Hunt glanced at Anna from time to time as he weaved through the South Beach traffic. She was looking straight in front of her, her head resting against the plush leather padding of the headrest. She wore a thousand-yard stare, the same one he had seen on the faces of soldiers right after they had lost a friend in combat. She hadn’t exchanged one word with him since they had left Tony’s compound, and Hunt was sure this was because he had told her and Tony—in no uncertain terms—that he didn’t want Anna to accompany him. Tony had then volunteered, but Hunt had flat-out refused. Anna he could control. Maybe. But Tony—he was Sophia’s father. There was no way he would keep his cool if they came close to finding the girls. The odds of Tony killing someone before Hunt could extract every bit of intel out of him were too great. Besides, the Black Tosca might well have Tony under surveillance.
Mercifully, the intelligence Simon Carter had sent his way was of great assistance in helping Hunt find a place to start in locating the girls. Cross-referencing it with the intelligence the Garcia family had gathered on the Black Tosca since her rise to power had been easier than he had originally assumed. The late Vicente had identified the Black Tosca as a potential threat early on and had kept close tabs on her, which surprised Hunt.
When he asked Anna how Vicente had recognized the menace Valentina Mieles could become years before she would appear on the DEA’s radar, Anna had no idea why this would be so. Tony also denied knowing the reason behind his father’s suspicion, but he wouldn’t look Hunt in the eyes. Hunt had the feeling Tony knew why his father was interested in the Black Tosca but had deliberately decided not to share that reason, and it irritated the crap out of him.
What he did know, though, was that two years ago, édgar Pomar, a cousin of one of the two dead assaulters Carter had identified through fingerprints, had been a person of interest in a DEA money-laundering investigation. No charges were ever brought against Pomar, but the DEA had spent a week following him around, trying to figure out his role in the scheme. Due to limited resources, they’d had to drop their surveillance, but not before two addresses were linked to Pomar’s name. One was a two-bedroom condo in South Beach; the other was a luxurious oceanfront home in Hallandale Beach. The condo and the house were both rented through BlueShade Rental, an LLC owned by Graham Young, a Harvard Law School graduate and one of the most renowned criminal defense attorneys in the state of Florida.
Hunt wondered if Young was the real reason why the DEA had backed off of the investigation at that point. Young was well known for successfully defending controversial clients in court. His success rate was extraordinary. Though it was said he didn’t have any political ambitions—something Hunt doubted very much, since most high-profile scumbags seemed to have some—Young’s regular and generous contributions to the two main political parties made him almost untouchable.
This was all fine with Hunt, but if Young had anything to do with Leila’s kidnapping, there would be no hand-wringing, no second-guessing about what Hunt would do to him. Untouchable or not, Hunt would break the man.
Since the condo was located on Ocean Drive, a major thoroughfare in Miami Beach consisting of ten city blocks of neon-infested, art deco overindulgence, Hunt decided to start with that property. Because Young’s other property was tucked in a wealthy enclave of Hallandale Beach, he would have to be more cautious about his approach. Here on Ocean Drive, there was no such issue. It was almost midnight, and the streets were still filled with tourists and locals alike. Every hotel and restaurant was brightly lit, and the bars were packed so tightly that people were lining up on the sidewalks for the privilege of buying overpriced cocktails. The upbeat sounds of a rumba and the scent of delicious food made it to the interior of the red Grand Cherokee SRT. The Jeep wasn’t the only thing he had borrowed from Tony. Three additional burner phones had found their way into his backpack. Just in case Tasis had “played” with the pistol he’d kept in the boat’s cabin, Hunt checked to make sure the firing pin was still there and went through each of his three magazines to confirm all his rounds were still properly loaded. Tasis grinned the whole time, but Hunt didn’t put it past him to try to fuck him up like that.
Hunt drove past the Colony Hotel, a 1935 art deco boutique hotel recognized around the world as the undeniable symbol of South Beach, and kept going for another quarter of a mile until he reached the address he was looking for. Parking in South Beach was slightly less difficult than getting a reservation at the Prime One Twelve, a bustling steak house not too far away, which meant it was almost impossible.
Hunt turned left and went west a couple of blocks until they stopped at a red light. A young man came to their window and waved a board that said, Hungry. Not dangerous.
Hunt slid down the window and gave the man a handful of one-dollar bills.
“Get something to eat.”
“With what?” the man said. “What do you want me to do with five dollars?”
Most times Hunt gave money to homeless folks, they were grateful. This one was clearly on drugs—his pupils were as big as saucers. The sight saddened Hunt. He could easily replace the man’s face with his brother’s; he knew, just like he’d known with Jake, that the man would likely use the money for drugs, not food, but it was impossible not to try to help in some way.
He raised the window and mouthed sorry to the man just as Anna hit the automatic door-lock button. The click of the lock mechanism seemed to enrage the man. His expression changed into one of uncontrollable anger.