Hunt’s thoughts moved to the last time he’d spoken to his daughter. They had argued about her boyfriend.
A boyfriend.
It seemed so trivial now. Had he been too harsh with Leila about it?
Moon came back to the formal living room carrying several drinks on a tray. Hunt’s cell phone rang before he could take his Diet Coke, and he excused himself and stepped into the hallway to answer.
McMaster said, “Heads up, Pierce. The FBI just issued a warrant for your arrest.”
The words were so unexpected that Hunt froze.
A warrant? What in hell for?
He didn’t have time to deal with this bullshit. “On what charge?”
“I’m not exactly sure, to be honest. I got a tip from one of my contacts at the MDPD. He said it’s about today’s ambush.”
None of this was making any sense. He had done nothing wrong.
McMaster continued, “The moment I’m officially notified about the warrant, I’ll have to disclose your location to the investigators. If I were you, I’d ditch that phone of yours.”
Clearly, his boss was trying to help him. Getting a new phone was easy, but what was he supposed to do with the fingerprints he’d taken from the assaulters? He didn’t have the freedom to wait any longer to decide whether he could trust McMaster. He had to.
“Can you do me a favor?” Hunt asked.
“I just did,” McMaster replied before hanging up.
Damn!
Could he really blame McMaster? He barely knew the guy, and McMaster had put his neck out for him by telling him about the warrant. But that didn’t explain why a warrant had been issued in the first place.
It’s about the ambush, McMaster had said.
Hunt’s phone chirped again, this time with an automatic alert from the call center he used to monitor his former undercover phone numbers. There was a message waiting for him. He entered his nine-digit personal identification number and listened. His heart skipped a beat when he recognized Anna’s voice.
I’m not even sure you’ll get this. But if you do, please reach out to me. You know how. If what we shared ever meant anything to you, I beg you to make contact. I need your help.
Did she know Leila was his daughter? No, it was impossible. She had no way of finding out, unless Leila had said something. Highly unlikely. His daughter barely talked to him, and their relationship was touch-and-go. Plus, Leila was using her mother’s maiden name.
Should he call Anna back? What guarantee did he have that she wouldn’t try to kill him for what he’d done to her? And what about her brother, Tony? He wasn’t the forgiving type, and, with the warrant, Hunt certainly didn’t need any more trouble at this point.
Hunt sensed a presence behind him, the same way a blind man might sense the position of the sun from its warmth. He didn’t have to turn around to guess who it was. If McMaster’s contact at the Miami-Dade Police Department knew about the warrant, so did Detective Milburne.
“Do you have the dashcam video of my daughter’s kidnapping, Detective?” Hunt asked, keeping his back to the detective and turning off his phone.
“I’m afraid the camera disappeared from the evidence locker, Mr. Hunt,” Milburne replied. “I’m sure someone misplaced it—that’s all.”
Hunt cursed. Like things aren’t bad enough already.
“There’s another delicate matter we need to discuss, Mr. Hunt,” Milburne said, his voice strained. Hunt noticed the detective had used the word mister, not agent.
Yes, I know. My arrest, Hunt thought.
Hunt turned to face him. The detective was standing a safe distance away, his right hand on the butt of his pistol. No doubt Milburne had called for backup. The idyllic island of La Gorce would soon be cordoned off.
“What is it?” Hunt said, letting things play out. He hoped to learn who had authorized the arrest warrant and why.
“I know this isn’t a good time, and I’m sure this will be cleared the moment you speak with the FBI, but they’ve issued a warrant for your arrest.”
Hunt made an effort to appear surprised and docile. “Really? On what grounds?”
“I don’t know,” Milburne replied, but Hunt sensed the detective was lying.
“Stop the bullshit, and tell me what’s really going on.”
“Aggravated battery.”
Hunt frowned. “What are you taking about?”
“One of your rounds hit a bystander,” Milburne said, his voice sincere and apologetic. “I’m truly sorry.”
Hunt’s right knee buckled, and he had to hold on to the wall to remain standing. Could it be true? Harming an innocent bystander was a law enforcement officer’s worst nightmare.
“Is the person okay?” Hunt managed to mumble.
“I’m told he’s in surgery. The bullet missed his shinbone by a fraction of an inch and tore through his calf,” Milburne explained, using his fingers to show by how much the round had missed the bone.
Hunt breathed a sigh of relief, but the respite was short-lived.
“You’ll have to come with me,” Milburne said, pulling out his handcuffs. “I’m sorry, but I have no choice. Someone caught the whole scene from an adjacent building. The person you shot is pressing charges.”
Hunt grunted. He felt terrible for the bystander, and his sense of duty told him to follow the detective. But now that his daughter had been taken, he couldn’t.
“Can I send a quick message?” he asked the detective.
“More cars are headed here,” Milburne warned, “so make it quick.”
“I need your lighter.”
Milburne gave him a quizzical look but lobbed it to him anyway.
Hunt caught it with his left hand and typed a quick message to his friend Simon Carter—who was now leading the rapid response team since the events in Chicago. He attached the fingerprints he had lifted from the assaulters to his email before sending it. Carter was someone he trusted. He’d know what to do with those.
Hunt powered down his phone and quickly removed its back cover. He took out the SIM card and held it in the flame of Milburne’s cigarette lighter until it had melted beyond salvage. He threw the lighter back to Milburne. For a second, Milburne took his eyes off Hunt to search for his lighter. Hunt made his move and closed the gap. With a powerful sweep of his right leg, he kicked the detective’s feet from under him, and Milburne crashed down hard on his side in the hallway. Hunt grabbed his arm and flipped him over onto his stomach. Hunt used Milburne’s own handcuffs to secure his hands behind his back. Milburne didn’t resist or fight back. It was as if he understood perfectly what Hunt was doing and why. Was that why he had told him more cars were on the way?
Jasmine and Moon suddenly appeared around the corner from the living room, and if they were surprised or shocked by what they saw, they didn’t show it. Jasmine asked, “What will you do?”
“I’m gonna get our daughter back.”
She nodded to Chris in an I told you so manner.
“If you need money, anything, please let me know,” Moon offered.
Hunt straightened. “As a matter of fact, can I borrow your new Blackwater?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Miami, Florida
The quad Mercury Verado 350 engines roared to life, filling the air with a loud throbbing that pulsated through the entire boat. To Hunt, who had always dreamed of owning such a beast, the sound was intoxicating. He removed the lines holding the Blackwater to the dock before taking his position at the helm. He put the engines in gear and motored slowly out of the dredged channel leading to Biscayne Bay. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he needed to get out of Dodge before more MDPD officers—presumably much less cooperative than Detective Milburne—stormed Moon’s residence to arrest him.
Hunt headed due south toward Government Cut Inlet, a man-made shipping channel between Miami Beach and Fisher Island used by pleasure and commercial craft alike. The moment he exited the channel, he pushed the throttle forward,
and the engines gurgled louder. The bow rose slightly before settling back down once the Blackwater 43 was out of the hole. A stiff breeze was picking up from the west, but the boat’s twenty-thousand-pound hull carved through the waves with ease. Once he was a mile offshore, he put the gear in neutral and reached for his bag. He pulled out one of the two prepaid phones he carried and dialed a number he had never expected to call again.
Anna Garcia picked up on the third ring. “Is it you?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“We need to talk. Where are you?”
Right to the point. No small talk. Her voice, usually so smooth and gentle, sounded choked with emotion. Or was it despair? Hunt could only imagine how difficult it must be for her to talk with him. He had betrayed her in the worst way a man could betray a woman. Through her heart. And he had used her to bring down her father.
“It’s a bit complicated,” he said. “Tell me where you want to meet.”
“I know about the arrest warrant,” she said.
“Why am I not surprised?”
The Garcia crime family was well connected and had a lot of sources in law enforcement. Still, he wouldn’t be shocked if his face made the evening news today. The media across the country hated him for what he had done to Luke Moore. It didn’t mean anything to them that the guy was an asshole and had been responsible for the death of a DEA special agent; Moore was one of them, and they’d do everything in their power to bury Hunt.
“Meet me at my brother’s house,” Anna said.
“The boat dock is still there, I presume?”
“The dock? Yes, why? You’re on a boat?”
“As I said, it’s complicated. See you in a few.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hallandale Beach, Florida
Nothing his cousin had ever asked him to do had troubled Hector before. There were a few things he’d done that he wasn’t proud of, like killing two priests who had betrayed the Black Tosca’s confidence, but nothing worth losing a night’s sleep over. Hector prided himself on his ability to put nasty memories away and move on to the next job. But this was different. Kids were his soft spot, and he didn’t believe they should suffer because they’d been born into the wrong family. He had never intentionally hurt a child before.
There was a chance Tony Garcia would cooperate and give his life for his daughter’s. If the roles were reversed, Hector would exchange his life for his kid’s. Still, Hector had argued against giving Garcia forty-eight hours. Tony was a powerful man with a lot of resources. Why give him the chance to attempt a rescue? While the Black Tosca’s network in Florida was solid, they weren’t as safe here as they would be in Mexico. But his cousin, in all her wisdom, had decided that she wanted Garcia to suffer, to feel the same pain she’d endured when she was forced to watch her father be burned alive in front of her. Hector had warned her against such a drastic show of force, had explained to her that she would lose the fragile sympathy of the good people of San Miguel de Allende, who had until now largely closed their eyes to her illegal activities. There was an immense difference between looking the other way when it came to the drug-trafficking business—it was Mexico, after all—and forgiving the murder of two teenage girls broadcast live on the internet. The San Miguel de Allende population wouldn’t want to be seen as accomplices to the sadistic slaughter his cousin had in mind.
Hector stared at the door across the hallway. In the end, he had failed to make her understand. The Black Tosca was interested in only one thing—revenge.
The door to her room opened, and, despite her fatigue, Leila jumped to her feet. Hector stood under the lintel, his head almost touching it. Notwithstanding his kindness and impeccable courtesy toward her, the man radiated the sort of authority that couldn’t be denied. And it scared her.
“You owe me something,” he said.
She swallowed a sob and thrust her chin out defiantly. “I already told you my name. It’s your turn to tell me what I want to know.”
Hector gave a little laugh. “Is that so?”
“Where’s Sophia?”
Hector cracked his fingers, then folded his arms across his chest. “Nearby,” he finally said. “Don’t worry about your friend. As long as you continue cooperating with me, she’ll be fine.”
“You promise?” she asked, knowing how desperate that sounded.
He nodded. “Your parents, Leila. What are their names?”
That hadn’t been part of the deal. Why did he need her parents’ names? Then it came to her. It was just like in the movies. The bad guys wanted to get paid. That’s why they had kidnapped her and Sophia. Their families were rich!
They want a ransom. Oh God! That was good news. Chris would pay anything for her release.
“My mom’s name is Jasmine DeGray,” she volunteered and then hesitated for a second when it came time to name her father. Maybe the kidnappers would back off if she mentioned her real dad. A quick Google search would tell them he was a federal agent who had almost shot a reporter in the head. Would that be enough to scare them? Probably not, since Hector’s friends had killed Sophia’s driver and bodyguard. If she was right and the kidnappers wanted money, she was better off telling them her father was Chris Moon. Everyone knew who he was.
“And your father’s name?”
“Chris Moon,” she said. Then she added, “The football player, you know?”
“Miami Dolphins, right?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” she said enthusiastically. “He has a lot of money. He’s gonna pay you.”
Hector closed the door behind him. The situation had just gotten more complicated. He had kept an eye on the news channels, but none had mentioned the kidnapping of Sophia and Leila. He was stunned at the lack of coverage. In a way, it was good for them. However, it also worried him. Why wasn’t the media covering the public kidnapping of two young, pretty, rich teenagers? And one of them Chris Moon’s daughter? Heck, the kidnapping should be the only thing the media was talking about.
Was he missing something? A press conference is the best way to ask for the public’s help. So why weren’t the police doing that?
He sat down at the computer in the office and pulled up Google. In 2009, the Miami Dolphins had drafted Chris Moon in the first round. Since then, they had won the Super Bowl, and Moon had become a record-setting quarterback. The man could perform miracles, if Hector was to believe the local newspapers. Last season, Moon had thrown a staggering fifty-four touchdown passes.
Hector couldn’t care less about Moon’s exploits on the field. What he was interested in was his personal life. Unfortunately, Chris Moon zealously guarded his personal life. Hector ran a search for Jasmine Moon but didn’t have much success. A few pictures here and there, but that was it. He was about to close the browser when one of the photos grabbed his attention. The picture had been taken a year ago at the film festival in Cannes. In the photo, Moon had one arm around Jasmine, who was, in turn, affectionately holding Leila in front of her. The trio was smiling. White teeth all around.
The following line accompanied the picture:
Miami Dolphins quarterback Chris Moon with his wife, Jasmine, and her daughter, Leila.
Hector kicked himself for missing the obvious. She had said her name was Leila DeGray, not Leila Moon.
And her daughter, Leila . . . not their daughter, but her daughter. He didn’t know why, instinct maybe, or just a distrust born of all these years living on the edge, but Hector knew this was something significant. Moon wasn’t Leila’s father. The girl had lied to him. It was possible she didn’t know who her biological father was, but he quickly dismissed the idea. She had hesitated before giving him the name.
Why?
He was about to find out.
The door to her room flew open, and Hector barged in. He didn’t shout or scream, but the kindness he’d shown her previously was gone. Something had changed. Leila noticed for the first time the destructive look in his eyes. Had he hurt Sophia? A long shiver
wound down her spine as she thought of her friend.
“Chris Moon isn’t your father, is he?”
Fear fluttered through her. She shook her head.
The slap to her face came as a complete surprise. She gasped at the sting, and her hand shot to her cheek. The tears she had been fighting came rolling down.
“Answer me, child,” Hector hissed, his hand half-raised and ready to strike again.
Her whole body was shaking, and her legs were trembling so uncontrollably that it was as if they belonged to someone else.
“No, he isn’t,” she said, terrified he was going to hit her again.
“Why did you lie?”
“I live with him and Mom now,” she explained, her eyes pleading with Hector to believe her. “My real father has no money. He couldn’t pay you. The ransom, I mean.”
Hector nodded.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Pierce Hunt.”
“And where does he live?”
“Right here in Florida.”
“What does he do?”
“He works with the DEA.”
A ransom. Hector believed her. He didn’t think she had lied to hide her real father’s identity. She thought her survival depended on someone paying a ransom. Chris Moon was wealthy; Pierce Hunt wasn’t. It was as simple as that.
But the fact that her father was a federal agent changed things a bit. It wasn’t cause for alarm yet, but he needed to check a few things out.
Pierce Hunt. The name rang a bell he couldn’t quite place, and it bothered him. Google was a big help once again. An in-depth article about an incident involving a DEA agent named Pierce Hunt and Luke Moore, a Chicago reporter, darkened Hector’s mood. Hunt wasn’t a typical federal agent. He had served with the Army Rangers before joining the DEA. When the incident with the reporter happened, Hunt was an RRT team leader. Hector clicked on the images tab.
Unbelievable. A chuckle escaped his lips. Not that there was anything funny about the situation. It was more like a nervous laugh.
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