It had been six hours since Tony Garcia had been shot. The police were asking a lot of questions, and Hunt wouldn’t be surprised if, supposing Tony pulled through, they brought him in for questioning. Since the news that six Florida Highway Patrol officers had been butchered on an off-ramp of Highway 95 had hit the major outlets, every law enforcement officer in the region was looking for the perpetrators. Everybody was on edge. The slain officers were fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers. They were pillars of their communities who had paid the ultimate price. Their brother cops wouldn’t hesitate to break a few bones to get to those who had killed so many of their own. They didn’t know the culprits were long gone, out of their reach.
But not from my reach, Hunt thought.
I’m gonna mess that fucking bitch up, he added, thinking about the Black Tosca. With only twelve hours left to the Black Tosca’s original deadline for Tony to deliver his own severed head, Hunt was anxious to hear back from Simon Carter. He checked his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes. Since Carter’s connecting flight from Houston to Querétaro, Mexico, was on time—Hunt had checked via the United Airlines application—he would land in about two hours. Upon landing, he would be met by DEA special agents, men who didn’t mind risking their careers to help Hunt. They wouldn’t participate in the actual takedown, but they would take care of all the logistics. They would provide Hunt and his team the necessary weapons and transportation options. They all knew Hunt could never repay them. What they also knew, though, was that if the roles were reversed, Hunt would be there for them.
Simon Carter was Hunt’s reconnaissance element. There was no point in Hunt and Egan traveling all the way to Mexico only to find out that Leila and Sophia weren’t there. Carter’s mission was twofold. First, he was to confirm Leila and Sophia’s position or, at the very least, verify that Hector was there. Second, he needed to scout a location from where they could establish their base of operations.
In the meantime, Hunt wanted updates from Daniel McMaster regarding the bystander he had accidentally shot during yesterday’s ambush—the cause of the warrant for his arrest.
“You have a phone I can use?” he asked Anna.
She got up from the sofa and disappeared from the living room. Tasis, though, was still there, standing in a corner and looking pissed off as usual.
Egan leaned toward Hunt. “Thanks for keeping my involvement with you-know-who between us,” he said, his voice low.
The truce Hunt had forged with the Garcia crime family was fragile. If Tasis, Anna, or any members of their family learned that Egan was a contractor for the Black Tosca, he’d never live to see another day. Thoughts of the Black Tosca reminded Hunt that if he couldn’t find his daughter within the next—he checked his watch again—eleven hours and thirty-two minutes, Leila would be burned alive, her execution live streamed.
This is your fault, Vicente Garcia, you piece of shit. What were you thinking, burning a man in front of his young daughter? Now it’s your own granddaughter and my Leila who’ll pay the price for your stupidity.
“Hey, Pierce, you okay?”
Hunt looked up. Anna was inserting a SIM card into a prepaid cell phone. She handed him the phone. He mumbled his thanks and walked out to the terrace to place his call.
McMaster didn’t pick up, so Hunt left a quick voice mail letting him know he’d call again in exactly five minutes. When he turned around, Tasis was there, his jaw locked so tight that Hunt could see a muscle twitching.
“What do you want?” Hunt asked him.
“What can I do to help?”
Hunt cocked his head. This is unexpected. “I thought you wanted to kill me?”
“A part of me still does. Your betrayal is my failure, I told you.”
“But?”
“Anna said you tried to save Tony’s life, so I’ll ask again: Can I help?”
There was no way Hunt would let Tasis travel with him and Egan to Mexico to meet with Carter. As loyal and ruthless as Tasis was, he wasn’t a trained operator. He had no idea how to work within a team or employ the unconventional tactics used during a hostage rescue operation. Still, he could be useful here in Florida. But first, Hunt had a question for him.
“What was Tony talking about earlier? Anna’s issue. What is it?”
Tasis looked at the floor. “It’s not my place—”
“Don’t fuck with me, Mauricio.”
Tasis crossed his arms with a heavy sigh. “She killed a man,” he said, then quickly added, “but it was legitimate self-defense.”
Hunt ought to have been surprised, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t say why, but deep down he had known, or at least suspected. Something in her demeanor, maybe?
“In Miami,” Hunt said, remembering how shaken she’d been when she had picked him up in the Cherokee.
“That’s right. A man attacked her. She killed him.”
Hunt felt terrible for Anna. Killing someone—self-defense or not—placed a black mark on one’s soul. He didn’t know when it would come, but down the road she’d need someone to talk to. He would be there for her.
“You know where my daughter lives?” Hunt asked, changing the subject.
“Chris Moon’s residence, yes?”
“If our op in Mexico fails, they’ll come for my ex-wife. She’s Moon’s wife now, but she’s Leila’s mother, and I still care for her.”
“I don’t think you’ll fail, Mr. Hunt, but if you do, I’ll make sure she’s safe.”
Hunt kept his mouth shut but offered a slight nod.
Tasis turned around and headed back inside the house. It was time to call McMaster again. This time the DEA man answered right away.