“Are you a real cop? Or are you one of them?” Hector asked.
“What? I’m with the Miami-Dade Police Department, sir. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
“My name is Ramón Esposito, and I’m a security guard at the construction site,” Hector explained, hoping it would justify how he was dressed. “I tried . . . I really did.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“The . . . the people who shot at the black SUVs. Some . . . some of them were dressed just like you,” Hector said, pointing to the officer. “They were wearing the same uniforms.”
That got the officer’s attention. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, Officer,” Hector replied, looking shocked and a bit desperate. He pointed to where the marshal’s bullet had grazed his arm. “They shot me.”
“Shit!” the officer said out loud before turning to his radio. “This is Officer Mancusi. Please note shooters may be dressed in police uniforms.”
Mancusi looked at Hector. “Do you know where they went?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure. I’m sorry,” Hector replied, grabbing his injured arm.
“Do you need medical assistance?”
“Yes, I think so, but some people are in worse shape than me. I can drive myself to the hospital.”
“I appreciate this, sir,” Mancusi said. “But before you go, I’ll need to get your name and contact info. The detectives will want a statement from you.”
That was a problem. The new set of IDs was in the Honda’s trunk, sealed in a plastic bag next to another plastic bag containing a spare pistol and extra ammunition.
“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll be happy to help,” Hector replied, nodding. “Can I get up? My wallet is in my back pocket.”
Officer Mancusi’s demeanor had changed from suspicious to somewhat friendly. Hector guessed he had a foot and a hundred pounds on the officer. With the knife he had tucked against his belt, it would be an easy takedown. Hector almost felt sorry for the officer. He wouldn’t go home tonight.
Hunt strained his neck to catch sight of the shooter. Bolts of pain ripped through his entire back and side as he commanded his body to get up. Police officers had flocked to the area, yelling conflicting orders to the poor citizens unlucky enough to have remained close by. The shooter was gone, had completely vanished, leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake.
Hunt patted himself down but found no injuries. He did the same with Garcia, who hadn’t moved an inch for the past minute. His hands quickly became drenched in blood. A gunshot wound in the upper right area of Garcia’s back was bleeding profusely. There was no visible exit wound. Hunt gently turned Garcia on his back. Garcia’s eyes stared back at him, lifeless.
One more look around confirmed there was no other immediate threat. Hector didn’t so much as blink before he attacked, catching Officer Mancusi by surprise. The strike was swift and deadly. He faked left—not that it was necessary—but struck from the right. He plunged his knife into Mancusi’s exposed neck. The blade penetrated the skin, and Hector felt it stick into something. He twisted the handle and pushed harder. The blade responded and tore in farther. The scraping of the serrated steel on bone was clearly audible. No sound escaped Mancusi’s mouth as he died in Hector’s arms.
Hector unlocked the Honda Civic and effortlessly dropped Mancusi’s body on the back seat. A curtain moving in the window of an apartment building across the street caught his attention, but Hector decided against investigating further. He jumped in the driver’s seat of the Civic, started the engine, and sped away just as five police officers dressed in tactical gear emerged from a side street between two condo towers. They were one hundred yards behind him, and Hector kept an eye on the officers in his rearview mirror. They made no attempt to stop him, and they were too far away to get the license plate number.
But even if they had, Hector wouldn’t keep the car for long.
Not with a dead police officer in his back seat.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hallandale Beach, Florida
Leila woke with a splitting headache, but the memories of her kidnapping were vivid. Were the abductors watching her now? The thought of being watched sent a chill down her spine. She lay still, quietly listening for sounds that would betray someone else’s presence.
Nothing.
Sophia. Oh my God. Sophia!
Leila opened her eyes. She was in a dimly lit room, handcuffed to a bed. Her wrists hurt. The handcuffs were too tight and cutting into her skin. There was a sink and a toilet on the opposite side of the room. A video camera poked from a corner of the ceiling. The faint odor of coffee and cigarettes reached her.