Hunt Them Down(15)
“How long will you be gone?”
He honestly didn’t know. He never did. “A few days.”
“Can I come with you?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Not this time, baby, I’m sorry.” He cupped her head in his hands. “Mexico City isn’t the nicest place to travel to when you’re pregnant. Because of the pollution, you know? And aren’t your days filled with patients who need their teeth removed?”
She sighed but tugged on his towel nonetheless. It fell at his feet.
“I’m gonna miss this.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Federal Detention Center
Miami, Florida
While he waited for the US marshals to get Vicente Garcia, Hunt adjusted the waist straps of his soft body armor, remembering the morning before the start of Vicente Garcia’s trial when Leila had asked him how a soft piece of clothing could stop bullets. Hunt had found the question fascinating, and even though he was running late for court, he’d decided to answer her query, not knowing that the very next day, Jasmine—with his precious Leila in tow—would walk away from him after he told her what had happened in the courtroom. Kneeling next to Leila, he had taken her hand and placed it against the fabric of his body armor.
“Think of it as a soccer net,” he’d told her. “What happens to the net when you kick the ball into it?”
“It moves!”
“You’re correct, sweetie; it does. When the ball hits the net, it pushes back against the tethers at that specific point, dispersing the energy all around it, so no matter where the soccer ball hits the net, the whole net absorbs the impact.”
His daughter thought about what he had said for a second, then said, “But bullets are much faster than a soccer ball, Dad.”
“That’s very true. Bullets fly superfast, but you know what?”
“What?”
“My body armor is also much stronger than a soccer net.”
Hunt had guided his daughter’s hand over his soft body armor and continued, “This material is five times stronger than a piece of metal.”
“No way!” his daughter had cried out. “It’s so soft.”
Hunt was brought back to reality by a crackling in his earpiece: “They’re on their way. Be ready.”
Hunt drank half of the water in his water bottle. He wasn’t exactly nervous, but it would have been a lie not to admit he was anxious about seeing Garcia again. Hunt was seated next to Chief Inspector Zorita in the third row of the second Suburban; two members of the US Marshals Special Operations Group occupied the front passenger and driver seats. John Robbins, the highest-ranking deputy US marshal in the motorcade, was in the second row so he could be next to Garcia.
Earlier that morning, Robbins had shown Hunt the route they’d take to the safe house. With traffic, he didn’t expect the travel time to take more than an hour.
Eager to draw as little attention to the motorcade as he could, Robbins had ordered the three-vehicle convoy to park inside the underground garage of the federal detention building.
“Here they come,” the driver said.
Hunt couldn’t take his eyes off Garcia as he approached the Suburban. Garcia was six feet tall but had gained a few pounds since Hunt had last seen him. His hair was still black, but his stubble bore flecks of white. Even in handcuffs and sporting an orange jumpsuit, Vicente Garcia was a man to be reckoned with. His green eyes didn’t miss much, and his natural charm easily masked the cruelty he was capable of inflicting on his adversaries. To his right, Hunt felt Zorita stiffen.
Two US marshals wearing green combat fatigues and armed with automatic weapons flanked Garcia. One of them opened the door and helped him climb aboard.
Garcia spotted Hunt right away and smiled at him before taking his seat next to Robbins.
“What a pleasant surprise, Terrance. Or do you go by Pierce now?”
“Nice to see you too, Vicente.”
“You know you broke my daughter’s heart, don’t you?”
Hunt bit his lip.
“She really cared about you,” Garcia said while Robbins fastened his seat belt. Garcia sounded sincere, but Hunt knew better than to fall for it.
“You smell good, Vicente. Someone splash some cologne on your neck? Is it for me, or do you have a special someone in prison?”
Garcia twisted in his seat but didn’t reply directly.
“And who are you again?” Garcia asked, looking straight at Zorita. “I’ve seen you before, yes?”
“No, I’d remember if we’d met before.”
Garcia sat with his back straight, his eyes fixed on the front of the vehicle. “I wouldn’t trust this one if I were you, Pierce.”
Garcia was a narcissist and a master at pitting people against each other. Nonetheless, Hunt glanced at Zorita, who simply shook his head and rolled his eyes, not even bothering to reply to Garcia.
“Enough, Vicente,” Robbins said, poking Garcia with his elbow.
The motorcade started rolling, and Hunt had the uneasy feeling he had just boarded his own funeral hearse.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Miami, Florida
Hector Mieles’s phone chirped in his pocket. He looked at the screen. His lookout in the vicinity of FDC Miami had just confirmed that the convoy was en route. He had also attached a picture of the three-vehicle motorcade. Hector and fifteen other members of the Black Tosca’s cartel had taken position on the first and fourth floors of two construction sites. As it was Sunday, the sites were vacant except for four security officers the builders had contracted to patrol the perimeter. All four of them were now in the bed of their pickup truck, their throats cut.