“Not this time, I’m afraid,” he said, careful about his word choice. “It was either them or us.”
Leila started to sob. “Do you know what it feels like to watch your father kill two men in cold blood?”
It wasn’t in cold blood, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “No, I don’t. Tell me.”
“It’s awful, Pierce, okay? It’s, it’s . . .” She looked for the right word. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Horrific? Sickening?” Hunt did his very best to offer a sympathetic ear to his daughter’s plea. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
“And I can’t even talk about it to anyone but Mom because you’re some kind of spy or whatever,” she continued.
“I’m no spy. I’m a DEA agent,” he tried to explain, knowing this wasn’t what his daughter needed to hear. God, I wish I was better at this. “I know it’s unfair that you can’t talk about it, but, believe me, it’s for your own security.”
“Whatever.”
It broke his heart to see her cry. A father’s job was to protect his daughter. And clearly he had failed.
“I have nightmares. Did Mom tell you? Did she tell you how I still wet my bed like a two-year-old?”
Hunt stopped in a parking lot. He unbuckled his seat belt and walked around the truck. He opened the passenger door and pulled his daughter close to him. Her defenses faded away. He wrapped his arms around her, and she held him. He felt her warm tears on his neck.
“I’m sorry, Leila,” he whispered. “I’m truly sorry you had to see that, but I can’t apologize for doing the right thing. People trust me to protect their lives, and I took an oath to do just that. It’s my job.”
His daughter wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “You know what my nightmares are about?”
Hunt shook his head, angry he couldn’t do more for his daughter.
“That it’s you instead of them . . . that it’s you who dies . . . who gets shot and bleeds out alone in the street,” she said, fighting through her emotions. “Why couldn’t you be a football player or something like that?”
“Like Chris?” he said, controlling his anger at the thought of Jasmine’s new husband.
“Yeah, like Chris, Dad,” she said, regaining control of herself. “And you don’t have to say his name like that, you know.”
Chris Moon was a Miami Dolphins player. Their star quarterback, to be exact. He and Hunt didn’t get along too well. Moon was younger and taller, drove expensive cars, and had access to a one-hundred-foot Azimut yacht, but those weren’t the things that bothered Hunt—or maybe they did just a tiny bit. What truly pissed him off was that Moon spent more time with Leila than he did.
“I don’t like the guy, Leila. I can’t lie.”
“Well, Mom does, and he’s cool with me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I’ll smile next time I say his name,” Hunt said.
Leila looked doubtful.
“Look, Leila,” he continued, “I’m glad he takes care of you and your mom. I really am. But it’s hard for me too, you know?”
His daughter squeezed his arm. “I know.”
“I wish I could stay with you this weekend and bring you camping or go to the shooting range.”
“Like we used to when I was a kid?”
You’re still a kid, Hunt thought. “Yes, like we used to.”
Leila shrugged. “The last time I went camping, I came back with a bunch of mosquito bites. So no thanks.”
“Maybe we could go to the range another time, then?”
She screwed up her face and pulled away from him. “Ugh. Weren’t you listening, Dad? Guns kill people. Don’t you watch the news? I never want to touch one again. And I’m certainly not interested in going to some outdoor range filled with . . .”
“With what?”
“People like you.”
Her words slapped him in the face.
Before he could recover, his daughter shrugged. “Don’t worry about this weekend. I have plans anyway.”
Hunt wanted to ask what kind of plans, but his words balled up in his throat.
He tried to hug her again, but Leila was stiff and didn’t hug him back. Instead, she patted him on the back.
“Don’t worry, Dad. You and I will catch up another time.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEA Miami Field Division
Weston, Florida