Hunt shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn’t appreciate the jab. Anna Garcia—Vicente’s daughter—had been his way inside the Garcia crime family. The DEA had specifically targeted her, using Hunt as their weapon of choice. Truth was he had fallen hard for her, and she for him. It had been a mistake. A grave mistake that had cost Hunt his family. Still, it was true that Hunt and Vicente had, through Anna, shared a powerful bond for almost two years.
“He hates my guts. He won’t talk to me.” Which was also true. When Hunt had put the handcuffs around Vicente’s wrists, Vicente had promised to one day kill him. And it wouldn’t be for the arrest but for breaking his daughter’s heart.
“You won’t be handling the interrogation,” McMaster replied. “We just want you to listen in and steer our partners from Mexico in the right direction. You’ll know if Garcia lies.”
Partners from Mexico? “So this isn’t an American operation?”
“If the intelligence we get from Garcia pans out, we’ll need the Mexicans’ help if we are to conduct an operation within Mexico.”
“I see.” Hunt wasn’t a fan of the Mexican police. The DEA had lost too many good agents due to the Mexican authorities’ inability to root out the corrupt officers within their ranks.
“On that note, I’d like you to meet someone,” McMaster said, before turning on the intercom and instructing his secretary to let his guest in. “Play nice, Pierce. We need the Mexicans on this,” his new boss reminded him.
A medium-size man dressed in a dark gray suit entered the office. He was in his late forties with thinning black hair. He smiled at Hunt and offered his hand. He had perfectly white teeth.
“Special Agent Hunt, this is Chief Inspector Julio Zorita of the Mexican Federal Police.”
“Nice to meet you,” Hunt said, forcing a smile he hoped looked genuine.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Zorita said. His grip was strong and sincere.
“The chief inspector—”
“Please, call me Julio.”
“Julio is the head of the General Directorate of Strategic Operations within the National Gendarmerie Division,” continued McMaster. “He’ll be our liaison with the Mexican government.”
“I’m to be the eyes and ears of the general commissioner,” Zorita added.
Hunt nodded. “What’s the time frame for Garcia’s transfer?”
“It’s tomorrow,” Zorita said. “We’ve planned so it falls on a Sunday afternoon. Traffic should be much lighter.”
“Indeed,” McMaster confirmed. “The US Marshals Special Operations Group will move Garcia to a safe house, where he’ll stay until we catch the Black Tosca.”
That was a smart move. With the Black Tosca in play, even men like Vicente Garcia weren’t immune to her wrath. Starting tomorrow, solitary confinement or not, Garcia would have a huge target painted on his back. No one was naive enough to believe Garcia’s treachery would remain a secret.
“I want in on Garcia’s transfer,” Hunt said.
McMaster raised an eyebrow and looked at Zorita.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t,” the Mexican said.
McMaster didn’t look convinced, and Hunt thought he was about to veto his request, but instead he picked up his phone. “Let me call the deputy US marshal supervising tomorrow’s move. We’ll see what he says.”
McMaster dialed the number by heart and gave the marshal a quick summary of Hunt’s RRT and Ranger qualifications. He listened for half a minute before he said, “Thanks, John. I’ll let him know.”
“So?” Hunt asked once McMaster had hung up.
“You owe me one.”
But Hunt had a feeling that getting involved with the Garcias again was something he’d come to regret.
CHAPTER EIGHT
2010
Miami, Florida
As the security officer signaled him to enter the courtroom, Hunt knew his life was about to take a turn for the worse. He had dedicated the past two years to the biggest undercover DEA operation of the decade. The arrest of Vicente Garcia had generated a tremendous amount of good publicity for the agency and had, albeit briefly, disrupted the flow of opioids coming through South Florida.
But at what cost? Hunt asked himself as he looked up at the ceiling of the Wilkie D. Ferguson Jr. Courthouse.
What ended up being a big victory for the DEA was nothing but a tremendous waste to Hunt. He was on the verge of losing everything. Hunt had no doubt he was about to get grilled on the stand. That was fine. Lawyers didn’t scare him. He was, after all, the main witness against Vicente Garcia, so it was normal they’d go at him with everything they could find in an attempt to destroy his character. It wouldn’t matter. The evidence against Garcia was solid. What terrified him, though, was that within the next few hours, his wife—whom he had seen only a handful of times during the past two years—would learn of his infidelity. That scared him to death.