Miami, Florida
With most of the surviving US marshals too stunned to return fire, Hector ordered his remaining men to advance. He pulled his pistol out of its holster and leapfrogged toward the burning Suburban. None of the marshals had escaped the explosion unscathed. Their clothes were shredded, their exposed skin scorched. Some were hunched over on their knees in apparent agony; others were moaning, their pleas animal-like. They were easy prey, and his men took them out with merciful single shots to the head. One marshal who had managed to crawl away from the Suburban was about to be put down when a bullet whizzed past Hector. The man next to him fell. Hector spun around only to see another of his men crumple, shot in the head.
There! A man had his pistol trained on him. He was thirty-five yards away, dressed in blue jeans and black soft body armor. Behind him, Vicente Garcia was resting his back against the front tire of a parked minivan. Hector fired once and then rolled to his right. A bullet grazed his left arm, just below the elbow. He ignored the burning sensation and dashed across the street while zigzagging left and right. He jumped over a concrete barricade as more rounds impacted around him. He landed on the other side and took in his surroundings. The sirens were getting closer by the second, sending waves of sound off the adjoining buildings. Not wanting to appear where he was last seen, Hector duckwalked along the barricade. Vicente Garcia was less than twenty-five yards away. The marshal, the one who had grazed him, had to expect Hector would pop his head out from cover to check on Vicente Garcia. The trick was to do it quickly.
Up, he sees me, I’m down.
Two rounds zipped past where his head had been a quarter of a second before.
This guy’s good, Hector thought. Even though his peek had lasted less than three full seconds, Hector had gotten the info he wanted. Vicente Garcia hadn’t moved much, but to Hector’s dismay, he had shifted to the opposite side of the minivan, making him much harder to hit. Hector estimated he had less than half a minute to take out Garcia before law enforcement officers cornered him.
There was no easy way to do this, and his window of opportunity was almost shut. He duckwalked ten feet to his right before taking a deep breath.
Up, he sees me . . .
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Miami, Florida
The bullet hit the pavement an inch to his right before deflecting away. Hunt fired at his running target, but, for his size, the man was surprisingly quick and agile. He disappeared behind a concrete barrier. With a quick look behind him, Hunt confirmed Vicente Garcia had made it to the minivan.
A head popped up from behind the barricade, and Hunt let go two shots. The head disappeared. Hunt shuffled backward, keeping his pistol up and pointed toward the barricade. Garcia had his back against the rear tire of the minivan. His hands, dark with blood, were covering a large wound on his leg.
“Put pressure on it,” Hunt said.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
Hunt used his left hand to remove his belt. He threw it on Garcia’s lap.
“Tighten the belt above the bullet wound. You need to stop the bleeding.”
“You have to do it. I can’t let go. I think the bullet nicked an artery.”
For the first time, Hunt noticed a panicked look on Garcia’s face. Blood squirted from beneath his hands. Hunt had seen enough wounds in Afghanistan to understand Garcia didn’t stand a chance if he didn’t stop the bleeding. He was about to holster his pistol to help Garcia when the rear window of the minivan exploded, spraying chips of glass all around him.
Bullets pinged off the sheet metal of the minivan. The shooter was making his move. Hunt chanced a peek, allowing only two inches of his body to emerge from behind the van. What he saw startled him, if only for a moment. The shooter was charging his position and was already halfway there. Hunt tried to duck back but caught a round on the right side of his ribs. The bulletproof vest saved his life and spread the impact, but the round packed enough punch to spin him around and out of cover. Another bullet hit him square in the back, knocking him to the ground and squeezing all the air out of his lungs. His pistol flew out of his hand and skittered out of reach under the minivan.
Hunt forced himself onto his back and frantically scooted backward to position himself between the oncoming shooter and Vicente Garcia.