Hector saw his target fall flat on his stomach but almost immediately move out of sight. He inserted a fresh magazine while continuing to close the distance. He was about to resume shooting to cover his advance when he heard running footsteps behind him. Hector turned to face the upcoming threat, but he was too late. A US marshal tackled him at full speed. Hector dropped his pistol as he was knocked off balance but managed to grab the agent’s waist and throw him off by rotating his hips clockwise and using the marshal’s momentum against him. The marshal lost his footing and fell, rolling a few times. Hector was on him in a flash and grabbed him by the throat. He squeezed hard, digging his thumbs and fingers deep into the man’s neck. The marshal’s eyes bulged, and his hands flailed in a futile attempt to break the viselike grip. Hector slammed the marshal’s head against the pavement once, twice, and the third time, with a distinct cracking sound, he knew he had killed the man.
Hector hurried back to his feet and picked up the pistol he had dropped during the altercation. Fifty yards away, Garcia and the other marshal were escaping. Hector grunted in frustration. The flashing emergency lights of police cars reflected off the buildings. He was out of time. In ten seconds, he’d be surrounded.
He raised his pistol to eye level, aligned his sights on the fleeing men, steadied his breathing, and pulled the trigger.
They were almost there. Another ten yards and they’d be safe. The backups were arriving now. In a minute or two, the area would be secure. Garcia had lost so much blood that he was barely conscious.
“C’mon, old man,” Hunt said, helping him forward.
Garcia’s hair was slicked in sweat, his eyes wild and unseeing. His face was a mask of pain, but he pushed on.
Then Garcia pitched forward like a felled tree. Hunt tried to keep him going, but Garcia’s legs folded beneath him. A round whizzed past and then another. Hunt hit the ground, angling his body so he could see where the shots were coming from.
The tall, bulldozer-like shooter was methodically firing his pistol at them. Another bullet zipped above Hunt’s head, so close it made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Hunt crawled on top of Garcia’s body and shielded it with his own.
As Hector made his escape, he wondered if Garcia was dead. He had struck him at least once, of that he was sure. He wished he could have put a few more rounds into Garcia before the surviving marshal had blocked him. There was no point in staying longer. Police were everywhere, but amid the chaos, they had no idea who was who. The trick was to slip through before they cordoned off the area.
“All elements, this is Bravo Zero-Six,” he said over their comms system. “Retreat back to site three. I say again, retreat back to site three. Follow your personal exit protocols.”
Only six men acknowledged. Not good.
Maybe some had equipment malfunctions? That was wishful thinking. Nothing about this mission had gone according to plan. The opposing force’s response had been stronger and much more effective than he wanted it to be. The Black Tosca wouldn’t mind the losses as long as the objective was achieved.
But he did.
If he managed to get out of this mess alive, he’d go back to his operational plan and review it entirely to look for things he could improve on. Maybe losses didn’t bother his cousin, but they troubled him. Poor dead Pablo wouldn’t let him sleep in peace for a while.
Now wasn’t the time to worry about tomorrow, though. He had to get his men out of the area. Thankfully, they had preemptively stashed cars all over the neighborhood. All were filled with clothes, cash, hotel keys, and new sets of identities.
Hector’s getaway car was a five-year-old gray Honda Civic. The key was where it was supposed to be, in the exhaust pipe. He was about to unlock the door when he felt a presence behind him. He tried to see a reflection in the window, but the angle was all wrong.
“Sir, please keep your hands where I can see them.”
Damn it. A cop.
Hector had already disposed of his pistol and bulletproof vest, but since he was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of black combat pants tucked in his boots, he couldn’t blame the officer for being suspicious. He slowly turned toward the officer, making sure he kept his hands at his side. They were two streets away from where the ambush had taken place, and there were only a few pedestrians on the street.
The moment he made eye contact with the officer, Hector knew how he was going to play it.
“Please don’t shoot me! Please don’t shoot me,” he pleaded, getting on his knees and raising his hands above his head. “I have five children. Please don’t kill me!”
He closed his eyes like someone expecting to get hit.
“Sir, I won’t shoot you,” the officer replied. “But you need to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”