Moore couldn’t believe his luck. He checked his live viewers. Ten thousand and climbing. Amazing. The likes were coming in faster than ever before. And so were the comments.
He had filmed everything, including when the lead special agent—what was his name again? Oh yeah, Hunt—had shot the man who had just surrendered. Moore’s whole body was shaking—not from fear but from excitement. He quietly climbed out of the Durango and continued to film. The scene was surreal. The panel van had so many bullet holes that it looked like an infantry platoon had used it for target practice. Part of him wished innocent people had been inside the van when the DEA agents fired at it. That would’ve been the biggest law enforcement blunder in the history of Chicago. Worth a Pulitzer, maybe?
Moore aimed his phone at the lead agent, who was kneeling next to what appeared to be a dead DEA agent. Oh my God. I can’t believe this. The viewers will go crazy. This will be international news within the hour.
He jogged toward them. “What’s the name of the dead agent?” he asked.
Hunt turned his head and saw that damn reporter aiming his phone at his fallen comrade. Moore was grinning as if he had just won the lottery. The man is a plague, Hunt thought with revulsion. His pompous, entitled attitude exemplified everything that was wrong in today’s society. At that moment in time, there was nothing Hunt wanted more than to punch the reporter in the face, to inflict physical pain on that poor excuse of a man as payback for his lack of respect. The desire to wipe the smirk off the reporter’s face was almost overwhelming, but something deep inside Hunt held him back.
The promise.
A promise he had made to himself years ago while he was still an Army Ranger. A promise on which the seals were still unbroken. A promise entailing that he would never, ever, come what may, use gratuitous violence again. Pea-brained Luke Moore, as ignorant and idiotic as he was, wasn’t worth breaking the promise over.
Hunt’s earpiece crackled.
“Alpha One, Bravo Two.”
“Go for Alpha One.”
“Pierce, you better make your way in here. There’s something you need to see.”
“Copy. On my way.”
But Moore wasn’t done with him yet. The reporter’s phone now pointed at Hunt.
“What’s the dead agent’s name?” Moore repeated.
Hunt ignored him and started walking in the direction of the warehouse. Moore grabbed his elbow.
“I asked you a question,” Moore spat. “You’re on live—”
Hunt spun around and placed the palm of his left hand on Moore’s chest.
“Get out of my face,” Hunt warned. The ice in his voice was enough to make Moore step away, but neither man intended what happened next.
Moore tripped over his own feet and fell backward, managing to hit his head on the pavement in the process. After a stunned moment, he grimaced in pain and raised his hand to the back of his head. It came back bloody. To Hunt’s surprise, he smiled.
“You’re so fucked.”
“Are you for real? I barely touched you, dickhead,” Hunt said, regretting the words the moment they came out.
“You shoved me to the ground! That’s assault, and I’m pressing charges.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Chicago, Illinois
Hunt was still steaming over that idiot reporter, but he didn’t have time to waste. He left Moore sitting on the pavement, still filming with his cell phone, and entered the warehouse. He might have been better off if he’d stayed outside.
Hunt wished anyone who said drug use was a victimless crime could see what was in front of him. The twelve young girls who had been slaughtered were all the proof the skeptics needed to see. The girls had never stood a chance.
Why had the cartel killed them? What had prompted them to depart the warehouse? Had they known the DEA was about to raid them? It certainly looked like it. But how?
Hunt’s phone vibrated in his trouser pocket.
“Yes?”
“Pierce, this is Tom Hauer.”
Hauer was the acting administrator of the DEA. He was a political appointee but a good guy nonetheless.
“Can I call you back, sir? We’re still in the middle of the operation.”
“No, you’re not, I’m afraid. You’re relieved of your command, and you’re about to be placed under arrest by the Chicago Police Department.”
“Say that again?” Hunt replied, his temper rising. This wasn’t a good time to mess with him.
“You’re relieved. I’m sorry, Pierce. It’s all over the news. My hands are tied.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“That reporter you pushed to the ground was filming. Live.”
“For Christ’s sake. I didn’t push him to the ground. He tripped over his own feet.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hauer sighed. “He was tweeting during the whole goddamn operation, and when the shooting started, he switched to a live video feed. He’s saying you shot an unarmed man. Tell me it isn’t true.”
“Moore’s full of shit, sir. The man was armed,” Hunt replied, his mind racing. Something Hauer had said had caught his attention. “Did you say Moore was tweeting? About the raid?”