His death.
The thought brought a smile to her lips. With Tony Garcia gone, her cartel would control over 80 percent of the drug trade in Florida, and, more importantly, she’d finally avenge the savage murder of her father. But it was of the utmost importance that Tony understood why this was happening to him and his family. Vicente had killed her father over a minor financial disagreement. For this, she was going to decimate their entire family and take over their business.
She got out of bed and walked to the bathroom just off the sitting area. The bathroom was as sumptuous as the rest of the house. The shower was all glass, bigger than most walk-in closets, and had twenty body jets. She turned on the overhead rain shower and let the hot water run over her thick black hair. She remained motionless for a minute to clear her mind before she hit the button for the wall jets. She tried to keep the images of her father’s death from overriding her brain, but she couldn’t.
She never could.
Anger built up rapidly inside her and turned to hatred.
How dare they burn him alive? In front of me? I was thirteen years old!
Suddenly his screams became her screams, his pain her pain. She slid down the slick marble wall until she was curled over her knees. She covered her ears with her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to drive out the sickening visions.
It didn’t work. And the memories were driving her crazy.
How long she stayed there, crying, she had no idea, but by the time she got out of the shower, her fingers and toes were pruned. Never before had the images appeared so real. She had lost control over her emotions, and that couldn’t stand. She vowed to never let it happen again. And she knew exactly what she needed to do to accomplish that.
She toweled herself dry, wrapped another towel around her wet hair, and walked back into her bedroom. She grabbed a new burner phone from her nightstand and called Hector.
He answered on the first ring. She spent the next two minutes explaining what she expected of him. She could tell he wasn’t pleased, but, in the end, he would do as she said.
She was the Black Tosca after all, and she had just ordered another death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Miami, Florida
Hunt called McMaster to give him a situation report as he drove toward Jasmine and Chris Moon’s opulent residence in La Gorce, an idyllic island located north of Indian Creek and along the shores of Biscayne Bay.
McMaster understood Hunt’s need to go see his ex-wife but insisted he stop by the office for a debriefing afterward. The investigation into this afternoon’s events—the media had already dubbed it the Garcia Fiasco—would be long and drawn out. The FBI would want to speak with Hunt sooner rather than later. Truth be told, he was surprised McMaster had given him permission to go to his ex-wife’s first. McMaster must have called in a few favors, Hunt thought.
Though Hunt had been to the house many times before, he still couldn’t believe some people had so much money—or were actually willing to part with so much cash to buy a property. The fact that Jasmine had been the listing agent when Chris bought it might have played a role. Hunt knew that was how they’d met.
A lucky break for her, Hunt thought.
He gave his name to the security guard manning the main entrance of the gated community. The security guard studied his driver’s license and took down his plate number before letting him through. Hunt hated to admit it, but La Gorce was pretty nice. It was a short twenty-minute drive from Miami International Airport—very practical if you had a private jet—and offered international-grade tennis and cricket courts to its residents. Chris Moon’s mansion sat facing southwest on an acre of land jutting into the Biscayne Bay. The gates were open, and Hunt drove his Ford into the circular driveway.
Jasmine was outside waiting for him. Her shoulders slumped. He could see she had been crying, something she almost never did. He wished there was something he could say to make her feel better, but he promised himself he wouldn’t lie to her; there was nothing to gain by sugarcoating the situation.
“Hey,” he said, climbing out of his truck.
She surprised him by running straight into his arms. She hugged him tight, and he wrapped his arms around her. She sobbed into his neck, and he let her release her pain in silence.
Stay strong. Keep it together, he willed himself. Not an easy thing to do when the mother of your child—and a woman you had once loved more than anything else in the world—wept in your arms because your daughter, the child you conceived together out of love, had been kidnapped.
“We should go in,” she suggested after a moment. “Chris and the detective are in the backyard.”
Hunt looked at his ex-wife, and even though her salty tears had washed away her usual blush, she still looked beautiful.
“Okay,” he said, wiping her tears away with his thumbs.