Hunt Them Down(51)

Hunt pretended he hadn’t heard him and kept walking.

“Hey, you fuck!” the man yelled at him, frustrated.

Continuing to ignore him now would raise suspicion. Hunt glanced his way and said, “Excuse me? Do we know each other?”

“You ran me over with your Cherokee? I saw you! You were driving it.”

One of the officers gently pushed the man away and stood in front of Hunt. The cop almost looked like he was sorry to disturb him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said, rolling his eyes, “but this man claims someone ran him over with a Jeep Cherokee. Do you own a Cherokee?”

Under any other circumstances, Hunt would have described the encounter that happened, trusting that the evidence—the man’s lack of injuries, traffic light cams—would show he hadn’t run the man over. But there was no time to get embroiled in an investigation. Leila needed him. “I do not,” Hunt said.

“Fucking liar!” the man yelled. The taller of the two officers warned him to shut up.

The other cop asked Hunt if he lived in the area.

“I’m visiting a friend,” Hunt said. “I live north of here.”

“Just so we can show our sarge we made an effort, could I see a piece of identification?”

Hunt sighed. What was he supposed to do? If they ran his name through the system, they’d see the warrant for his arrest. And even if they didn’t run it, they might recognize his name. He was in a jam. To make matters worse, he heard the now familiar deep roar of the SRT. And he wasn’t the only one to recognize the sound. The homeless man did too. The man’s eyes flamed with triumph.

“Here! That’s the Cherokee I talked about. See? See? I wasn’t fucking lying.”

Intrigued, the officers turned to watch the SRT race toward their location. Alarmed, one of them whipped back toward Hunt, but he was too late. Hunt was already moving.



Anna looked in her rearview mirror, anxious that someone had called the police and that she was about to be pulled over and put in handcuffs. Were there any witnesses or security cameras that had recorded her deed? There was no way to know. She simply hoped her brother would take care of it like he’d promised.

She questioned the wisdom of telling Hunt what she’d done. His knowing about it wouldn’t help in any way.

Oh my God! How did this happen? She had executed a man. No, not an execution. Self-defense. She made a right turn on Ocean Drive and accelerated south, pushing the negative thoughts away. At some point, she’d have to deal with what she had done, but now wasn’t the right time. Too many people were counting on her.

She was less than three hundred feet from the condominium building when she noticed a commotion in front of it. She sucked in a breath. What now?



In a flash, Hunt took in the tactical situation. Two police officers, one civilian, and less than five seconds to neutralize them.

Hunt delivered a well-placed right hook to the shorter officer’s chin. It was all very unfair. The officer was caught by surprise, and even though his neck was as thick as one of his legs and his jaw could have been built from granite, his knees buckled under him. Hunt took a side step toward the second officer, who, to his credit, had managed to pull his service pistol out of its holster. But Hunt was just too fast. His speed, his precision—all of it drilled into him through years of training—came naturally. The officer had no chance. Hunt slapped both hands over his weapon, effectively trapping the officer’s hand against the frame of his pistol. He rotated the gun away from him and then directed it upward while twisting it against the rotation of the officer’s wrist. The officer screamed in frustration and horror as Hunt disarmed him in less than half a second. Hunt delivered a powerful, open-palm strike to the officer’s chest, forcing him to take a few steps back.

The officer was in a bad spot, and he knew it. Hunt released the magazine and let it fall on the sidewalk. He stripped the slide and barrel from the gun and tossed it back to the officer.

All the while the homeless man just stood there, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Sorry about your partner, brother,” Hunt said to the officer as Anna came to a stop next to the curb. “I didn’t hit him too hard,” Hunt added, climbing into the SRT.

Anna accelerated away.



“What took you so long?” Hunt asked Anna. In the side mirror, Hunt saw the officer he had knocked out get to his knees.

“Just be happy I didn’t leave your ass on the street.”

He looked at her. “Thanks,” he said. “And I mean it.”

She nodded but remained silent. There was a deep purple mark on her right cheek. “What the hell happened to you?” Hunt asked.

Anna sniffed and looked away.

There were red finger marks on her neck, as if someone had grabbed her and tried to strangle her.

“No, seriously, Anna, what happened? Were you mugged?”

“Later, okay? Let’s get out of here.”

Hunt didn’t push it. He was about to tell her they needed a new vehicle when someone walking on the sidewalk caught his eyes. Hunt did a double take. For a split second their eyes met, and there was a jolt of recognition.

Cole Egan?

Could it really be him? What was he doing here? A coincidence?

“What is it?” Anna asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said, his mind racing. “I’m not sure.”