Hunt Them Down(18)
Hector had switched his aim back to the rear Suburban when bullets struck the barricade to his left. Pablo—the man operating the RPG—yelled in pain as he dropped the launcher and collapsed to his knees, blood spurting from a neck wound. Hector dashed to Pablo and caught him as he fell to his side. Rounds continued to pepper their position, but Pablo, his eyes half-glazed, hardly seemed to notice.
“Sir, there’s a chopper hovering above us,” said Oscar, the man charged with their air defense.
Hector had known the US marshals would be using air support. He had planned for this eventuality.
“Take it out.”
“Yes, sir. Also, our men across the street are pinned down,” Oscar continued.
“We need to get moving, then,” Hector said matter-of-factly. “But get that chopper down first. The moment one aircraft goes down, this will be a no-fly zone, and it will make our lives much easier when it’s time to withdraw.”
Once Oscar had left, Hector looked down at Pablo. There was nothing he could do for him. Pulling his knife from his sheath, he plunged it into Pablo’s ear. Pablo’s body stiffened. With his other hand, Hector closed Pablo’s eyes.
“Follow me,” Hector ordered the rest of his men as he grabbed the launcher left behind by Pablo. “Let’s get the job done.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Miami, Florida
Hunt’s ears were ringing as he fought Zorita for control of the pistol. The shot had missed Garcia but hit the driver in the shoulder. Robbins was yelling something, but Hunt was too busy to care what it was. Both his hands were locked on Zorita’s right wrist as he angled the weapon up and away. A second shot rang out, and the bullet punched a hole through the roof. Hunt, who was now on top of Zorita, kneed him once in the solar plexus and again in the head as Zorita pitched forward. Zorita’s head snapped back as blood erupted from his broken nose. Zorita’s eyes became unfocused, and Hunt seized the moment to strike two vicious punches to the man’s jaw before he wrestled the gun away. But Zorita wasn’t done yet. Out of nowhere, a knife appeared in his hand. Hunt reacted instinctively and fired twice point-blank into Zorita’s upper chest. Zorita jerked backward, and his eyes rolled into his head, his body slumping sideways on the leather seat of the SUV.
Damn it! Hunt would have loved to have a nice long chat with the treacherous son of a bitch to find out who had turned him.
The fight had lasted less than twenty seconds, but the tactical situation outside the Suburban had changed drastically. A burning car blocked the left lane, and a concrete barrier prevented any movement to the right. They were sitting ducks. Men dressed in black combat gear were approaching from the construction site to their right, while supporting gunfire coming from their front kept the US marshals pinned down. They needed to get out of the vehicles. The closest safe house was the detention center. That was where they had to go.
Robbins had reached the same conclusion because he ordered everyone out of the SUVs.
The US marshals didn’t need to be told twice. The five deputies riding in the rear vehicle rushed out, took positions around the Suburban carrying Garcia, and started to return effective fire.
“Take the handcuffs off,” Garcia pleaded.
“Shut up,” Robbins replied. “As far as I’m concerned, this is a rescue attempt.”
“What? Are you crazy? They want me dead.”
It wasn’t Hunt’s place to speak his mind, but this didn’t look like a rescue to him. Not after Zorita had tried to take Garcia out.
“Out, out, out!” Robbins yelled.
The injured driver was the first to successfully exit the vehicle, and he opened Garcia’s door. There seemed to be a break in the supportive fire coming from across the street. Hunt climbed over the second-row seats and squeezed past Garcia. He yanked on Garcia’s handcuffs and dragged him out.
Chaos waited for them outside the vehicle. Sirens wailed. Some civilians, struck by fragments from the burning vehicles, were bleeding out on the street. The only saving graces were the deputies who still stood their ground and returned fire.
“Let’s leapfrog back to Fifth Street,” Hunt suggested, keeping his pistol in the low-ready position.
“You heard the man,” Robbins said. “Let’s go.”
“Contact right!” one of the deputy US marshals yelled. A volley of gunfire forced them to take cover behind the Suburban.
“Contact front!” shouted another one.
Shit! That wasn’t good. Two separate supporting forces were approaching their position. Hunt looked around for another weapon. His pistol wasn’t going to cut it against automatic weapons.
“We need to move,” Robbins said. “Hunt, you go with Garcia. We’ll cover your retreat. Go!”
Hunt looked at Garcia. To his credit, the drug lord didn’t look frightened. On the contrary, he seemed to be quite comfortable amid the chaos.
“You’re ready?” Hunt asked him.
Garcia nodded. “We can’t stay here, anyway.”
Hunt searched for a safe spot to run to. They couldn’t just leave their cover without knowing where they were going. A white minivan was parked fifty yards away. It was a hell of a long distance to run without cover, but they had to move.
“You see the white minivan? Run to it. I’m right behind you.”