Hunt Them Down (Pierce Hunt Book 1)

by Simon Gervais

  Egan had always thrived best in the underworld. No matter how hard he tried to fit into a normal life, he couldn’t. Not after Gaza. In a way, the Black Tosca had offered him the best of both worlds. He operated with a foot on the fringes of society while living his day-to-day existence with someone like Katherine. A good compromise, he thought. With just enough violence to keep me sane and happy.

  The staccato cough of a big engine startled him, and he glanced to the rear while his hand reached for his SIG Sauer. A Grand Cherokee raced around the street corner behind him, its tires screeching. The side windows were tinted black, but the windshield wasn’t. As the Cherokee roared past him, enough light filtered through for him to make out a man in the passenger’s seat. For one fleeting second their eyes met, and a look of recognition flashed across the man’s face.

  Pierce Hunt.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  South Beach, Florida

  Anna exited the building first. Hunt had asked her to get the Cherokee while he took care of Pomar. She was glad Hunt hadn’t killed him. She had been testing him when she’d suggested it, and he had passed with flying colors. He was nothing like her father, which was a good thing—nothing, even, like the man she’d assumed Terrance Davis was.

  Anna was still struggling with her father’s death. It had been much easier when she didn’t know about the atrocity her father had committed. It had been somewhat comforting to pin his death entirely on Hunt’s shoulders. But now that the Black Tosca was involved, it complicated things. She just couldn’t push the thoughts away. What had her father done? Forcing a young girl to set fire to her own dad? It was a side of him she didn’t know, didn’t understand. How could someone in his right mind commit such a brutal, hideous act? In a strange way, she understood why the Black Tosca wanted revenge. How could she not?

  But live streaming the murder of Sophia? That sickened her. She could comprehend the need to murder Vicente; the prick deserved it. But setting fire to two teenage girls?

  Anna wept at the thought of what could happen to Sophia and her friend. She wept at the unfairness of it all. Then she became furious, enraged at the raw truth of her father’s past actions. He, too, was responsible for Sophia’s disappearance.

  The bastard.

  She must have taken a wrong turn because she found herself on a very dark, badly paved street she didn’t recognize at all. Where was the Jeep again? She walked on, increasing her pace. She sensed movement behind her.

  Before she could react or scream, an arm wrapped around her neck, and a hand covered her mouth. Anna tried to kick at her assailant’s shins, but she was being dragged backward too fast. She tried to bite the hand but couldn’t even open her mouth. Suddenly she felt herself flying through the air. She slammed into a brick wall and fell on the ground.

  “What are you doing here, pretty lady?”

  Anna lifted her head. A tall and beefy twentysomething kid with a boyish grin, wild eyes, and long, stringy hair that needed a good shampooing was looking down at her. He swept his hair back and said, licking his lips, “What am I gonna do with you?”

  She reached for her gun, but he raced forward and tried to kick her in the face. She blocked the blow with her forearm, but the pain radiated through her shoulders. She managed to get up, but his fist smashed into the side of her head. Her vision blurred. Then his hands found their way around her throat, and he pushed her against the brick wall, grinding his lower body against her.

  She tried to break free by bringing her arms up in between his forearms, but he was too strong. Fuck! She only needed to create enough distance between her back and the brick wall to get to her gun. His fingers were digging into her neck, cutting off her oxygen. She kicked at his knees, but there wasn’t much strength in it. She clawed at his hands, but it only made him angry. He was saying something to her, but his words barely registered. She brought up her right knee as hard as she could. It landed directly between his legs. For a moment, the man stopped moving, and she took the opportunity to knee him again. This time she did it hard enough to rattle his yellow teeth. He involuntarily bent forward, and she seized his head by his long hair and pushed it down to meet her other knee coming up.

  His head snapped back with a crunch. A broken nose? A vertebra? She didn’t care. The man fell. She stumbled backward a step, panting. Oxygen was finally returning to her brain. She took a deep, shaky breath and thought about putting a bullet in the sexual predator’s head. Instead, she kicked his head as if she were punting a football. The man rolled sideways, moaning. He coughed, and blood erupted from his mouth and nose. He rose to his knees.

  Two muffled shots startled her. The man’s body twitched as the bullets exploded in his back. Anna’s arm was raised; her hand was holding her silenced pistol. She didn’t remember grabbing the gun. She felt a stab of horror at what she’d done, but it lasted only a moment. What if the “pretty lady” he’d accosted had been a young woman like Sophia, unable to defend herself? She couldn’t feel sorry that that young woman would now be safe because he was dead.

  But what was she going to do with the body? Tony. Her brother would know what to do.

  She called his number. Where am I? She looked around. The alleyway was quiet. All the windows facing it were closed, and no one seemed to be looking out. Good thing her pistol was suppressed. She used the location application on her phone to find out exactly where she was.

  “Are you all right?” Tony asked as soon as he picked up.

  “I’m fine,” she replied. I really am, she told herself.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’ll send you a screenshot of my location, Tony. Could you send . . . hmmm . . . could you send guys over?”

  “Something happened? You found Sophia?”

  “No, Tony,” she said. “No, I didn’t find Sophia. It’s just that . . . I . . . someone’s dead, and I need—”

  “Don’t say anything else,” Tony cut in. “Not a word. You’re injured?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Hunt?”

  “He’s fine too.”

  “I’ll have men over very soon. Stay put.”

  “I can’t. Pierce needs me.”

  It took her brother a few seconds to reply. “I’ll take care of everything. Just be careful, okay?”

  Hunt was getting nervous. What the hell was Anna doing? The SRT wasn’t parked that far away from the condominium building. She’d been gone for over fifteen minutes. Something was wrong. Shit.

  He was actually dialing her number on his burner phone when it started vibrating. Hunt tensed as he answered. “Yes?”

  “I’m two minutes out,” Anna said and then hung up.

  Hunt exited Pomar’s unit and used the stairs instead of the elevator to reach the ground floor. He had only one foot out the door when he came face to face with the homeless man who had tried to bust the window of the SRT.

  Murphy’s Law. Whatever can go wrong, will. Fucking always!

  This time, though, the man wasn’t alone. Two uniformed police officers were behind him.

  “It’s him! He’s the guy who ran me over,” the man said, pointing a finger at Hunt.

  Hunt pretended he hadn’t heard him and kept walking.

  “Hey, you fuck!” the man yelled at him, frustrated.

  Continuing to ignore him now would raise suspicion. Hunt glanced his way and said, “Excuse me? Do we know each other?”

  “You ran me over with your Cherokee? I saw you! You were driving it.”

  One of the officers gently pushed the man away and stood in front of Hunt. The cop almost looked like he was sorry to disturb him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said, rolling his eyes, “but this man claims someone ran him over with a Jeep Cherokee. Do you own a Cherokee?”

  Under any other circumstances, Hunt would have described the encounter that happened, trusting that the evidence—the man’s lack of injuries, traffic light cams—would show he hadn’t run the man over. But there was no time to get emb
roiled in an investigation. Leila needed him. “I do not,” Hunt said.

  “Fucking liar!” the man yelled. The taller of the two officers warned him to shut up.

  The other cop asked Hunt if he lived in the area.

  “I’m visiting a friend,” Hunt said. “I live north of here.”

  “Just so we can show our sarge we made an effort, could I see a piece of identification?”

  Hunt sighed. What was he supposed to do? If they ran his name through the system, they’d see the warrant for his arrest. And even if they didn’t run it, they might recognize his name. He was in a jam. To make matters worse, he heard the now familiar deep roar of the SRT. And he wasn’t the only one to recognize the sound. The homeless man did too. The man’s eyes flamed with triumph.

  “Here! That’s the Cherokee I talked about. See? See? I wasn’t fucking lying.”

  Intrigued, the officers turned to watch the SRT race toward their location. Alarmed, one of them whipped back toward Hunt, but he was too late. Hunt was already moving.

  Anna looked in her rearview mirror, anxious that someone had called the police and that she was about to be pulled over and put in handcuffs. Were there any witnesses or security cameras that had recorded her deed? There was no way to know. She simply hoped her brother would take care of it like he’d promised.

  She questioned the wisdom of telling Hunt what she’d done. His knowing about it wouldn’t help in any way.

  Oh my God! How did this happen? She had executed a man. No, not an execution. Self-defense. She made a right turn on Ocean Drive and accelerated south, pushing the negative thoughts away. At some point, she’d have to deal with what she had done, but now wasn’t the right time. Too many people were counting on her.

  She was less than three hundred feet from the condominium building when she noticed a commotion in front of it. She sucked in a breath. What now?

  In a flash, Hunt took in the tactical situation. Two police officers, one civilian, and less than five seconds to neutralize them.

  Hunt delivered a well-placed right hook to the shorter officer’s chin. It was all very unfair. The officer was caught by surprise, and even though his neck was as thick as one of his legs and his jaw could have been built from granite, his knees buckled under him. Hunt took a side step toward the second officer, who, to his credit, had managed to pull his service pistol out of its holster. But Hunt was just too fast. His speed, his precision—all of it drilled into him through years of training—came naturally. The officer had no chance. Hunt slapped both hands over his weapon, effectively trapping the officer’s hand against the frame of his pistol. He rotated the gun away from him and then directed it upward while twisting it against the rotation of the officer’s wrist. The officer screamed in frustration and horror as Hunt disarmed him in less than half a second. Hunt delivered a powerful, open-palm strike to the officer’s chest, forcing him to take a few steps back.

  The officer was in a bad spot, and he knew it. Hunt released the magazine and let it fall on the sidewalk. He stripped the slide and barrel from the gun and tossed it back to the officer.

  All the while the homeless man just stood there, eyes wide and mouth agape.

  “Sorry about your partner, brother,” Hunt said to the officer as Anna came to a stop next to the curb. “I didn’t hit him too hard,” Hunt added, climbing into the SRT.

  Anna accelerated away.

  “What took you so long?” Hunt asked Anna. In the side mirror, Hunt saw the officer he had knocked out get to his knees.

  “Just be happy I didn’t leave your ass on the street.”

  He looked at her. “Thanks,” he said. “And I mean it.”

  She nodded but remained silent. There was a deep purple mark on her right cheek. “What the hell happened to you?” Hunt asked.

  Anna sniffed and looked away.

  There were red finger marks on her neck, as if someone had grabbed her and tried to strangle her.

  “No, seriously, Anna, what happened? Were you mugged?”

  “Later, okay? Let’s get out of here.”

  Hunt didn’t push it. He was about to tell her they needed a new vehicle when someone walking on the sidewalk caught his eyes. Hunt did a double take. For a split second their eyes met, and there was a jolt of recognition.

  Cole Egan?

  Could it really be him? What was he doing here? A coincidence?

  “What is it?” Anna asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, his mind racing. “I’m not sure.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  South Beach, Florida

  Egan kept walking. He didn’t turn to watch where the Jeep was going. He had memorized the license plate and could get all the information he needed from it. With lights flashing and sirens blaring, two police cars sped past him and stopped in front of the condominium building. Car doors flung open, and the officers jumped out. It was futile to get any closer to the safe house. It was compromised.

  Had Hunt left Pomar alive? If he had to bet on it, he’d say Pomar was dead. But with Hunt, you never knew. He was a man capable of great sympathy but also of extreme violence. If Pomar was alive, he wouldn’t talk to the police. He might have spilled his guts to Hunt, but the police would have to follow the rules. Egan retraced his steps back to his car and thought about his next move. Hunt was probably on his way to the second safe house. That was the only thing of value that Pomar could have shared with him.

  Egan dialed Hector’s number.

  “Hunt and Anna Garcia are on their way to you,” Egan said.

  “What happened on your end?”

  “Let’s just say that the South Beach safe house is no longer safe.”

  “I’ll send a crew to torch it.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Egan cautioned. “There are at least half a dozen police officers on the scene.”

  “I see. What about our man?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then please tell me what you do know,” Hector said, obviously irritated.

  For $400,000, Egan would give Hector a little wiggle room, but he didn’t appreciate Hector’s tone.

  “No doubt Hunt squeezed out of your man everything he knew about you and your team. All your safe houses are effectively compromised. And they’re driving a late-model red Cherokee SRT.”

  “I’ll tell my men to get ready.”

  Had Hector left a small contingent behind? That would be a grave mistake. “Tell your men to leave now,” Egan said. “I just told you Hunt’s on his way.”

  “They’ll handle him,” Hector said.

  Hadn’t he made it crystal clear that Hunt was dangerous? Hunt single-handedly slaughtered half a dozen men to find me, Egan thought. He won’t hesitate to kill twice that number to find his daughter.

  “For Christ’s sake, Hector, pull them out.”

  Egan didn’t really care what happened to the Black Tosca’s men, but he didn’t want to be the only one left standing at the end. The crazy bitch would blame him.

  “I see no reason to. Pomar was alone. They aren’t. They’ll take him down.”

  “I’ll tell you this one more time, Hector,” Egan said. “Hunt is the last man you want to cross. He’ll fucking kill anyone who is even remotely connected to the kidnapping of his daughter. Get out while you can. You understand, Hector? Hello? Hector?”

  Hector had hung up on him.

  Fuck!

  Egan started the car and thought about his options. It was his job to take care of Hunt. He was under no illusions about what would happen to him—and his family—if he failed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Hallandale Beach, Florida

  Hunt would give a year’s salary to have Simon Carter and the rest of his former RRT teammates with him right now. He needed guys he could count on to have his back. Arrest warrant or not, his men—his friends—would drop everything to come to his assistance. He’d do the same for them. But with the exception of Simon Carter, he hadn’t called up
on them. Not yet anyway. There was no time. Every minute away from Leila was a minute she was spending with Hector Mieles and the rest of the Black Tosca’s crew.

  And they were animals.

  Over sixty thousand people had been killed since 2006 in relation to drug-trafficking organizations. Not all of them could be attributed to the Black Tosca’s network, but she was a big part of the problem. The Justice Department had estimated that the sale of heroin, marijuana, and cocaine added over $3 billion annually into the Black Tosca’s coffers. Illegal drugs, though, were only one of the products her cartel offered. Her revenue streams had become increasingly diversified over the past couple years and now included human trafficking and the shipment of illegal immigrants and sex workers. She had ordered the construction of an extensive network of skillfully constructed tunnels under the United States–Mexico border. Some experts Hunt knew thought she was getting ready to sell her services to terrorists. They would pay her dearly for the right to use her network to transport weapons and sleeper cells into the United States. And that scared the shit out of Hunt.

  There wasn’t much traffic this time of night, and Hunt could see the headlights of oncoming cars from afar. That went for anyone trying to follow them too. Cole Egan’s face resurfaced in his mind. Was it purely a coincidence that Egan was a couple blocks away from Pomar’s condominium? He hadn’t seen the man for years, and now, on this night, here he was. Hunt’s gut told him that Egan’s sudden reappearance wasn’t a fluke. It was more than that. It meant trouble. The only link connecting Egan to this whole mess was McMaster. Was his new boss dirty? The thought had crossed his mind earlier, but he took advantage of the quiet drive to give it more consideration. McMaster was the one who had introduced him to Chief Inspector Zorita, the man who had tried to kill Vicente Garcia.