zorita was, a warrior. It didn’t matter for which cause they fought. As long as they were on the same side, Hector considered him a brother. The cartel members were his family. He had handpicked all the men with him today. What he wanted most was to get the job done and then head home to his family and the relative safety of San Miguel de Allende.
Hector watched as his men converged on the burning motorcade while the rest of his group, perched on the fourth floor of the construction site, covered them with a steady barrage of gunfire. Hector spotted a US marshal climbing out of the rear SUV and fired two shots in his direction. He missed, but his rounds landed close enough that the deputy marshal had to seek refuge behind the SUV’s engine block, allowing Hector’s men to cover more ground before they were fired upon.
Hector had switched his aim back to the rear Suburban when bullets struck the barricade to his left. Pablo—the man operating the RPG—yelled in pain as he dropped the launcher and collapsed to his knees, blood spurting from a neck wound. Hector dashed to Pablo and caught him as he fell to his side. Rounds continued to pepper their position, but Pablo, his eyes half-glazed, hardly seemed to notice.
“Sir, there’s a chopper hovering above us,” said Oscar, the man charged with their air defense.
Hector had known the US marshals would be using air support. He had planned for this eventuality.
“Take it out.”
“Yes, sir. Also, our men across the street are pinned down,” Oscar continued.
“We need to get moving, then,” Hector said matter-of-factly. “But get that chopper down first. The moment one aircraft goes down, this will be a no-fly zone, and it will make our lives much easier when it’s time to withdraw.”
Once Oscar had left, Hector looked down at Pablo. There was nothing he could do for him. Pulling his knife from his sheath, he plunged it into Pablo’s ear. Pablo’s body stiffened. With his other hand, Hector closed Pablo’s eyes.
“Follow me,” Hector ordered the rest of his men as he grabbed the launcher left behind by Pablo. “Let’s get the job done.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Miami, Florida
Hunt’s ears were ringing as he fought Zorita for control of the pistol. The shot had missed Garcia but hit the driver in the shoulder. Robbins was yelling something, but Hunt was too busy to care what it was. Both his hands were locked on Zorita’s right wrist as he angled the weapon up and away. A second shot rang out, and the bullet punched a hole through the roof. Hunt, who was now on top of Zorita, kneed him once in the solar plexus and again in the head as Zorita pitched forward. Zorita’s head snapped back as blood erupted from his broken nose. Zorita’s eyes became unfocused, and Hunt seized the moment to strike two vicious punches to the man’s jaw before he wrestled the gun away. But Zorita wasn’t done yet. Out of nowhere, a knife appea
red in his hand. Hunt reacted instinctively and fired twice point-blank into Zorita’s upper chest. Zorita jerked backward, and his eyes rolled into his head, his body slumping sideways on the leather seat of the SUV.
Damn it! Hunt would have loved to have a nice long chat with the treacherous son of a bitch to find out who had turned him.
The fight had lasted less than twenty seconds, but the tactical situation outside the Suburban had changed drastically. A burning car blocked the left lane, and a concrete barrier prevented any movement to the right. They were sitting ducks. Men dressed in black combat gear were approaching from the construction site to their right, while supporting gunfire coming from their front kept the US marshals pinned down. They needed to get out of the vehicles. The closest safe house was the detention center. That was where they had to go.
Robbins had reached the same conclusion because he ordered everyone out of the SUVs.
The US marshals didn’t need to be told twice. The five deputies riding in the rear vehicle rushed out, took positions around the Suburban carrying Garcia, and started to return effective fire.
“Take the handcuffs off,” Garcia pleaded.
“Shut up,” Robbins replied. “As far as I’m concerned, this is a rescue attempt.”
“What? Are you crazy? They want me dead.”
It wasn’t Hunt’s place to speak his mind, but this didn’t look like a rescue to him. Not after Zorita had tried to take Garcia out.
“Out, out, out!” Robbins yelled.
The injured driver was the first to successfully exit the vehicle, and he opened Garcia’s door. There seemed to be a break in the supportive fire coming from across the street. Hunt climbed over the second-row seats and squeezed past Garcia. He yanked on Garcia’s handcuffs and dragged him out.
Chaos waited for them outside the vehicle. Sirens wailed. Some civilians, struck by fragments from the burning vehicles, were bleeding out on the street. The only saving graces were the deputies who still stood their ground and returned fire.
“Let’s leapfrog back to Fifth Street,” Hunt suggested, keeping his pistol in the low-ready position.
“You heard the man,” Robbins said. “Let’s go.”
“Contact right!” one of the deputy US marshals yelled. A volley of gunfire forced them to take cover behind the Suburban.
“Contact front!” shouted another one.
Shit! That wasn’t good. Two separate supporting forces were approaching their position. Hunt looked around for another weapon. His pistol wasn’t going to cut it against automatic weapons.
“We need to move,” Robbins said. “Hunt, you go with Garcia. We’ll cover your retreat. Go!”
Hunt looked at Garcia. To his credit, the drug lord didn’t look frightened. On the contrary, he seemed to be quite comfortable amid the chaos.
“You’re ready?” Hunt asked him.
Garcia nodded. “We can’t stay here, anyway.”
Hunt searched for a safe spot to run to. They couldn’t just leave their cover without knowing where they were going. A white minivan was parked fifty yards away. It was a hell of a long distance to run without cover, but they had to move.
“You see the white minivan? Run to it. I’m right behind you.”
Without hesitation, and with a speed that surprised Hunt, Garcia got up and sprinted toward the minivan. Hunt was right on his heels. True to their word, the US marshals covered him with a sustained barrage of gunfire.
To his left, Hunt saw a black figure raise his rifle toward Garcia. Hunt fired on the run, his bullets missing the mark but close enough to force the man to fire before he had taken careful aim. Hunt’s sixth shot hit his rifle, and the man transitioned to his pistol. Hunt stopped, knelt down, and pulled the trigger three more times in quick succession. The man fell, fatally wounded. Hunt changed his magazine and scanned for more threats. He saw other assailants, but they were too far for him to engage with his Glock. He looked to his right to check on Garcia and found him lying on the ground ten yards short of the white minivan. He was crawling toward the minivan, leaving a thick crimson line in his wake.
Damn it! Hunt got back to his feet and ran toward him. He had to bring Garcia to safety. Without him, they had nothing on the Black Tosca. Garcia’s testimony was key.
Hunt hadn’t covered even half the distance when a tremendous explosion from behind propelled him forward.
Hector Mieles had had enough. He had seen two of his men cut down by the marshals. All the deputies had taken cover behind the remaining Suburban. Local police reinforcements were on their way. He needed to finish this quickly. If he could hit the SUV with an RPG, it would shift the momentum back to his camp. But in order to reach a firing position, he’d have to run in the open for twenty yards.
“Ernesto!” he shouted to the man closest to him. “In ten seconds, I want you to empty a full magazine!”
Ernesto changed his magazine and gave him the thumbs-up. Hector took a deep breath and focused on what he had to do. He counted to three and broke cover. He ran as fast as he could, half expecting to get hit. Behind him, he could hear Ernesto’s FX-05 firing on full automatic. Hector slid to safety behind a blue mailbox just as Ernesto’s rifle fell silent. A quick look in Ernesto’s direction told Hector his man had been hit.
Hector peeked around the mailbox. The Suburban was sixty yards away. From his position he could see at least five deputies firing their weapons at the rest of his men. It was time to end this. He came out from behind the mailbox and crouched into a stable firing position. One of the deputies saw him, but Hector fired before the deputy could bring his weapon around.
The RPG hit the Suburban just above the left rear tire. The car exploded in a ball of fire, sending razor-sharp metal blasting throughout the area.
Hunt opened his eyes. A terrible headache threatened to send him back into darkness. He was on his back, staring at the blue sky. Somewhere, a machine gun chattered.
Garcia? Where was Vicente Garcia?
Hunt patted himself down for any signs of injury. He had none, except for the headache. He sat up and searched for Garcia. The drug lord had made it to the white minivan. He was clutching his right leg with both hands. Hunt turned his head, and what he saw made him sick. The deputies, who had all been much closer to the Suburban, were down. Some had been cut to pieces by the exploding SUV. Others were still alive, slowly crawling away from the burning vehicle.
Men in black fatigues approached the downed agents. Hunt frantically searched for his gun. It was a few feet away. He crawled on his knees, pieces of glass embedding themselves in his hands. A single shot was fired. Then another. Behind him, good men were being executed. Hunt reached his pistol, grabbed it with both hands, and winced in pain as the shards of glass cut deeper into his skin. There were too many attackers. He’d never kill them all. He could play dead and hope they would leave. He thought about his daughter, Leila, and about all the missed opportunities. Then, from his peripheral vision, he spotted John Robbins slowly making his way toward him. A black-clad man had spotted him too and was raising his rifle.
Hunt fired. Once. Twice. Three times. The black-clad man fell.
Hunt swung his pistol left and brought his sights upon his next target. The man fired first, but his rounds went high. Hunt pulled the trigger and hit the man below his right eye. Behind him was another man. Hunt hesitated a fraction of a second. This man was also dressed in black fatigues, but he was by far the tallest of the bunch. He was built like a bulldozer. His pistol, which was pointed directly at Hunt, looked like a toy gun in his hands.
Both men fired at the same time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Miami, Florida
With most of the surviving US marshals too stunned to return fire, Hector ordered his remaining men to advance. He pulled his pistol out of its holster and leapfrogged toward the burning Suburban. None of the marshals had escaped the explosion unscathed. Their clothes were shredded, their exposed skin scorched. Some were hunched over on
their knees in apparent agony; others were moaning, their pleas animal-like. They were easy prey, and his men took them out with merciful single shots to the head. One marshal who had managed to crawl away from the Suburban was about to be put down when a bullet whizzed past Hector. The man next to him fell. Hector spun around only to see another of his men crumple, shot in the head.
There! A man had his pistol trained on him. He was thirty-five yards away, dressed in blue jeans and black soft body armor. Behind him, Vicente Garcia was resting his back against the front tire of a parked minivan. Hector fired once and then rolled to his right. A bullet grazed his left arm, just below the elbow. He ignored the burning sensation and dashed across the street while zigzagging left and right. He jumped over a concrete barricade as more rounds impacted around him. He landed on the other side and took in his surroundings. The sirens were getting closer by the second, sending waves of sound off the adjoining buildings. Not wanting to appear where he was last seen, Hector duckwalked along the barricade. Vicente Garcia was less than twenty-five yards away. The marshal, the one who had grazed him, had to expect Hector would pop his head out from cover to check on Vicente Garcia. The trick was to do it quickly.
Up, he sees me, I’m down.
Two rounds zipped past where his head had been a quarter of a second before.
This guy’s good, Hector thought. Even though his peek had lasted less than three full seconds, Hector had gotten the info he wanted. Vicente Garcia hadn’t moved much, but to Hector’s dismay, he had shifted to the opposite side of the minivan, making him much harder to hit. Hector estimated he had less than half a minute to take out Garcia before law enforcement officers cornered him.
Hunt Them Down (Pierce Hunt Book 1) Page 6