Hunt Them Down(7)

“What was that, Leila?”

“What?” she replied, clearly offended by his inquiry. She shut off her phone.

“The picture of a half-naked man I just saw,” he said, his temper rising. “Who the hell was that?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just a picture,” Leila replied. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Hunt said, doing his best to remain calm. He had recently started reading books on how to deal with teenage daughters. The authors were unanimous about one thing: it didn’t serve anyone’s interest to be either judgmental or hostile.

“You won’t understand,” Leila said, once again looking outside and away from him. “And Mom knows about it.”

“She knows about what?” Hunt squeezed the steering wheel so hard his knuckles became white. He hated being kept in the dark. He wished he could put the blame on his ex-wife, but he knew who the real culprit was. He had lost the privilege of knowing what was going on in his daughter’s life long ago.

“My boyfriend sent me a text. That’s all. There’s no need for you to fuss about it.”

Boyfriend. Hunt’s mind had shut off right there. He hadn’t understood any other word. His baby girl was way too young to have a boyfriend.

And Jasmine knows about this? She didn’t care to tell me our fifteen-year-old daughter has a boyfriend?

A boyfriend who had just sent Leila a picture of himself half-naked? Hunt didn’t care anymore what the books said. He was going to find out where this young man lived and tell him to stay far away from his daughter.

Hunt was so lost in his own thoughts that he drove right through another stop sign and barely missed hitting an oncoming car.

“Dad!” Leila yelled at the top of her lungs. Her scream brought him back to the here and now.

Shit!

The red-and-blue lights of a police car appeared in his rearview mirror. Hunt sighed, ashamed he had nearly gotten into an accident while driving with his daughter. He definitely wouldn’t try to badge his way out of this one. He deserved to pay every dollar of the fine.

“Sorry, Leila,” he said. “I really am.”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

Hunt parallel parked and turned off the vehicle. He opened his window and removed the key from the ignition. Through his side mirror he saw the Miami-Dade police officer climb out of his cruiser. Hunt placed his hands on the steering wheel, making sure they were in plain sight.

The officer touched the taillight of Hunt’s pickup truck with his thumb. This safety precaution had been practiced by police officers for decades as a way to leave behind evidence of the encounter. That was a good move that told Hunt the officer took his job seriously. No doubt the officer had also called in the Ford’s license plate and the location of the traffic stop.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the officer said, his right hand on top of his firearm. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” His eyes scanned the rear seats before stopping on Hunt’s daughter in the front passenger seat. “You’re okay, young lady?”

“Thanks for saving my life, Officer,” Leila said without missing a beat. “My father nearly killed us both.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed on Hunt. With the kind of statement Leila had just made, Hunt fully expected the officer to order him out of his vehicle. Just what I need on my first day out of suspension, Hunt thought. I might have to flash my badge after all.

Before the officer could reply to Leila, Hunt took the initiative and told him, “My driver’s license is in my right-side suit jacket pocket, and the registration is in the glove box. I’m with the DEA.”

The officer’s demeanor relaxed ever so slightly.

Hunt handed over his driver’s license and the registration before presenting his DEA credentials.

The officer looked at the driver’s license, his eyes widening, and then at Hunt. “You’re Pierce Hunt? The Pierce Hunt?”

“Depends what you mean by that.” Hunt shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“You’re the DEA agent who shoved that asshole reporter to the ground—”

“He actually tripped over his own feet, but yeah, that’s me,” Hunt said, smiling nervously. He didn’t want the conversation to go any further. Not with Leila next to him. She had made it abundantly clear that his actions toward the reporter hadn’t impressed her.

“Shit. The guys back at the station won’t believe it,” the officer said, shaking his head.

Hunt smiled politely. Moore’s video of the raid on the Black Tosca’s cartel warehouse—and particularly, his confrontation with Hunt—had made headlines around the country and had amassed over five million views on YouTube.

“Did you really put your gun against his head in the warehouse?” the officer asked, clearly excited.

“Not my proudest moment,” Hunt said.

“Way I heard it, the guy caused the deaths of those women and one of your agents. He deserved it, if you ask me.”

“Still cost me six months’ salary.” And he got a two-and-a-half-million-dollar confidential settlement from the DEA, Hunt thought. For tripping over his own damn feet!

“Anyway, it’s a real honor to meet you. Sorry for what happened to your guy.”

“Same here, Officer, and thank you.” Hunt shook the man’s outstretched hand.