Hunt Them Down(73)
The place wasn’t big, but it was clean. Carter used the toilet, washed his hands in the sink, and brushed his teeth before he headed to the tiny dining room, where he found a set of car keys and a handwritten note telling him where the vehicle was. He carried the keys with him to the bedroom. On the bed were three medium-size Pelican cases and two duffel bags.
Carter spent the next twenty minutes checking the equipment, loading the weapons, and making sure the NODs had new batteries. Exactly thirty minutes after he was dropped off, Carter called Dante.
“Everything was to your satisfaction?” Dante asked.
Carter, a perfectionist, and exceptionally so when it came to marksmanship, wished he could have test-fired the Glocks and the MP5s, but he had no choice in the matter. “Everything’s fine.”
“How do you want to play it?”
“Our only objective is to confirm that Leila and Sophia are here.”
“What about Hector Mieles?”
“I think it’s fair to assume that if Hector’s here, the girls are here too, agreed?”
“Makes sense.”
“So I’ll head in the direction of the Black Tosca’s residence and drive around once. I’ll call you back once I’m done, and, depending on my findings, I’ll let you know what we’ll do.”
Carter brought the powerful binoculars to his eyes and focused on the Black Tosca’s residence half a mile away. The house—one of the biggest Carter had ever seen—was a custom-built fortress. It had the style of a Spanish colonial home and was perched high on a hilltop with spectacular views of the Sierra Madre mountains and the rolling countryside.
Carter wondered if the citizens of San Miguel de Allende knew—or cared—about the high number of criminal organizations whose bosses had elected to reside in the city Condé Nast Traveler magazine had named the best in the world. Carter had to admit that the small city exuded so much charm, history, and beauty that even though he was tracking the man who’d kidnapped Hunt’s daughter, he couldn’t help feeling he had been transported to another dimension. Towering churches, sunset-colored houses, and charming cobblestone streets added an indescribable something Carter would be hard pressed to explain to the guys back in Stafford. But he wasn’t here to relax, explore, or see the sights. His initial reconnaissance showed him a couple of good spots from where he had good views of the front gate and the east side of the third floor of the house. The tall walls surrounding the property and its sheer elevation from the street hindered Carter’s ability to see anything below the third floor.
He had been in his position for a little more than two hours when a pair of white Range Rovers came out the front gate at the end of the long asphalt driveway leading up to the Black Tosca’s residence. The side windows of both Range Rovers were heavily tinted, and the sunlight glinted off the windshield, but Carter, his eyes glued to his binoculars, was able to confirm that there were at least two occupants per vehicle. He quickly exchanged the binoculars for his Nikon P900 camera. Both Range Rovers made a right turn and accelerated toward his location. Carter brought the camera to his eye and snapped eight pictures. The vehicles were still a quarter of a mile away when Carter crouched behind the steering wheel and got as low as he could, his right hand drifting toward the passenger seat where his Glock 22 was hidden under a local guidebook. Not that the Glock would make much difference in a shoot-out with Hector’s men. In about fifteen seconds, he’d know if he’d been seen. He started to count in his head. At the count of seventeen, the Range Rovers drove slowly past his position. If they were going to hit him, it was going to happen right about now. Carter’s grip tensed around the Glock. He held his breath and strained his ears for a full minute and listened for signs of trouble. Nothing.
He risked a look in his side mirror. The Range Rovers were stopped at a red light five or six hundred feet behind his SUV.
That was close, Carter thought. He chuckled to himself, mostly from relief.
Carter looked at the Nikon’s display to analyze the pictures. The first five showed the first Range Rover and its occupants: two Latino males whose faces Carter didn’t recognize. The last three photos, though, made his heart jolt. With a lump in his throat, Carter dialed the number Hunt had given him.
“It’s me,” Carter said once he had his friend on the line.
“What did you learn?”
“Hector Mieles is in San Miguel, Pierce. Get your ass over here.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Miami, Florida
It took Hunt less than fifteen minutes to get to Jasmine’s house from Tony Garcia’s house. He rang the doorbell twice. Jasmine opened the door wearing only a light-blue terry cloth robe with a matching towel on her head. She looked tired, worn out. The lines on her face were too pronounced for someone her age. Her eyes, which had been so vibrant in the past, were now dull. He wondered if his eyes looked the same way. Clearly, Leila’s kidnapping had hit his ex-wife very hard. Jasmine probably thought he was bearing bad news because her legs buckled, and before Hunt could catch her, she collapsed to her knees. Hunt knelt next to her.
“I think Leila’s still alive,” he said into her ear. “But I need Chris’s help.”
She shook her head in what Hunt could only assume was disbelief.
“Oh my God,” she managed to say. “I . . . I thought you were here because—”