Hunt watched his snipers engage with the targets. This was a busier neighborhood than he would have liked. In an effort to avoid collateral damage and unintended civilian casualties, Hunt had wanted to box in the panel vans at the warehouse, but they’d been seconds too late. Two hundred yards away, two men exited the immobilized van and raised their rifles.
“Gun, gun, gun,” Hunt warned, bringing his MP5 to bear.
Hunt fired through the Durango’s windshield as bullets ripped apart its side mirror. Puffs of dirt and asphalt erupted to the left of his targets. He adjusted his aim but lost it before he could fire again when the driver braked hard.
Hunt was out of the Durango before it had fully stopped.
“Alpha One from Sierra One, you have two tangos behind the van. I have no shots,” said the sniper leader.
“Copy. Two targets behind the panel van.”
The rush of adrenaline enhanced all Hunt’s senses. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, and it felt good. In his peripheral vision, he spotted his men taking their positions next to him. To his immediate left was Scott Miller, the youngest guy on the team and a man Hunt had taken under his wing. Miller’s abilities and leadership skills left no doubt in Hunt’s mind that Miller would one day lead his own team.
They were still fifty yards away from the van when he saw a head pop out from behind the rear bumper. Hunt aligned his sights and was about to squeeze the trigger when the head exploded.
Good shot, Scott.
Figueroa watched in horror as Trevor collapsed next to him. The back of his head was covered in blood. Loud cracks told him the other van had come under fire too, probably from snipers perched at key locations around the warehouse. The fact that he was still alive meant the snipers had no clear shot or were too busy dealing with the rest of his crew.
“Fernando, get your ass out of the van,” Figueroa screamed.
Puta.
Figueroa had no illusions. He wasn’t going to kill them all by himself. His options were limited to surrendering to the DEA—and being killed in prison for his cowardice—or making a stand and trying to take as many with him as he could in death.
Figueroa considered his options and quickly came up with a plan. The interior of the van would offer both concealment and a wide field of fire. With Fernando’s help, he would make the DEA pay dearly for interfering with the Black Tosca’s business.
As Fernando slowly made his way out of the van, Figueroa grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. “Here’s what I want you to do.”
“Stay vigilant,” Hunt said to his team. “There are at least two more tangos associated with this van.”
“Alpha One, Sierra One.”
“Go.”
“Three tangos down on the other side of the warehouse.”
“Copy.”
The wailing of police sirens from throughout the city filled the crisp morning air. Within minutes, the local cops would be everywhere, adding to the confusion. Hunt saw an unarmed man slowly come out from behind the panel van. He didn’t recognize him.
“Hands in the air!” Hunt yelled. “Step away from the van!”
Hunt’s eyes scanned the man for weapons. The man was shaking, and there was a wet patch on his pants between his legs.
“Keep your hands up and turn around slowly.”
The sound of a semiautomatic weapon startled Hunt. Rounds came from nowhere, and he dropped to the ground as one whizzed next to his head. Miller wasn’t as fast, though, and was hit twice. Hunt heard him grunt as he fell to his knees, but before Hunt could render him assistance, the man who had come out from behind the van reached behind his back. Hunt shot him with a double tap to the chest. The man collapsed on the spot, but the bullets didn’t stop. It took Hunt another half second to understand that someone was firing at them from inside the van.
Hunt opened up with three-round bursts. His team followed his lead and did the same.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Hunt ordered almost immediately. He stood up. “On me!”
They had peppered the van with so many bullets that Hunt doubted whoever had fired at them was still a threat. Two agents covered him on his left while Hunt approached the van. He opened the sliding door. Ramón Figueroa lay there, his body riddled with bullets; an AR-15 remained firmly in his grasp. Hunt cleared the weapon while the rest of his team secured the perimeter and tended to the suspect Hunt had shot in the chest.
“Pierce, over here!” one of his men called.
Hunt turned his head and saw that the suspect he’d shot had been holding a pistol. Hunt exhaled loudly. He had made the right call. But his relief was short-lived. As Hunt completed his visual inspection of the scene, he saw that Miller remained immobile in the middle of the road. Hunt ran to him.
“Officer down! Officer down!” Hunt said over the radio as he knelt next to his fallen comrade.
Fuck!
Miller’s eyes were still open. A small puddle of blood had formed under him. At least one armor-piercing round had gone through his vest and another through his throat. Hunt removed his gloves and felt for a pulse, already knowing he’d find none.
CHAPTER FOUR
Chicago, Illinois