Hunt Them Down(20)

Up, he sees me, I’m down.

Two rounds zipped past where his head had been a quarter of a second before.

This guy’s good, Hector thought. Even though his peek had lasted less than three full seconds, Hector had gotten the info he wanted. Vicente Garcia hadn’t moved much, but to Hector’s dismay, he had shifted to the opposite side of the minivan, making him much harder to hit. Hector estimated he had less than half a minute to take out Garcia before law enforcement officers cornered him.

There was no easy way to do this, and his window of opportunity was almost shut. He duckwalked ten feet to his right before taking a deep breath.

Up, he sees me . . .





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Miami, Florida

The bullet hit the pavement an inch to his right before deflecting away. Hunt fired at his running target, but, for his size, the man was surprisingly quick and agile. He disappeared behind a concrete barrier. With a quick look behind him, Hunt confirmed Vicente Garcia had made it to the minivan.

A head popped up from behind the barricade, and Hunt let go two shots. The head disappeared. Hunt shuffled backward, keeping his pistol up and pointed toward the barricade. Garcia had his back against the rear tire of the minivan. His hands, dark with blood, were covering a large wound on his leg.

“Put pressure on it,” Hunt said.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Hunt used his left hand to remove his belt. He threw it on Garcia’s lap.

“Tighten the belt above the bullet wound. You need to stop the bleeding.”

“You have to do it. I can’t let go. I think the bullet nicked an artery.”

For the first time, Hunt noticed a panicked look on Garcia’s face. Blood squirted from beneath his hands. Hunt had seen enough wounds in Afghanistan to understand Garcia didn’t stand a chance if he didn’t stop the bleeding. He was about to holster his pistol to help Garcia when the rear window of the minivan exploded, spraying chips of glass all around him.

Bullets pinged off the sheet metal of the minivan. The shooter was making his move. Hunt chanced a peek, allowing only two inches of his body to emerge from behind the van. What he saw startled him, if only for a moment. The shooter was charging his position and was already halfway there. Hunt tried to duck back but caught a round on the right side of his ribs. The bulletproof vest saved his life and spread the impact, but the round packed enough punch to spin him around and out of cover. Another bullet hit him square in the back, knocking him to the ground and squeezing all the air out of his lungs. His pistol flew out of his hand and skittered out of reach under the minivan.

Hunt forced himself onto his back and frantically scooted backward to position himself between the oncoming shooter and Vicente Garcia.



Hector saw his target fall flat on his stomach but almost immediately move out of sight. He inserted a fresh magazine while continuing to close the distance. He was about to resume shooting to cover his advance when he heard running footsteps behind him. Hector turned to face the upcoming threat, but he was too late. A US marshal tackled him at full speed. Hector dropped his pistol as he was knocked off balance but managed to grab the agent’s waist and throw him off by rotating his hips clockwise and using the marshal’s momentum against him. The marshal lost his footing and fell, rolling a few times. Hector was on him in a flash and grabbed him by the throat. He squeezed hard, digging his thumbs and fingers deep into the man’s neck. The marshal’s eyes bulged, and his hands flailed in a futile attempt to break the viselike grip. Hector slammed the marshal’s head against the pavement once, twice, and the third time, with a distinct cracking sound, he knew he had killed the man.

Hector hurried back to his feet and picked up the pistol he had dropped during the altercation. Fifty yards away, Garcia and the other marshal were escaping. Hector grunted in frustration. The flashing emergency lights of police cars reflected off the buildings. He was out of time. In ten seconds, he’d be surrounded.

He raised his pistol to eye level, aligned his sights on the fleeing men, steadied his breathing, and pulled the trigger.



They were almost there. Another ten yards and they’d be safe. The backups were arriving now. In a minute or two, the area would be secure. Garcia had lost so much blood that he was barely conscious.

“C’mon, old man,” Hunt said, helping him forward.

Garcia’s hair was slicked in sweat, his eyes wild and unseeing. His face was a mask of pain, but he pushed on.

Then Garcia pitched forward like a felled tree. Hunt tried to keep him going, but Garcia’s legs folded beneath him. A round whizzed past and then another. Hunt hit the ground, angling his body so he could see where the shots were coming from.

The tall, bulldozer-like shooter was methodically firing his pistol at them. Another bullet zipped above Hunt’s head, so close it made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Hunt crawled on top of Garcia’s body and shielded it with his own.



As Hector made his escape, he wondered if Garcia was dead. He had struck him at least once, of that he was sure. He wished he could have put a few more rounds into Garcia before the surviving marshal had blocked him. There was no point in staying longer. Police were everywhere, but amid the chaos, they had no idea who was who. The trick was to slip through before they cordoned off the area.

“All elements, this is Bravo Zero-Six,” he said over their comms system. “Retreat back to site three. I say again, retreat back to site three. Follow your personal exit protocols.”