Hunt Them Down(47)

“I’ll remove the tape covering your mouth now,” Hunt said, pressing the tip of his silencer against the man’s left knee. “Answer my questions and live, or don’t and suffer. Then die. It’s as simple as that. No bullshit. What do you say?”

The man’s eyes were full of venom, but he nodded.

Hunt jerked on the tape. The man didn’t even flinch, which told Hunt he was dangerous. “What’s your name?”

The man seemed to hesitate, so Hunt banged the silencer on his knee.

“My name’s édgar Pomar.”

That was good news. Pomar, as the cousin of one of the men killed during the ambush, was a direct link to the Black Tosca.

“Where are the girls?”

Something flickered in Pomar’s eyes. Recognition, maybe? “Girls? What girls?”

“Where’s the Black Tosca?”

For the briefest moment, there was another spark in Pomar’s eyes. Fear? “Who? I never—”

In one quick movement, Hunt taped Pomar’s mouth shut. Hunt’s DEA training had included detecting micro expressions. Micro expressions were subtle and involuntary facial expressions that exposed a person’s true emotions. Reading micro expressions was key to detecting deception, an important skill for an undercover operator.

Or when you were interrogating an uncooperative subject who might know where your kidnapped daughter was hidden.

Without any warning, Hunt shot Pomar in his right kneecap. Pomar tried to scream, but the duct tape muffled the sound. Tears ran down his cheeks. The kneecap was a nasty place to take a bullet. Not that Hunt knew from personal experience, but he had seen what it did to the Hamas leader he had “debriefed” in Gaza.

Hunt pressed the tip of the silencer against Pomar’s other kneecap. Pomar shook his head vigorously. His terrified eyes gazed back at Hunt. His lips were trembling. Exactly what Hunt hoped he’d see. He needed Pomar to be more afraid of him than of the Black Tosca. He tore the duct tape from Pomar’s mouth.

“Where’s the Black Tosca?”

“She’s not here, man. She’s . . . she’s in Mexico. I swear it!”

“Where in Mexico?”

Pomar shook his head. “C’mon, man!”

If Pomar was looking for compassion, he was looking at the wrong man. Hunt had none to give. He cut a new piece of duct tape from the roll and placed it on Pomar’s mouth. The man didn’t even resist this time around; he just sobbed. Hunt placed the barrel of his gun under Pomar’s chin and lifted his head. Pomar was sweating now. His face and neck were covered with perspiration. His breathing had kicked up into high gear in anticipation of Hunt’s next shot. But instead of shooting him again, Hunt pulled back, then went to the living room and picked up the clothes iron he’d seen earlier when he cleared the house. He made a show of plugging the iron into an electrical outlet next to Pomar. Hunt hated himself for what he was doing. He had sworn he’d never cross that line ever again, would never torture another man—and he was about to. It made him sick to his stomach, but for his daughter, he’d go to hell and back.

“I hate you for putting me in this position, édgar,” Hunt said honestly. “I don’t want to do this to you. But one of the girls the Black Tosca kidnapped is my daughter.”



Pomar thrashed against his restraints. The pain in his knee was unbearable. And now an iron? This man was crazy. He watched him lift the iron and press the red steam button. A cloud of steam blew out with a swoosh.

Fuck!

“Last chance,” the man warned him.

Pomar nodded vigorously. The duct tape came off.

“Okay, man. She’s in San Miguel de Allende,” he confessed. “But it’s not like you’ll be able to get to her, you know? She’s well protected.”

“Where are the girls?” the man asked again.

“They aren’t here, man—”

The iron flashed out so fast Pomar didn’t even see it coming. The hot iron landed on his already swollen forehead and stayed there for what seemed like an eternity but was, in fact, less than three seconds. His already dazed mind had difficulty processing what he was seeing. From where he sat, it looked like the iron had some wallpaper stuck to the bottom.

Then the pain arrived in a surge of pure agony, and he understood it wasn’t wallpaper but his skin glued to the iron. He screamed. A high-pitched, visceral scream that came from a place within him he didn’t even know existed. But his cry was cut short when his interrogator moved behind him with the speed and agility of a panther and locked the crook of his arm around his throat. Pomar felt the blood pound in his temples as the man tightened his arm around Pomar’s windpipe. His vision swam, and he could feel his face turning purple.

“Another stupid answer like that one and you lose the other knee,” the man whispered in his ear. “Do you understand?”

Pomar bobbed his head up and down. He didn’t want to die, didn’t want to lose the other knee. He certainly couldn’t picture himself spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

The man relaxed his grip. “Talk to me.”



Hunt’s patience was wearing thin. The only actionable intel he’d gotten so far was that the Black Tosca was in San Miguel de Allende. The DEA knew about her mansion but had never been able to send an undercover agent or even an informant inside. Only her close circle could come near the house. The next time Pomar opened his mouth, it had better be good. For his sake.