Hunt Them Down(21)

Only six men acknowledged. Not good.

Maybe some had equipment malfunctions? That was wishful thinking. Nothing about this mission had gone according to plan. The opposing force’s response had been stronger and much more effective than he wanted it to be. The Black Tosca wouldn’t mind the losses as long as the objective was achieved.

But he did.

If he managed to get out of this mess alive, he’d go back to his operational plan and review it entirely to look for things he could improve on. Maybe losses didn’t bother his cousin, but they troubled him. Poor dead Pablo wouldn’t let him sleep in peace for a while.

Now wasn’t the time to worry about tomorrow, though. He had to get his men out of the area. Thankfully, they had preemptively stashed cars all over the neighborhood. All were filled with clothes, cash, hotel keys, and new sets of identities.

Hector’s getaway car was a five-year-old gray Honda Civic. The key was where it was supposed to be, in the exhaust pipe. He was about to unlock the door when he felt a presence behind him. He tried to see a reflection in the window, but the angle was all wrong.

“Sir, please keep your hands where I can see them.”

Damn it. A cop.

Hector had already disposed of his pistol and bulletproof vest, but since he was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of black combat pants tucked in his boots, he couldn’t blame the officer for being suspicious. He slowly turned toward the officer, making sure he kept his hands at his side. They were two streets away from where the ambush had taken place, and there were only a few pedestrians on the street.

The moment he made eye contact with the officer, Hector knew how he was going to play it.

“Please don’t shoot me! Please don’t shoot me,” he pleaded, getting on his knees and raising his hands above his head. “I have five children. Please don’t kill me!”

He closed his eyes like someone expecting to get hit.

“Sir, I won’t shoot you,” the officer replied. “But you need to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“Are you a real cop? Or are you one of them?” Hector asked.

“What? I’m with the Miami-Dade Police Department, sir. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

“My name is Ramón Esposito, and I’m a security guard at the construction site,” Hector explained, hoping it would justify how he was dressed. “I tried . . . I really did.”

“Did you see what happened?”

“The . . . the people who shot at the black SUVs. Some . . . some of them were dressed just like you,” Hector said, pointing to the officer. “They were wearing the same uniforms.”

That got the officer’s attention. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, Officer,” Hector replied, looking shocked and a bit desperate. He pointed to where the marshal’s bullet had grazed his arm. “They shot me.”

“Shit!” the officer said out loud before turning to his radio. “This is Officer Mancusi. Please note shooters may be dressed in police uniforms.”

Mancusi looked at Hector. “Do you know where they went?”

“I’m . . . I’m not sure. I’m sorry,” Hector replied, grabbing his injured arm.

“Do you need medical assistance?”

“Yes, I think so, but some people are in worse shape than me. I can drive myself to the hospital.”

“I appreciate this, sir,” Mancusi said. “But before you go, I’ll need to get your name and contact info. The detectives will want a statement from you.”

That was a problem. The new set of IDs was in the Honda’s trunk, sealed in a plastic bag next to another plastic bag containing a spare pistol and extra ammunition.

“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll be happy to help,” Hector replied, nodding. “Can I get up? My wallet is in my back pocket.”

Officer Mancusi’s demeanor had changed from suspicious to somewhat friendly. Hector guessed he had a foot and a hundred pounds on the officer. With the knife he had tucked against his belt, it would be an easy takedown. Hector almost felt sorry for the officer. He wouldn’t go home tonight.



Hunt strained his neck to catch sight of the shooter. Bolts of pain ripped through his entire back and side as he commanded his body to get up. Police officers had flocked to the area, yelling conflicting orders to the poor citizens unlucky enough to have remained close by. The shooter was gone, had completely vanished, leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake.

Hunt patted himself down but found no injuries. He did the same with Garcia, who hadn’t moved an inch for the past minute. His hands quickly became drenched in blood. A gunshot wound in the upper right area of Garcia’s back was bleeding profusely. There was no visible exit wound. Hunt gently turned Garcia on his back. Garcia’s eyes stared back at him, lifeless.



One more look around confirmed there was no other immediate threat. Hector didn’t so much as blink before he attacked, catching Officer Mancusi by surprise. The strike was swift and deadly. He faked left—not that it was necessary—but struck from the right. He plunged his knife into Mancusi’s exposed neck. The blade penetrated the skin, and Hector felt it stick into something. He twisted the handle and pushed harder. The blade responded and tore in farther. The scraping of the serrated steel on bone was clearly audible. No sound escaped Mancusi’s mouth as he died in Hector’s arms.