Hunt Them Down(46)

The fingers of his left hand struggled to maintain their hold on a small protruding brick while his left foot kept sliding off the narrow ledge. His right wrist and shoulders were cramping, his back was tensing up, and his shoulder blades were getting tighter by the second. The cook only had to look up to see Hunt hanging between the balcony and the drainpipe.

Hunt was stuck. He couldn’t move left, and he couldn’t move right. And he couldn’t hold on much longer.



édgar Pomar couldn’t sleep. There was too much on his mind. Nothing that couldn’t be handled, but he was a perfectionist. You had to be when you worked for the Black Tosca. The slightest slip could cost you your life and those of your loved ones. It made him anxious and in need of a cigarette. He thought about lighting up in bed, but his bitchy wife could come back at any time, and there was no chance of a late-night blow job if she caught him smoking inside. He opened his nightstand drawer and pushed aside the SIG Sauer to grab the pack of Marlboros and the lighter underneath. He stopped in the bathroom to relieve himself, thought about washing his hands but decided against it, and made his way to the second floor. Thank God for that small balcony. His wife hated it. “It fucking smells like shit in the alley,” she kept complaining. But he didn’t mind. It allowed him to smoke without having to go all the way down to the sidewalk. He slid the glass door open and stepped outside.

Damn! The missus was right. It did smell like shit. Maybe he didn’t need that cigarette after all. He was about to shut the door when he saw movement to his left. His heart leaped in his throat, and he involuntarily took a step back before he dashed back inside to get his SIG.



Someone yelled from within the restaurant. The cook cursed out loud and replied with something Hunt couldn’t make out. The cook tossed his cigarette in the alleyway and ground it under his heel before heading back inside the kitchen.

The sound of the balcony door sliding open next to Hunt momentarily caused his heart to pound even more violently than it already was. He’d be exposed to anyone stepping onto the balcony, and in this position, he was defenseless. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so vulnerable. He had less than a second to take action and only one move he could make.

Boosted by a surge of adrenaline and sheer will, Hunt ignored the pain coming from his legs and shoulders and leaped toward the balcony. The tips of his fingers grasped the railing, and he hurled himself up and over just in time to see a man run back inside the condominium. Hunt ran after him while alarm bells blared in his head. His entry should have been covert. How the hell had he ended up running after someone through an apartment he hadn’t cleared? How many bad guys were inside? Were there even any bad guys inside? The man he was chasing had all the rights in the world to run away from him. Scratch that. The man he was chasing had all the rights in the world to fucking shoot him. What if he was simply trying to protect his family?

Damn it!

Under any other circumstances, Hunt would have retreated. But to find Leila, Hunt was ready to break all rules of morality.

Ahead of Hunt, the man started going down the stairs three at a time to reach the floor below, but he lost his footing and almost tumbled down the last five steps. He somehow managed to remain on his feet and careened right at the bottom of the stairs. Hunt lost sight of him and thought about going for his gun, but it would waste precious seconds, so he decided to accelerate instead. He jagged right the moment he reached the third floor, just in time to see the man run into a bedroom.



Pomar wasn’t even halfway down the stairs when he heard the other man’s footsteps hit the top step. He tried to glance back but nearly lost his balance. He jumped the last four steps, then sprinted to the bedroom. He reached his nightstand, opened the drawer, and grabbed his pistol. He didn’t even have time to take it out of the drawer before the man jumped over the bed and tackled him at full speed. Both men crashed against the nightstand—with Pomar’s hand still inside. Its drawer closed, snapping Pomar’s wrist. Pomar tried to yell, but his attacker threw him on the floor hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Before Pomar could recuperate, the man had a knee on his back and one of his hands cupped around his mouth. The tip of a knife was pressed to the back of his neck.

“Where are the girls?” the man barked at him.

With the man’s hand solidly clasped against his mouth, Pomar could only make a few sounds. The man eased his hold to let him speak.

Mistake. The moment he did, Pomar sank his teeth into the man’s hand; but, before he could rip a finger off, something hit him hard on the head. His forehead pitched forward and bounced twice against the hardwood floor, just like a basketball.



The man’s teeth had barely touched his skin when Hunt elbowed the back of his head, knocking him out. Hunt went back to the nightstand and took the SIG Sauer from the drawer. Hunt withdrew his own pistol from his backpack and proceeded to clear the condo.

Better late than never, he thought. If there had been more than one bad guy, Hunt bet the man he had put to sleep would have called for help. The fact that he didn’t indicated he was probably alone. Hunt nevertheless stayed vigilant and moved from room to room with speed, sweeping his gun left to right and back again. The condo was surprisingly clean and orderly. In less than two minutes, Hunt was confident they were the only two living things in the condo. He went back to the bedroom. The man was still on the floor, but he had regained consciousness. He was on his back, moaning in pain. Hunt grabbed him by the hair and dragged him outside the bedroom to a modern-looking dining chair. He lifted the man into the chair. From his backpack, Hunt pulled out a roll of duct tape. He secured the man’s hands behind his back and his ankles to the legs of the chair. He then tore off two more pieces and pressed the first one against the man’s left eyebrow. He used the last piece to tape the man’s mouth shut. Hunt slapped him to help him come around. The man looked at him and blinked his eyes as he tried to figure out how he had ended up tied to a chair. His forehead was swollen, and his eyes were unfocused. Hunt slapped him again, and it seemed to do the trick.