Hunt looked at the 130,000-square-foot building housing the Miami Field Division. The DEA had moved there in 2009 after being evicted from its Doral headquarters. Even though the DEA kept outposts in Miami and Fort Lauderdale, Weston was where decisions were made. The DEA had invested over $4 million to reconfigure the building, tucked between a small hotel and a medical center, with security features, evidence vaults, interrogation rooms, and holding cells.
Tom Hauer, the DEA acting administrator, had transferred Hunt back to Miami after the fiasco in Chicago. There was no way Hunt could have kept his position as a team leader with the RRT in Virginia. That was fine. He would miss kicking in doors, but he was confident he would see action in Miami. Plus, he had no choice. A six-month suspension wasn’t something his bank account had counted on. Fortunately for him, he had money tucked away. Not a lot, and certainly not enough to go through another suspension, but enough to allow him to pay his bills. Jasmine had offered to help, but it felt wrong to accept money from her knowing it came from her new husband.
But money was just one thing and not the main reason he was pleased to start working again. He missed the job, the camaraderie. He loved the adrenaline rush. He was addicted to it. Unfortunately for him, his suspension had included the strict interdiction against using any DEA facilities, including the shooting ranges. That didn’t mean Hunt had been out of options during the past six months. He’d called his former platoon commander, Martin Riese, now a major and the executive officer for the Airborne and Ranger Training Brigade, headquartered at Fort Benning, Georgia, to ask if Riese could find him something useful to do.
Civilians, even DEA agents, weren’t usually welcome in the close-knit community that was the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment. But not only had Hunt served with the Rangers, he had also earned the Silver Star for valor in combat during the battle for the Haditha Dam in 2003. So it had been with genuine pleasure that Riese invited him to spend a few weeks at Fort Benning. It had been a win-win situation. In exchange for lecturing about the geopolitical implications of the war on drugs that the American government was waging within and outside its borders, Riese had allowed him to join a group of future Rangers during the mountain and swamp phases of Ranger school. Hunt had had a blast and had been pleased to see he still had the stamina necessary to keep up with the younger Rangers. He wondered where he’d be in life if he had decided to stay in the military.
Hunt took a deep breath and entered the building. He nodded to the security guards and swiped his identification card through the card reader. The light blinked red.
“Can I see your ID, sir?” one of the guards said.
Hunt handed him his credentials. “I’m Special Agent Pierce Hunt. It’s my first day here.”
The guard examined Hunt’s ID. “Who are you here to see?”
“Daniel McMaster, the special agent in charge,” Hunt replied.
“One moment.” The guard placed a call, then turned his back to him. “Yes, sir,” Hunt heard him say, then, “No, sir, the system indicates he’s been dismissed.”
What?
The guard hung up. “You’ll have to wait here, Mr. Hunt. Someone will come down shortly. Please have a seat.”
There was no point arguing with the guard. He was only doing his job. The DEA was a big organization, and Hunt wasn’t surprised his status hadn’t been updated. Still, dismissed ?
Ten minutes later, two men wearing security uniforms appeared and signaled Hunt to follow them. They didn’t say anything, not even a greeting.
They took the elevator to the third floor. The elevator door opened to a sea of cubicles occupied by DEA agents. One of the guards took the lead, and Hunt followed, an uneasy feeling nagging at him. He tried to make eye contact with some of the agents, but none of them looked away from their screens. It was weird. No one was talking, which was unusual. Typically, the bull pen was a noisy place where one sometimes had to yell to be heard by a colleague a few desks away.
He was in the middle of the room when someone shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, Pierce Hunt!”
The room burst into earsplitting cheers and applause. For a brief moment, Hunt wondered what was going on. Agents were clapping and smiling, some shouting words he didn’t understand. A few walked up to him and shook his hand, thanking him for what he had done to the reporter whose actions had contributed to the death of one of their own.
“I guess you weren’t expecting such a welcome, Special Agent Hunt,” said Daniel McMaster.
Hunt turned to face him. McMaster was tall—over six feet, maybe six two—with broad shoulders and dark brown hair starting to gray at the temples. A huge smile beneath his thick—and somewhat distracting—mustache put Hunt at ease. The two men shook hands.
“I certainly wasn’t, sir,” Hunt said.
“Glad to have you with us.”
“Thanks. Happy to be here.”
“Let’s talk in my office.” McMaster led the way.
McMaster’s office wasn’t decorated to impress or entertain. The focal point was a dark wood government-issue desk with two large American flags at either end. On the wall behind the desk was a massive DEA seal. A large glass wall separated his space from the bull pen, and Hunt imagined it gave the impression he had his finger on the pulse of his agents.