They were on the first floor, standing in the library. Hunt made sure Sophia had her back to Hector’s severed head. She had had enough traumas for a lifetime.
Hunt grabbed a blanket from one of the armchairs. He wrapped it around her shoulders. Sophia hugged herself with it.
“Where’s Leila?”
“She’s fine. She’s with Chris and your aunt Anna.”
Sophia started crying. Hunt was lost for words. Comforting teenage girls wasn’t one of his strengths. Hunt patted Sophia awkwardly on the shoulder and said, “We need to go, okay?”
“Please, I hate this fucking place.”
Hunt didn’t think it was the right time to discipline Sophia on her use of swear words, so he said, “Me too.”
Hunt led the way, with Sophia following closely behind him. Hunt had his left arm extended in front of him, pistol in hand. His right arm was now hanging at his side, useless. They were thirty feet from the door when it blew inward with spectacular energy. The blast sent a hailstorm of wooden shards and rocks in all directions. One, with a thump, sank into Hunt’s leg, above his right knee, as he and Sophia were propelled back through the air. Hunt landed on his back next to Sophia. He lay on the floor, stunned, as smoke and a contingent of black-clad men sporting rifles surged through the foyer. He crawled on top of Sophia to provide her with the protection his body armor offered.
“Policía! Policía!” the black-clad men yelled, but Pierce Hunt didn’t hear them. He had already passed out.
EPILOGUE
Three months later
Miami Beach, Florida
“How have you been?” Hunt asked Anna.
“I don’t know, Pierce,” she said. She sounded exhausted. “It’s been busy.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he replied, taking a small sip of his beer.
They were on a terrace on Ocean Drive, less than a mile from Graham Young’s condominium.
What used to be Graham Young’s condominium, Hunt thought. The DEA had seized all of BlueShade Rental’s properties, and the FBI had arrested Graham Young for money laundering and drug trafficking, among other charges. He was now awaiting trial.
Sophia and Leila had their own table inside the restaurant, pigging out on deep-fried chicken wings and sugary sodas.
“It’s nice to see you,” Anna said, offering him a shy smile. “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for Sophia. And for me. Thank you.”
“I’m glad she’s okay. We got lucky that Dante was able to get through to the Mexican authorities. To be honest, I’m surprised they responded at all.”
“The live feed forced their hand. Someone tipped them off. They had no choice but to respond. I’m just glad they were able to cut it off before it turned morbid.”
“As I said, we were lucky.”
“Sophia was lucky to have you.”
“And now she’s lucky to have you.”
Anna sighed. “It’s harder than I thought, Pierce. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Hunt chuckled. “Me either. Welcome to the club.”
Anna reached for her glass of cabernet. She swirled the wine around, sniffed it, and then tasted it.
“I’m so sorry about your brother, Anna,” Hunt said. “I meant to call.”
She looked down and rubbed her eyes. Tony Garcia had died due to complications during the surgery to remove the bullet lodged in his abdomen. The bullet had caused serious damage. The doctors had been unable to stop the internal bleeding.
“He passed out in the car on the way to the hospital,” Anna said, her eyes wet with tears. “He never woke up.”
She buried her head in her hands. Hunt leaned toward her and lifted her chin. A big, sloppy tear ran down her left cheek. Hunt wiped it away with his thumb.
God, she’s beautiful, Hunt thought. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me, Pierce. Not anymore. Not after what you’ve done for Sophia.” She reached up and pressed his hand against her face. She held his gaze. Then she asked, “What about you? You still have a job?”
McMaster had reached out to Tom Hauer—the acting administrator of the DEA—who in turn had called in pretty much all the IOUs he had in Washington, DC, to get Hunt off the hook regarding his actions within the United States. In exchange, Hunt had had to write an affidavit in which he’d admitted to all his wrongdoings. The documents had been signed and reviewed by a couple of bigwigs in Washington and ordered sealed by a federal judge. Hunt, though, had had to return his badge and gun to McMaster.
“Let’s just say I no longer receive a paycheck every two weeks.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“They say people change careers three or four times these days.”
“So you’re okay with this?”
“I guess.”