Boosted by a surge of adrenaline and sheer will, Hunt ignored the pain coming from his legs and shoulders and leaped toward the balcony. The tips of his fingers grasped the railing, and he hurled himself up and over just in time to see a man run back inside the condominium. Hunt ran after him while alarm bells blared in his head. His entry should have been covert. How the hell had he ended up running after someone through an apartment he hadn’t cleared? How many bad guys were inside? Were there even any bad guys inside? The man he was chasing had all the rights in the world to run away from him. Scratch that. The man he was chasing had all the rights in the world to fucking shoot him. What if he was simply trying to protect his family?
Damn it!
Under any other circumstances, Hunt would have retreated. But to find Leila, Hunt was ready to break all rules of morality.
Ahead of Hunt, the man started going down the stairs three at a time to reach the floor below, but he lost his footing and almost tumbled down the last five steps. He somehow managed to remain on his feet and careened right at the bottom of the stairs. Hunt lost sight of him and thought about going for his gun, but it would waste precious seconds, so he decided to accelerate instead. He jagged right the moment he reached the third floor, just in time to see the man run into a bedroom.
Pomar wasn’t even halfway down the stairs when he heard the other man’s footsteps hit the top step. He tried to glance back but nearly lost his balance. He jumped the last four steps, then sprinted to the bedroom. He reached his nightstand, opened the drawer, and grabbed his pistol. He didn’t even have time to take it out of the drawer before the man jumped over the bed and tackled him at full speed. Both men crashed against the nightstand—with Pomar’s hand still inside. Its drawer closed, snapping Pomar’s wrist. Pomar tried to yell, but his attacker threw him on the floor hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Before Pomar could recuperate, the man had a knee on his back and one of his hands cupped around his mouth. The tip of a knife was pressed to the back of his neck.
“Where are the girls?” the man barked at him.
With the man’s hand solidly clasped against his mouth, Pomar could only make a few sounds. The man eased his hold to let him speak.
Mistake. The moment he did, Pomar sank his teeth into the man’s hand; but, before he could rip a finger off, something hit him hard on the head. His forehead pitched forward and bounced twice against the hardwood floor, just like a basketball.
The man’s teeth had barely touched his skin when Hunt elbowed the back of his head, knocking him out. Hunt went back to the nightstand and took the SIG Sauer from the drawer. Hunt withdrew his own pistol from his backpack and proceeded to clear the condo.
Better late than never, he thought. If there had been more than one bad guy, Hunt bet the man he had put to sleep would have called for help. The fact that he didn’t indicated he was probably alone. Hunt nevertheless stayed vigilant and moved from room to room with speed, sweeping his gun left to right and back again. The condo was surprisingly clean and orderly. In less than two minutes, Hunt was confident they were the only two living things in the condo. He went back to the bedroom. The man was still on the floor, but he had regained consciousness. He was on his back, moaning in pain. Hunt grabbed him by the hair and dragged him outside the bedroom to a modern-looking dining chair. He lifted the man into the chair. From his backpack, Hunt pulled out a roll of duct tape. He secured the man’s hands behind his back and his ankles to the legs of the chair. He then tore off two more pieces and pressed the first one against the man’s left eyebrow. He used the last piece to tape the man’s mouth shut. Hunt slapped him to help him come around. The man looked at him and blinked his eyes as he tried to figure out how he had ended up tied to a chair. His forehead was swollen, and his eyes were unfocused. Hunt slapped him again, and it seemed to do the trick.
“I’ll remove the tape covering your mouth now,” Hunt said, pressing the tip of his silencer against the man’s left knee. “Answer my questions and live, or don’t and suffer. Then die. It’s as simple as that. No bullshit. What do you say?”
The man’s eyes were full of venom, but he nodded.
Hunt jerked on the tape. The man didn’t even flinch, which told Hunt he was dangerous. “What’s your name?”
The man seemed to hesitate, so Hunt banged the silencer on his knee.
“My name’s Édgar Pomar.”
That was good news. Pomar, as the cousin of one of the men killed during the ambush, was a direct link to the Black Tosca.
“Where are the girls?”
Something flickered in Pomar’s eyes. Recognition, maybe? “Girls? What girls?”
“Where’s the Black Tosca?”
For the briefest moment, there was another spark in Pomar’s eyes. Fear? “Who? I never—”
In one quick movement, Hunt taped Pomar’s mouth shut. Hunt’s DEA training had included detecting micro expressions. Micro expressions were subtle and involuntary facial expressions that exposed a person’s true emotions. Reading micro expressions was key to detecting deception, an important skill for an undercover operator.
Or when you were interrogating an uncooperative subject who might know where your kidnapped daughter was hidden.
Without any warning, Hunt shot Pomar in his right kneecap. Pomar tried to scream, but the duct tape muffled the sound. Tears ran down his cheeks. The kneecap was a nasty place to take a bullet. Not that Hunt knew from personal experience, but he had seen what it did to the Hamas leader he had “debriefed” in Gaza.
Hunt pressed the tip of the silencer against Pomar’s other kneecap. Pomar shook his head vigorously. His terrified eyes gazed back at Hunt. His lips were trembling. Exactly what Hunt hoped he’d see. He needed Pomar to be more afraid of him than of the Black Tosca. He tore the duct tape from Pomar’s mouth.
“Where’s the Black Tosca?”
“She’s not here, man. She’s . . . she’s in Mexico. I swear it!”
“Where in Mexico?”
Pomar shook his head. “C’mon, man!”
If Pomar was looking for compassion, he was looking at the wrong man. Hunt had none to give. He cut a new piece of duct tape from the roll and placed it on Pomar’s mouth. The man didn’t even resist this time around; he just sobbed. Hunt placed the barrel of his gun under Pomar’s chin and lifted his head. Pomar was sweating now. His face and neck were covered with perspiration. His breathing had kicked up into high gear in anticipation of Hunt’s next shot. But instead of shooting him again, Hunt pulled back, then went to the living room and picked up the clothes iron he’d seen earlier when he cleared the house. He made a show of plugging the iron into an electrical outlet next to Pomar. Hunt hated himself for what he was doing. He had sworn he’d never cross that line ever again, would never torture another man—and he was about to. It made him sick to his stomach, but for his daughter, he’d go to hell and back.
“I hate you for putting me in this position, Édgar,” Hunt said honestly. “I don’t want to do this to you. But one of the girls the Black Tosca kidnapped is my daughter.”
Pomar thrashed against his restraints. The pain in his knee was unbearable. And now an iron? This man was crazy. He watched him lift the iron and press the red steam button. A cloud of steam blew out with a swoosh.
Fuck!
“Last chance,” the man warned him.
Pomar nodded vigorously. The duct tape came off.
“Okay, man. She’s in San Miguel de Allende,” he confessed. “But it’s not like you’ll be able to get to her, you know? She’s well protected.”
“Where are the girls?” the man asked again.
“They aren’t here, man—”
The iron flashed out so fast Pomar didn’t even see it coming. The hot iron landed on his already swollen forehead and stayed there for what seemed like an eternity but was, in fact, less than three seconds. His already dazed mind had difficulty processing what he was seeing. From where he sat, it looked like the iron had some wallpap
er stuck to the bottom.
Then the pain arrived in a surge of pure agony, and he understood it wasn’t wallpaper but his skin glued to the iron. He screamed. A high-pitched, visceral scream that came from a place within him he didn’t even know existed. But his cry was cut short when his interrogator moved behind him with the speed and agility of a panther and locked the crook of his arm around his throat. Pomar felt the blood pound in his temples as the man tightened his arm around Pomar’s windpipe. His vision swam, and he could feel his face turning purple.
“Another stupid answer like that one and you lose the other knee,” the man whispered in his ear. “Do you understand?”
Pomar bobbed his head up and down. He didn’t want to die, didn’t want to lose the other knee. He certainly couldn’t picture himself spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
The man relaxed his grip. “Talk to me.”
Hunt’s patience was wearing thin. The only actionable intel he’d gotten so far was that the Black Tosca was in San Miguel de Allende. The DEA knew about her mansion but had never been able to send an undercover agent or even an informant inside. Only her close circle could come near the house. The next time Pomar opened his mouth, it had better be good. For his sake.
“There’s another house. In Hallandale Beach,” Pomar said.
The other property rented out in Pomar’s name. At least he’s telling the truth. “Go on.”
“There’s a team there.”
“A team?”
“I don’t know who they are, but they’re heavy hitters. Hector Mieles might be on-site.”
Hunt assumed these men were either part of the assault team that had ambushed Vicente Garcia’s motorcade or part of the snatch team that had grabbed his daughter.
“How many of them?”
Pomar’s shoulders sagged, and Hunt swore under his breath. Pomar didn’t know the answer, so he asked, “Why do you think the girls are there? And think before you try to feed me some bullshit.”
“Because it has holding rooms,” Pomar explained. “It’s either that or they’re already on their way to Mexico to be sold or—”
Pomar didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. Hunt knew exactly what Pomar was thinking. Pretty teenage girls like Leila and Sophia were often beaten, raped, and—once their spirits were broken—forced into prostitution or slavery.
Just like the girls in Chicago, Hunt thought, remembering the twelve dead young women in the warehouse. To ensure Leila didn’t meet the same fate, he’d break the promise he’d made after Gaza a thousand times.
Pomar suddenly started to shake violently. Hunt, alarmed, released Pomar’s throat and tilted his head back. Pomar’s eyes were empty pools, and his mouth hung open.
Not good.
It was becoming harder and harder to think through the throbbing in his shattered knee and the all-consuming agony coming from his forehead. Pomar felt his body starting to jiggle uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable now, and his mind started to drift. His body was shutting down, and his eyes were heavy with resignation. He hadn’t done much good in this world. Beyond his extreme physical pain dwelled the gnawing feeling of utter failure. He should have joined the army instead of the cartel. The pay sucked, but at least he could have been proud of his accomplishments. He had so many regrets, but at least he had told the man everything he knew, which, he had to admit, wasn’t much. For reasons he didn’t understand, since it defied any kind of logic, he didn’t hate the man for what he had done to him. As Pomar slipped into unconsciousness, the last thing he saw was the man’s face and the glint of a knife.
There was nothing to gain from staying in the condominium any longer. Pomar hadn’t been part of the team that kidnapped Leila—that much was clear—but it didn’t mean he didn’t deserve what Hunt had done to him. Hunt cut the duct tape around Pomar’s wrists with his knife. Since Pomar was a cartel member, Hunt wasn’t worried about him calling the police.
Hunt was halfway up the stairs when he stopped dead in his tracks and listened. He thought he had heard something coming from the third floor. He took a deep breath and held it in. He waited. There it was again. A soft scratching sound faintly touched his ears, followed by an even quieter click. It took Hunt a moment to place the sound. Was someone picking the lock? Hunt unzipped the bottom pocket of his backpack and pulled out his pistol. His heart thudded in his chest as he weighed his options. His exit strategy was to continue to the fourth floor and to go out the balcony and down the drainpipe. An alternative was to go back to the third floor and see who was trying to gain access to the condominium.
Hunt brought his gun up, and, praying for no squeaky steps, went down the stairs. He took position behind a doorframe so he could cover the front door. The door cracked opened. The hall light cast half a human shadow through the opening. Someone was waiting just outside the condo, listening. A moment later, the muzzle of a pistol appeared, and then a figure slipped inside the condo. The figure silently closed the door. There was just enough light for Hunt to recognize the intruder.
Anna Garcia.
“Anna, it’s Pierce,” Hunt said from behind the doorframe. “What are you—”
“Damn it, Pierce! You’ve been gone for more than fifteen minutes. What do you want me to do? For how long did you expect me to wait in the car? I came here to help you.”
He switched the light on. Anna held a hand up to her face to shield her eyes from the sudden glare. Hunt was both pissed and impressed at the same time. The fact that Anna had the guts to gain access to the building, pick the lock, and come in with her gun drawn showed him she wanted to find the girls as much as he did.
“There were two cameras covering the front entrance of the building,” Hunt said.
“No worries. I took care of them.”
“You took care of them? How?” he asked, making his way to Pomar’s bedroom.
“Through their Wi-Fi network,” Anna explained, holstering her pistol.
Hunt squinted at her. “You know how to hack?”
“Don’t look so surprised. You don’t have to be trained in information technology to know how to break into a simple system.”
Hunt shook his head. Given how much of himself he’d concealed from her, he supposed it was only fair that she had some secrets too. “Anyhow, this Pomar guy didn’t know much. He said that Hector Mieles might be in Miami. More specifically, in Hallandale Beach.”
“At the other Black Tosca safe house?”
“Yes.”
“Hector is a cold-blooded killer.”
That wasn’t something Hunt needed to hear.
“He’s a tall son of a bitch too. Rumors have him at seven feet tall. And big. He’s former Mexican military,” she added.
Seven feet tall. Hunt wondered if Hector wasn’t the guy with whom he had exchanged gunshots the day before. A man with the lethal focus he’d witnessed wouldn’t hesitate to kill two teenagers.
“I’m going to Hallandale Beach,” Hunt said.
“I’m going with you.”
Hunt elected not to argue.
“What are you gonna do with him?” she asked, pointing to Pomar, who had just started moving again.
“Nothing.”
“You should kill him.”
Hunt shook his head. “Not necessary. I don’t expect we’ll see him again. If he’s smart, he’ll disappear.”
“I admire your moral code,” she said sarcastically.
He raised an eyebrow. First, hacking. Now, bloodlust. What else was he going to discover about her? “You’re very much your father’s daughter, aren’t you?”
A flash of anger appeared on Anna’s face, and then it was gone.
“As you wish,” she said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
South Beach, Florida
Egan was on his way to Tony Garcia’s house when Hector called.
“We have a visual on Pierce Hunt,” Hector said. “He’s in one of our safe houses.
He’s interrogating one of our men.”
Hector sounded irritated, his shrill voice even shriller than usual.
“Which one?”
“Édgar Pomar.”
“No. I meant which safe house?”
“The one in South Beach.”
How had Hunt found the safe house? If he knew about that one, then he knew about the Hallandale Beach one too. And even if he didn’t, Pomar would have told him. Hunt had a way of making people talk.
“Someone else joined in on the party,” Hector added. “I’m watching it live.”
“Somebody you know?”
“It’s Anna Garcia, I think. Vicente’s daughter.”
Egan knew who Anna Garcia was. He didn’t need Hector to lecture him on the who’s who of the Miami drug trade. So Hunt and the Garcia family had joined forces. That was to be expected. No wonder Hector was concerned.
“Was Pomar privy to yesterday’s operation?” Egan asked.
“He wasn’t.”
“Hunt’s like a damn bulldog. You don’t want him on your tail.”
“I told you where he was,” Hector said. “Go do your job.”
“Where will you be?”
“Not your concern.” Hector hung up.
Egan made a U-turn at the next streetlight. He drove south past Haulover Park, Bal Harbour, and North Beach without seeing them. His mind was on Hunt and how to take down the one man he owed his life to.
Egan parked his Ford Explorer four blocks from the safe house. Under his beige summer sport jacket was a SIG Sauer P229 in a leather shoulder holster. The serial number had been removed. He carried two extra magazines in the holster’s pockets. The silencer was in his inside jacket pocket.
He dialed Hector’s number to ask if Hunt was still inside the safe house, but the Black Tosca’s cousin didn’t pick up. Egan was surprised at how busy the streets were with cars and pedestrians at this hour. Vehicles were parked on both sides of the street, people strolling along the large sidewalks, talking, pushing strollers—which made no sense to Egan—and drinking as though they were in Las Vegas. To a tourist or an outsider—hell, to most people—it all seemed so welcoming and safe.
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