Chicago, Illinois
Hunt was less than half a mile from the warehouse when the lead sniper broke the air.
“Alpha One, Sierra One, over.”
“Go for Alpha One.”
“I have movement at the drive-ins. Six males of Hispanic origin climbed into the vans. One of them is Ramón Figueroa. Some of the men are armed with what seem to be AR-15s.”
Hunt’s hopes of a victimless raid evaporated quickly.
The intelligence provided to his team hadn’t indicated any other commercial operations going on at the warehouse. It made his next tactical decision much easier.
“Sierra One, you’re clear to engage on your authority. Don’t let the vans get away.”
“Sierra One copies. All Sierra elements are clear to engage on my authority.”
Figueroa closed the door and started the diesel engine. Site two was another warehouse ten miles away. Two of his men would ride with him. He had ordered Juan, Edmundo, and a third man to take a separate route. It had been his decision to have only five men with him on Lawrence Avenue. By keeping a low profile, he had hoped to extend his stay longer than the ninety days he usually remained at a given place.
He wished he could have brought the girls, but fifteen minutes wasn’t enough time to get them dressed and to secure them in the back of each truck. And they were cheap anyway. Much cheaper than heroin. His associates would have no problem sending more girls his way. He knew the drill.
Born thirty years ago in a lower-middle-class family near Reynosa, Mexico, a city about eleven miles south of McAllen, Texas, on the southern bank of the Rio Grande, Figueroa had watched his parents work for an American-owned aluminum vents factory. It hadn’t taken long for him to figure out that the Americans were doing business in his hometown because of the low labor rates the hardworking Mexicans were willing to accept. Not Figueroa. In town, he’d seen men who lived a far easier lifestyle, had more money, and drove shiny black cars. That was what he wanted for himself too. His initial job working for the local kingpin had been menial, but his loyalty and his willingness to do what he was told without asking questions had helped him work his way up the ladder. Within two years, he’d been tasked with accompanying shipments of young girls to the United States. Half a decade later, and with a shiny black Escalade parked in his underground garage, Figueroa was the Black Tosca’s representative in Chicago.
In his side mirror, Figueroa saw Trevor exit the warehouse with Fernando. Trevor was the youngest in his crew, but he had already proven himself as a merciless street enforcer. He was passionate about his job, but maybe a little too ambitious for Figueroa’s taste. He’d have to keep a close eye on him. Trust only went so far. Fernando, though, was a different animal. At twenty-six, he was five years Trevor’s senior and a graduate of the accounting program at the University of Chicago. Fernando was incapable of violence; his forte was analyzing corporate balance sheets and keeping financial records.
“We’re good to go, boss,” Trevor said as he slammed the sliding door behind him.
Figueroa gently pressed the gas pedal, and the van moved forward. He cranked the steering wheel hard to the left to leave some space for the other van parked next to them. He felt the van shudder lightly, as if he had driven over a glass bottle. A millisecond later, bullets punched through the hood of the van.
Figueroa jammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and the tires spun before catching traction. The van leaped forward and onto the street outside the warehouse. He had to call site two to warn them and ask for backup. As he pulled his phone from his pocket, the van swerved into the opposite lane. An oncoming car blared its horn. Figueroa jerked the wheel to the right to avoid a head-on collision, and his phone fell in between the seats. He searched for it with his right hand. The tips of his fingers touched it, but that only pushed the phone farther down and out of reach.
“Call site two now,” he shouted.
Before Trevor or Fernando could do so, the van jolted right. Figueroa attempted to recover, but the engine didn’t respond. The steering wheel was heavy and sluggish, and the van came to a stop in the middle of the road, its left front and rear tires shot out.
“Out!”
Figueroa grabbed his AR-15 and jumped out of the van. Trevor did the same, but Fernando remained in his seat, too terrified to move.
“There.” Figueroa pointed toward three SUVs approaching at high speed. Their emergency lights confirmed they were law enforcement.
Figueroa and Trevor opened fire on the lead SUV.