Hunt Them Down(3)

In his side mirror, Figueroa saw Trevor exit the warehouse with Fernando. Trevor was the youngest in his crew, but he had already proven himself as a merciless street enforcer. He was passionate about his job, but maybe a little too ambitious for Figueroa’s taste. He’d have to keep a close eye on him. Trust only went so far. Fernando, though, was a different animal. At twenty-six, he was five years Trevor’s senior and a graduate of the accounting program at the University of Chicago. Fernando was incapable of violence; his forte was analyzing corporate balance sheets and keeping financial records.

“We’re good to go, boss,” Trevor said as he slammed the sliding door behind him.

Figueroa gently pressed the gas pedal, and the van moved forward. He cranked the steering wheel hard to the left to leave some space for the other van parked next to them. He felt the van shudder lightly, as if he had driven over a glass bottle. A millisecond later, bullets punched through the hood of the van.

Figueroa jammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and the tires spun before catching traction. The van leaped forward and onto the street outside the warehouse. He had to call site two to warn them and ask for backup. As he pulled his phone from his pocket, the van swerved into the opposite lane. An oncoming car blared its horn. Figueroa jerked the wheel to the right to avoid a head-on collision, and his phone fell in between the seats. He searched for it with his right hand. The tips of his fingers touched it, but that only pushed the phone farther down and out of reach.

“Call site two now,” he shouted.

Before Trevor or Fernando could do so, the van jolted right. Figueroa attempted to recover, but the engine didn’t respond. The steering wheel was heavy and sluggish, and the van came to a stop in the middle of the road, its left front and rear tires shot out.

“Out!”

Figueroa grabbed his AR-15 and jumped out of the van. Trevor did the same, but Fernando remained in his seat, too terrified to move.

“There.” Figueroa pointed toward three SUVs approaching at high speed. Their emergency lights confirmed they were law enforcement.

Figueroa and Trevor opened fire on the lead SUV.



Hunt watched his snipers engage with the targets. This was a busier neighborhood than he would have liked. In an effort to avoid collateral damage and unintended civilian casualties, Hunt had wanted to box in the panel vans at the warehouse, but they’d been seconds too late. Two hundred yards away, two men exited the immobilized van and raised their rifles.

“Gun, gun, gun,” Hunt warned, bringing his MP5 to bear.

Hunt fired through the Durango’s windshield as bullets ripped apart its side mirror. Puffs of dirt and asphalt erupted to the left of his targets. He adjusted his aim but lost it before he could fire again when the driver braked hard.

Hunt was out of the Durango before it had fully stopped.

“Alpha One from Sierra One, you have two tangos behind the van. I have no shots,” said the sniper leader.

“Copy. Two targets behind the panel van.”

The rush of adrenaline enhanced all Hunt’s senses. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, and it felt good. In his peripheral vision, he spotted his men taking their positions next to him. To his immediate left was Scott Miller, the youngest guy on the team and a man Hunt had taken under his wing. Miller’s abilities and leadership skills left no doubt in Hunt’s mind that Miller would one day lead his own team.

They were still fifty yards away from the van when he saw a head pop out from behind the rear bumper. Hunt aligned his sights and was about to squeeze the trigger when the head exploded.

Good shot, Scott.



Figueroa watched in horror as Trevor collapsed next to him. The back of his head was covered in blood. Loud cracks told him the other van had come under fire too, probably from snipers perched at key locations around the warehouse. The fact that he was still alive meant the snipers had no clear shot or were too busy dealing with the rest of his crew.

“Fernando, get your ass out of the van,” Figueroa screamed.

Puta.

Figueroa had no illusions. He wasn’t going to kill them all by himself. His options were limited to surrendering to the DEA—and being killed in prison for his cowardice—or making a stand and trying to take as many with him as he could in death.

Figueroa considered his options and quickly came up with a plan. The interior of the van would offer both concealment and a wide field of fire. With Fernando’s help, he would make the DEA pay dearly for interfering with the Black Tosca’s business.

As Fernando slowly made his way out of the van, Figueroa grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. “Here’s what I want you to do.”



“Stay vigilant,” Hunt said to his team. “There are at least two more tangos associated with this van.”

“Alpha One, Sierra One.”

“Go.”

“Three tangos down on the other side of the warehouse.”

“Copy.”

The wailing of police sirens from throughout the city filled the crisp morning air. Within minutes, the local cops would be everywhere, adding to the confusion. Hunt saw an unarmed man slowly come out from behind the panel van. He didn’t recognize him.

“Hands in the air!” Hunt yelled. “Step away from the van!”

Hunt’s eyes scanned the man for weapons. The man was shaking, and there was a wet patch on his pants between his legs.