The quad Mercury Verado 350 engines roared to life, filling the air with a loud throbbing that pulsated through the entire boat. To Hunt, who had always dreamed of owning such a beast, the sound was intoxicating. He removed the lines holding the Blackwater to the dock before taking his position at the helm. He put the engines in gear and motored slowly out of the dredged channel leading to Biscayne Bay. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he needed to get out of Dodge before more MDPD officers—presumably much less cooperative than Detective Milburne—stormed Moon’s residence to arrest him.
Hunt headed due south toward Government Cut Inlet, a man-made shipping channel between Miami Beach and Fisher Island used by pleasure and commercial craft alike. The moment he exited the channel, he pushed the throttle forward, and the engines gurgled louder. The bow rose slightly before settling back down once the Blackwater 43 was out of the hole. A stiff breeze was picking up from the west, but the boat’s twenty-thousand-pound hull carved through the waves with ease. Once he was a mile offshore, he put the gear in neutral and reached for his bag. He pulled out one of the two prepaid phones he carried and dialed a number he had never expected to call again.
Anna Garcia picked up on the third ring. “Is it you?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“We need to talk. Where are you?”
Right to the point. No small talk. Her voice, usually so smooth and gentle, sounded choked with emotion. Or was it despair? Hunt could only imagine how difficult it must be for her to talk with him. He had betrayed her in the worst way a man could betray a woman. Through her heart. And he had used her to bring down her father.
“It’s a bit complicated,” he said. “Tell me where you want to meet.”
“I know about the arrest warrant,” she said.
“Why am I not surprised?”
The Garcia crime family was well connected and had a lot of sources in law enforcement. Still, he wouldn’t be shocked if his face made the evening news today. The media across the country hated him for what he had done to Luke Moore. It didn’t mean anything to them that the guy was an asshole and had been responsible for the death of a DEA special agent; Moore was one of them, and they’d do everything in their power to bury Hunt.
“Meet me at my brother’s house,” Anna said.
“The boat dock is still there, I presume?”
“The dock? Yes, why? You’re on a boat?”
“As I said, it’s complicated. See you in a few.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hallandale Beach, Florida
Nothing his cousin had ever asked him to do had troubled Hector before. There were a few things he’d done that he wasn’t proud of, like killing two priests who had betrayed the Black Tosca’s confidence, but nothing worth losing a night’s sleep over. Hector prided himself on his ability to put nasty memories away and move on to the next job. But this was different. Kids were his soft spot, and he didn’t believe they should suffer because they’d been born into the wrong family. He had never intentionally hurt a child before.
There was a chance Tony Garcia would cooperate and give his life for his daughter’s. If the roles were reversed, Hector would exchange his life for his kid’s. Still, Hector had argued against giving Garcia forty-eight hours. Tony was a powerful man with a lot of resources. Why give him the chance to attempt a rescue? While the Black Tosca’s network in Florida was solid, they weren’t as safe here as they would be in Mexico. But his cousin, in all her wisdom, had decided that she wanted Garcia to suffer, to feel the same pain she’d endured when she was forced to watch her father be burned alive in front of her. Hector had warned her against such a drastic show of force, had explained to her that she would lose the fragile sympathy of the good people of San Miguel de Allende, who had until now largely closed their eyes to her illegal activities. There was an immense difference between looking the other way when it came to the drug-trafficking business—it was Mexico, after all—and forgiving the murder of two teenage girls broadcast live on the internet. The San Miguel de Allende population wouldn’t want to be seen as accomplices to the sadistic slaughter his cousin had in mind.
Hector stared at the door across the hallway. In the end, he had failed to make her understand. The Black Tosca was interested in only one thing—revenge.
The door to her room opened, and, despite her fatigue, Leila jumped to her feet. Hector stood under the lintel, his head almost touching it. Notwithstanding his kindness and impeccable courtesy toward her, the man radiated the sort of authority that couldn’t be denied. And it scared her.
“You owe me something,” he said.
She swallowed a sob and thrust her chin out defiantly. “I already told you my name. It’s your turn to tell me what I want to know.”
Hector gave a little laugh. “Is that so?”
“Where’s Sophia?”
Hector cracked his fingers, then folded his arms across his chest. “Nearby,” he finally said. “Don’t worry about your friend. As long as you continue cooperating with me, she’ll be fine.”
“You promise?” she asked, knowing how desperate that sounded.
He nodded. “Your parents, Leila. What are their names?”
That hadn’t been part of the deal. Why did he need her parents’ names? Then it came to her. It was just like in the movies. The bad guys wanted to get paid. That’s why they had kidnapped her and Sophia. Their families were rich!