“Here they come,” the driver said.
Hunt couldn’t take his eyes off Garcia as he approached the Suburban. Garcia was six feet tall but had gained a few pounds since Hunt had last seen him. His hair was still black, but his stubble bore flecks of white. Even in handcuffs and sporting an orange jumpsuit, Vicente Garcia was a man to be reckoned with. His green eyes didn’t miss much, and his natural charm easily masked the cruelty he was capable of inflicting on his adversaries. To his right, Hunt felt Zorita stiffen.
Two US marshals wearing green combat fatigues and armed with automatic weapons flanked Garcia. One of them opened the door and helped him climb aboard.
Garcia spotted Hunt right away and smiled at him before taking his seat next to Robbins.
“What a pleasant surprise, Terrance. Or do you go by Pierce now?”
“Nice to see you too, Vicente.”
“You know you broke my daughter’s heart, don’t you?”
Hunt bit his lip.
“She really cared about you,” Garcia said while Robbins fastened his seat belt. Garcia sounded sincere, but Hunt knew better than to fall for it.
“You smell good, Vicente. Someone splash some cologne on your neck? Is it for me, or do you have a special someone in prison?”
Garcia twisted in his seat but didn’t reply directly.
“And who are you again?” Garcia asked, looking straight at Zorita. “I’ve seen you before, yes?”
“No, I’d remember if we’d met before.”
Garcia sat with his back straight, his eyes fixed on the front of the vehicle. “I wouldn’t trust this one if I were you, Pierce.”
Garcia was a narcissist and a master at pitting people against each other. Nonetheless, Hunt glanced at Zorita, who simply shook his head and rolled his eyes, not even bothering to reply to Garcia.
“Enough, Vicente,” Robbins said, poking Garcia with his elbow.
The motorcade started rolling, and Hunt had the uneasy feeling he had just boarded his own funeral hearse.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Miami, Florida
Hector Mieles’s phone chirped in his pocket. He looked at the screen. His lookout in the vicinity of FDC Miami had just confirmed that the convoy was en route. He had also attached a picture of the three-vehicle motorcade. Hector and fifteen other members of the Black Tosca’s cartel had taken position on the first and fourth floors of two construction sites. As it was Sunday, the sites were vacant except for four security officers the builders had contracted to patrol the perimeter. All four of them were now in the bed of their pickup truck, their throats cut.
Hector had one more phone call to make before he could focus exclusively on the upcoming ambush.
Someone picked up on the first ring.
“What’s the girl’s status?” Hector asked.
“She’s mobile with her regular driver and a new bodyguard.”
“Is she alone?”
The man hesitated. “No, she isn’t,” he finally said. He sounded disappointed. “She’s with another girl.”
Hector shook his head. That was unfortunate. Sophia—Tony Garcia’s fifteen-year-old daughter and the granddaughter of Vicente Garcia—rarely had friends with her. Hector, himself a father of two, wouldn’t take any pleasure in what was coming next, but he had his orders.
“Execute,” he said.
“Understood.” This time, his interlocutor seemed relieved. “I’ll call you back once it is done.”
With that out of the way, Hector switched his focus back to the operation at hand.
“It’s time,” he said to his men over the radio. “Take your positions.”
Most of his men were either like him, former Infantería de Marina—the Mexican Marines—or ex-members of the Brigada de Fusileros Paracaidistas—the Parachute Rifle Brigade. They didn’t need to be told twice what to do. The plan was simple and made even easier by the fact that they weren’t going to worry about collateral damage. Hector tapped the magazine of his FX-05 assault rifle to make sure it was well inserted while the man next to him checked on his RPG launcher. One after the other, his men confirmed they were in position.
It was going to be a bloodbath.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Miami, Florida
The first half mile went without a hitch. The motorcade had just turned north on Second Avenue when Hunt caught a puff of light gray-blue smoke coming from a construction building ahead of them. He could have easily missed it, but his eyes were at the right place at the right time. Not that it made any difference. Hunt recognized the situation for what it was—an ambush—only an instant before the rocket-propelled grenade’s rocket motor ignited.