Most couldn’t.
Hunt walked the street and examined the shells of the still-burning Suburbans. Dead bodies were scattered around, a mix of civilians, US marshals, and black-clad assaulters. After a while, Hunt came to the conclusion that he was the only man to survive the ambush and that he owed his life to John Robbins, who had sacrificed himself to allow Hunt and Garcia the opportunity to escape.
“Special Agent Hunt?”
Hunt turned around. A uniformed police officer was doing his best to catch up to him. He had a cell phone in his hand.
“Are you Special Agent Pierce Hunt?” the officer asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s for you, sir.” The officer handed him the cell phone.
Who would want to reach him via another man’s phone? Hunt thanked the officer and said, “This is Pierce Hunt.”
“Pierce, for God’s sake, where are you? I tried to reach you on your cell.”
Hunt recognized the voice instantly. McMaster.
“Still at the site of the ambush,” he told his boss.
“Are you okay? I heard it’s a real clusterfuck.”
Hunt pinched his nose. He couldn’t argue with that. Then he thought about Zorita, the Mexican federal agent. The traitorous son of a bitch.
“Julio Zorita, you know, your Mexican pal?” Hunt asked, his temper rising as his eyes settled on Robbins—whose body was being lifted into the back of an ambulance.
“Pierce—”
“He betrayed us. I’m not sure what the total body count will be, but these deaths, they’re on him. Every single one of them.”
“I . . . I didn’t know. Shit.”
“I’m the only one left, Daniel.”
McMaster remained silent for the better part of a minute. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion, which surprised Hunt. “Listen, Pierce, I—I don’t know how to say this . . . I . . .”
A sick feeling settled in the bottom of Hunt’s stomach. What now? “Just say it.”
“Your daughter was kidnapped less than an hour ago.”
Hunt was sure he hadn’t heard McMaster correctly. Leila was with his ex-wife. Jasmine would have called him if anything had happened to her. Unless Jasmine had been taken too.
Didn’t McMaster tell him he had tried to reach him on his cell? Hunt frantically searched his pockets for his phone.
Where is it? A cold fear crept over him. Where is my damn phone?
“Pierce? Pierce, you there?”
Hunt wasn’t listening. Where was his phone?
My tactical vest. He had left it on the sidewalk where the paramedic had helped him. Was it still there? Still clutching the other officer’s phone against his ear, Hunt jogged down the street. He found his bulletproof vest exactly where he had left it. His phone was in one of the front pockets. He had eleven missed calls.
He sagged on the sidewalk as if someone had cut him off at the knees.
Eleven missed calls. Two were from the DEA office; all the others came from Jasmine’s cell. It took Hunt a while to find his voice, but when he did, it was low and hoarse.
“What about Jasmine?”
“She’s shaken, but she wasn’t with Leila when it happened.”
That was the first good news of the day. He had to speak with her. He’d call her as soon as he was done with McMaster.
“Tell me what you know.”
“Not much for now, I’m afraid,” McMaster started. “It happened in Hallandale Beach, and it was a professional hit.”
A professional hit? That didn’t make one bit of sense. Very few people knew he had a daughter. He kept his work life separate from his personal one. His daughter didn’t even carry his name. Could it be Garcia exacting some sort of revenge? Hunt doubted it. No one in Garcia’s organization knew about Leila—or about Jasmine, for that matter. Could they have found out?
“How do you know it was done by professionals?” he asked.
“A motorist caught the whole thing on his dashcam. We’ll have the footage within the hour.”
“Who was she with?”
“Pierce, it’s kind of . . . seriously, it’s too soon to tell for sure.”
Hunt didn’t like McMaster’s answer. “For God’s sake, McMaster, don’t mess with me.”
At the other end of the line, McMaster cleared his throat. “We ran the plate of the vehicle that was carrying Leila, and we think she was with Sophia Garcia.”
Sophia Garcia. The sound of Tony Garcia’s fifteen-year-old daughter’s name was like a punch to the stomach, a clean blow that took Hunt’s breath away. What the hell was Leila doing with Sophia Garcia? Were they friends? That sounded improbable. Even if Vicente had somehow found out about Leila, he would have never ordered a hit on her. And with his own granddaughter in the vehicle? Impossible.
Could Leila have been in the wrong place at the wrong time? If that was the case, who in hell would dare order a hit against Tony Garcia’s daughter? Then something clicked in Hunt’s brain, and all at once he knew. Whoever had ambushed the motorcade had also ordered the hit on Sophia Garcia.
“I’ll call you back,” he said to McMaster.
Hunt made his way back to the ambush site, hoping at least one of the assaulters was still alive.