Hunt Them Down(49)

“Hector is a cold-blooded killer.”

That wasn’t something Hunt needed to hear.

“He’s a tall son of a bitch too. Rumors have him at seven feet tall. And big. He’s former Mexican military,” she added.

Seven feet tall. Hunt wondered if Hector wasn’t the guy with whom he had exchanged gunshots the day before. A man with the lethal focus he’d witnessed wouldn’t hesitate to kill two teenagers.

“I’m going to Hallandale Beach,” Hunt said.

“I’m going with you.”

Hunt elected not to argue.

“What are you gonna do with him?” she asked, pointing to Pomar, who had just started moving again.

“Nothing.”

“You should kill him.”

Hunt shook his head. “Not necessary. I don’t expect we’ll see him again. If he’s smart, he’ll disappear.”

“I admire your moral code,” she said sarcastically.

He raised an eyebrow. First, hacking. Now, bloodlust. What else was he going to discover about her? “You’re very much your father’s daughter, aren’t you?”

A flash of anger appeared on Anna’s face, and then it was gone.

“As you wish,” she said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

South Beach, Florida

Egan was on his way to Tony Garcia’s house when Hector called.

“We have a visual on Pierce Hunt,” Hector said. “He’s in one of our safe houses. He’s interrogating one of our men.”

Hector sounded irritated, his shrill voice even shriller than usual.

“Which one?”

“édgar Pomar.”

“No. I meant which safe house?”

“The one in South Beach.”

How had Hunt found the safe house? If he knew about that one, then he knew about the Hallandale Beach one too. And even if he didn’t, Pomar would have told him. Hunt had a way of making people talk.

“Someone else joined in on the party,” Hector added. “I’m watching it live.”

“Somebody you know?”

“It’s Anna Garcia, I think. Vicente’s daughter.”

Egan knew who Anna Garcia was. He didn’t need Hector to lecture him on the who’s who of the Miami drug trade. So Hunt and the Garcia family had joined forces. That was to be expected. No wonder Hector was concerned.

“Was Pomar privy to yesterday’s operation?” Egan asked.

“He wasn’t.”

“Hunt’s like a damn bulldog. You don’t want him on your tail.”

“I told you where he was,” Hector said. “Go do your job.”

“Where will you be?”

“Not your concern.” Hector hung up.

Egan made a U-turn at the next streetlight. He drove south past Haulover Park, Bal Harbour, and North Beach without seeing them. His mind was on Hunt and how to take down the one man he owed his life to.



Egan parked his Ford Explorer four blocks from the safe house. Under his beige summer sport jacket was a SIG Sauer P229 in a leather shoulder holster. The serial number had been removed. He carried two extra magazines in the holster’s pockets. The silencer was in his inside jacket pocket.

He dialed Hector’s number to ask if Hunt was still inside the safe house, but the Black Tosca’s cousin didn’t pick up. Egan was surprised at how busy the streets were with cars and pedestrians at this hour. Vehicles were parked on both sides of the street, people strolling along the large sidewalks, talking, pushing strollers—which made no sense to Egan—and drinking as though they were in Las Vegas. To a tourist or an outsider—hell, to most people—it all seemed so welcoming and safe.

Egan had always thrived best in the underworld. No matter how hard he tried to fit into a normal life, he couldn’t. Not after Gaza. In a way, the Black Tosca had offered him the best of both worlds. He operated with a foot on the fringes of society while living his day-to-day existence with someone like Katherine. A good compromise, he thought. With just enough violence to keep me sane and happy.

The staccato cough of a big engine startled him, and he glanced to the rear while his hand reached for his SIG Sauer. A Grand Cherokee raced around the street corner behind him, its tires screeching. The side windows were tinted black, but the windshield wasn’t. As the Cherokee roared past him, enough light filtered through for him to make out a man in the passenger’s seat. For one fleeting second their eyes met, and a look of recognition flashed across the man’s face.

Pierce Hunt.





CHAPTER FORTY

South Beach, Florida

Anna exited the building first. Hunt had asked her to get the Cherokee while he took care of Pomar. She was glad Hunt hadn’t killed him. She had been testing him when she’d suggested it, and he had passed with flying colors. He was nothing like her father, which was a good thing—nothing, even, like the man she’d assumed Terrance Davis was.

Anna was still struggling with her father’s death. It had been much easier when she didn’t know about the atrocity her father had committed. It had been somewhat comforting to pin his death entirely on Hunt’s shoulders. But now that the Black Tosca was involved, it complicated things. She just couldn’t push the thoughts away. What had her father done? Forcing a young girl to set fire to her own dad? It was a side of him she didn’t know, didn’t understand. How could someone in his right mind commit such a brutal, hideous act? In a strange way, she understood why the Black Tosca wanted revenge. How could she not?