Hunt Them Down(4)

“Keep your hands up and turn around slowly.”

The sound of a semiautomatic weapon startled Hunt. Rounds came from nowhere, and he dropped to the ground as one whizzed next to his head. Miller wasn’t as fast, though, and was hit twice. Hunt heard him grunt as he fell to his knees, but before Hunt could render him assistance, the man who had come out from behind the van reached behind his back. Hunt shot him with a double tap to the chest. The man collapsed on the spot, but the bullets didn’t stop. It took Hunt another half second to understand that someone was firing at them from inside the van.

Hunt opened up with three-round bursts. His team followed his lead and did the same.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Hunt ordered almost immediately. He stood up. “On me!”

They had peppered the van with so many bullets that Hunt doubted whoever had fired at them was still a threat. Two agents covered him on his left while Hunt approached the van. He opened the sliding door. Ramón Figueroa lay there, his body riddled with bullets; an AR-15 remained firmly in his grasp. Hunt cleared the weapon while the rest of his team secured the perimeter and tended to the suspect Hunt had shot in the chest.

“Pierce, over here!” one of his men called.

Hunt turned his head and saw that the suspect he’d shot had been holding a pistol. Hunt exhaled loudly. He had made the right call. But his relief was short-lived. As Hunt completed his visual inspection of the scene, he saw that Miller remained immobile in the middle of the road. Hunt ran to him.

“Officer down! Officer down!” Hunt said over the radio as he knelt next to his fallen comrade.

Fuck!

Miller’s eyes were still open. A small puddle of blood had formed under him. At least one armor-piercing round had gone through his vest and another through his throat. Hunt removed his gloves and felt for a pulse, already knowing he’d find none.





CHAPTER FOUR

Chicago, Illinois

Moore couldn’t believe his luck. He checked his live viewers. Ten thousand and climbing. Amazing. The likes were coming in faster than ever before. And so were the comments.

He had filmed everything, including when the lead special agent—what was his name again? Oh yeah, Hunt—had shot the man who had just surrendered. Moore’s whole body was shaking—not from fear but from excitement. He quietly climbed out of the Durango and continued to film. The scene was surreal. The panel van had so many bullet holes that it looked like an infantry platoon had used it for target practice. Part of him wished innocent people had been inside the van when the DEA agents fired at it. That would’ve been the biggest law enforcement blunder in the history of Chicago. Worth a Pulitzer, maybe?

Moore aimed his phone at the lead agent, who was kneeling next to what appeared to be a dead DEA agent. Oh my God. I can’t believe this. The viewers will go crazy. This will be international news within the hour.

He jogged toward them. “What’s the name of the dead agent?” he asked.



Hunt turned his head and saw that damn reporter aiming his phone at his fallen comrade. Moore was grinning as if he had just won the lottery. The man is a plague, Hunt thought with revulsion. His pompous, entitled attitude exemplified everything that was wrong in today’s society. At that moment in time, there was nothing Hunt wanted more than to punch the reporter in the face, to inflict physical pain on that poor excuse of a man as payback for his lack of respect. The desire to wipe the smirk off the reporter’s face was almost overwhelming, but something deep inside Hunt held him back.

The promise.

A promise he had made to himself years ago while he was still an Army Ranger. A promise on which the seals were still unbroken. A promise entailing that he would never, ever, come what may, use gratuitous violence again. Pea-brained Luke Moore, as ignorant and idiotic as he was, wasn’t worth breaking the promise over.

Hunt’s earpiece crackled.

“Alpha One, Bravo Two.”

“Go for Alpha One.”

“Pierce, you better make your way in here. There’s something you need to see.”

“Copy. On my way.”

But Moore wasn’t done with him yet. The reporter’s phone now pointed at Hunt.

“What’s the dead agent’s name?” Moore repeated.

Hunt ignored him and started walking in the direction of the warehouse. Moore grabbed his elbow.

“I asked you a question,” Moore spat. “You’re on live—”

Hunt spun around and placed the palm of his left hand on Moore’s chest.

“Get out of my face,” Hunt warned. The ice in his voice was enough to make Moore step away, but neither man intended what happened next.

Moore tripped over his own feet and fell backward, managing to hit his head on the pavement in the process. After a stunned moment, he grimaced in pain and raised his hand to the back of his head. It came back bloody. To Hunt’s surprise, he smiled.

“You’re so fucked.”

“Are you for real? I barely touched you, dickhead,” Hunt said, regretting the words the moment they came out.

“You shoved me to the ground! That’s assault, and I’m pressing charges.”





CHAPTER FIVE

Chicago, Illinois

Hunt was still steaming over that idiot reporter, but he didn’t have time to waste. He left Moore sitting on the pavement, still filming with his cell phone, and entered the warehouse. He might have been better off if he’d stayed outside.