Hunt Them Down(19)

Without hesitation, and with a speed that surprised Hunt, Garcia got up and sprinted toward the minivan. Hunt was right on his heels. True to their word, the US marshals covered him with a sustained barrage of gunfire.

To his left, Hunt saw a black figure raise his rifle toward Garcia. Hunt fired on the run, his bullets missing the mark but close enough to force the man to fire before he had taken careful aim. Hunt’s sixth shot hit his rifle, and the man transitioned to his pistol. Hunt stopped, knelt down, and pulled the trigger three more times in quick succession. The man fell, fatally wounded. Hunt changed his magazine and scanned for more threats. He saw other assailants, but they were too far for him to engage with his Glock. He looked to his right to check on Garcia and found him lying on the ground ten yards short of the white minivan. He was crawling toward the minivan, leaving a thick crimson line in his wake.

Damn it! Hunt got back to his feet and ran toward him. He had to bring Garcia to safety. Without him, they had nothing on the Black Tosca. Garcia’s testimony was key.

Hunt hadn’t covered even half the distance when a tremendous explosion from behind propelled him forward.



Hector Mieles had had enough. He had seen two of his men cut down by the marshals. All the deputies had taken cover behind the remaining Suburban. Local police reinforcements were on their way. He needed to finish this quickly. If he could hit the SUV with an RPG, it would shift the momentum back to his camp. But in order to reach a firing position, he’d have to run in the open for twenty yards.

“Ernesto!” he shouted to the man closest to him. “In ten seconds, I want you to empty a full magazine!”

Ernesto changed his magazine and gave him the thumbs-up. Hector took a deep breath and focused on what he had to do. He counted to three and broke cover. He ran as fast as he could, half expecting to get hit. Behind him, he could hear Ernesto’s FX-05 firing on full automatic. Hector slid to safety behind a blue mailbox just as Ernesto’s rifle fell silent. A quick look in Ernesto’s direction told Hector his man had been hit.

Hector peeked around the mailbox. The Suburban was sixty yards away. From his position he could see at least five deputies firing their weapons at the rest of his men. It was time to end this. He came out from behind the mailbox and crouched into a stable firing position. One of the deputies saw him, but Hector fired before the deputy could bring his weapon around.

The RPG hit the Suburban just above the left rear tire. The car exploded in a ball of fire, sending razor-sharp metal blasting throughout the area.



Hunt opened his eyes. A terrible headache threatened to send him back into darkness. He was on his back, staring at the blue sky. Somewhere, a machine gun chattered.

Garcia? Where was Vicente Garcia?

Hunt patted himself down for any signs of injury. He had none, except for the headache. He sat up and searched for Garcia. The drug lord had made it to the white minivan. He was clutching his right leg with both hands. Hunt turned his head, and what he saw made him sick. The deputies, who had all been much closer to the Suburban, were down. Some had been cut to pieces by the exploding SUV. Others were still alive, slowly crawling away from the burning vehicle.

Men in black fatigues approached the downed agents. Hunt frantically searched for his gun. It was a few feet away. He crawled on his knees, pieces of glass embedding themselves in his hands. A single shot was fired. Then another. Behind him, good men were being executed. Hunt reached his pistol, grabbed it with both hands, and winced in pain as the shards of glass cut deeper into his skin. There were too many attackers. He’d never kill them all. He could play dead and hope they would leave. He thought about his daughter, Leila, and about all the missed opportunities. Then, from his peripheral vision, he spotted John Robbins slowly making his way toward him. A black-clad man had spotted him too and was raising his rifle.

Hunt fired. Once. Twice. Three times. The black-clad man fell.

Hunt swung his pistol left and brought his sights upon his next target. The man fired first, but his rounds went high. Hunt pulled the trigger and hit the man below his right eye. Behind him was another man. Hunt hesitated a fraction of a second. This man was also dressed in black fatigues, but he was by far the tallest of the bunch. He was built like a bulldozer. His pistol, which was pointed directly at Hunt, looked like a toy gun in his hands.

Both men fired at the same time.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Miami, Florida

With most of the surviving US marshals too stunned to return fire, Hector ordered his remaining men to advance. He pulled his pistol out of its holster and leapfrogged toward the burning Suburban. None of the marshals had escaped the explosion unscathed. Their clothes were shredded, their exposed skin scorched. Some were hunched over on their knees in apparent agony; others were moaning, their pleas animal-like. They were easy prey, and his men took them out with merciful single shots to the head. One marshal who had managed to crawl away from the Suburban was about to be put down when a bullet whizzed past Hector. The man next to him fell. Hector spun around only to see another of his men crumple, shot in the head.

There! A man had his pistol trained on him. He was thirty-five yards away, dressed in blue jeans and black soft body armor. Behind him, Vicente Garcia was resting his back against the front tire of a parked minivan. Hector fired once and then rolled to his right. A bullet grazed his left arm, just below the elbow. He ignored the burning sensation and dashed across the street while zigzagging left and right. He jumped over a concrete barricade as more rounds impacted around him. He landed on the other side and took in his surroundings. The sirens were getting closer by the second, sending waves of sound off the adjoining buildings. Not wanting to appear where he was last seen, Hector duckwalked along the barricade. Vicente Garcia was less than twenty-five yards away. The marshal, the one who had grazed him, had to expect Hector would pop his head out from cover to check on Vicente Garcia. The trick was to do it quickly.