“Gun, gun, gun,” Hunt warned, bringing his MP5 to bear.
Hunt fired through the Durango’s windshield as bullets ripped apart its side mirror. Puffs of dirt and asphalt erupted to the left of his targets. He adjusted his aim but lost it before he could fire again when the driver braked hard.
Hunt was out of the Durango before it had fully stopped.
“Alpha One from Sierra One, you have two tangos behind the van. I have no shots,” said the sniper leader.
“Copy. Two targets behind the panel van.”
The rush of adrenaline enhanced all Hunt’s senses. He was exactly where he was supposed to be, and it felt good. In his peripheral vision, he spotted his men taking their positions next to him. To his immediate left was Scott Miller, the youngest guy on the team and a man Hunt had taken under his wing. Miller’s abilities and leadership skills left no doubt in Hunt’s mind that Miller would one day lead his own team.
They were still fifty yards away from the van when he saw a head pop out from behind the rear bumper. Hunt aligned his sights and was about to squeeze the trigger when the head exploded.
Good shot, Scott.
Figueroa watched in horror as Trevor collapsed next to him. The back of his head was covered in blood. Loud cracks told him the other van had come under fire too, probably from snipers perched at key locations around the warehouse. The fact that he was still alive meant the snipers had no clear shot or were too busy dealing with the rest of his crew.
“Fernando, get your ass out of the van,” Figueroa screamed.
Puta.
Figueroa had no illusions. He wasn’t going to kill them all by himself. His options were limited to surrendering to the DEA—and being killed in prison for his cowardice—or making a stand and trying to take as many with him as he could in death.
Figueroa considered his options and quickly came up with a plan. The interior of the van would offer both concealment and a wide field of fire. With Fernando’s help, he would make the DEA pay dearly for interfering with the Black Tosca’s business.
As Fernando slowly made his way out of the van, Figueroa grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. “Here’s what I want you to do.”
“Stay vigilant,” Hunt said to his team. “There are at least two more tangos associated with this van.”
“Alpha One, Sierra One.”
“Go.”
“Three tangos down on the other side of the warehouse.”
“Copy.”
The wailing of police sirens from throughout the city filled the crisp morning air. Within minutes, the local cops would be everywhere, adding to the confusion. Hunt saw an unarmed man slowly come out from behind the panel van. He didn’t recognize him.
“Hands in the air!” Hunt yelled. “Step away from the van!”
Hunt’s eyes scanned the man for weapons. The man was shaking, and there was a wet patch on his pants between his legs.
“Keep your hands up and turn around slowly.”
The sound of a semiautomatic weapon startled Hunt. Rounds came from nowhere, and he dropped to the ground as one whizzed next to his head. Miller wasn’t as fast, though, and was hit twice. Hunt heard him grunt as he fell to his knees, but before Hunt could render him assistance, the man who had come out from behind the van reached behind his back. Hunt shot him with a double tap to the chest. The man collapsed on the spot, but the bullets didn’t stop. It took Hunt another half second to understand that someone was firing at them from inside the van.
Hunt opened up with three-round bursts. His team followed his lead and did the same.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Hunt ordered almost immediately. He stood up. “On me!”
They had peppered the van with so many bullets that Hunt doubted whoever had fired at them was still a threat. Two agents covered him on his left while Hunt approached the van. He opened the sliding door. Ramón Figueroa lay there, his body riddled with bullets; an AR-15 remained firmly in his grasp. Hunt cleared the weapon while the rest of his team secured the perimeter and tended to the suspect Hunt had shot in the chest.
“Pierce, over here!” one of his men called.
Hunt turned his head and saw that the suspect he’d shot had been holding a pistol. Hunt exhaled loudly. He had made the right call. But his relief was short-lived. As Hunt completed his visual inspection of the scene, he saw that Miller remained immobile in the middle of the road. Hunt ran to him.
“Officer down! Officer down!” Hunt said over the radio as he knelt next to his fallen comrade.
Fuck!
Miller’s eyes were still open. A small puddle of blood had formed under him. At least one armor-piercing round had gone through his vest and another through his throat. Hunt removed his gloves and felt for a pulse, already knowing he’d find none.
CHAPTER FOUR
Chicago, Illinois
Moore couldn’t believe his luck. He checked his live viewers. Ten thousand and climbing. Amazing. The likes were coming in faster than ever before. And so were the comments.
He had filmed everything, including when the lead special agent—what was his name again? Oh yeah, Hunt—had shot the man who had just surrendered. Moore’s whole body was shaking—not from fear but from excitement. He quietly climbed out of the Durango and continued to film. The scene was surreal. The panel van had so many bullet holes that it looked like an infantry platoon had used it for target practice. Part of him wished innocent people had been inside the van when the DEA agents fired at it. That would’ve been the biggest law enforcement blunder in the history of Chicago. Worth a Pulitzer, maybe?
Moore aimed his phone at the lead agent, who was kneeling next to what appeared to be a dead DEA agent. Oh my God. I can’t believe this. The viewers will go crazy. This will be international news within the hour.
He jogged toward them. “What’s the name of the dead agent?” he asked.
Hunt turned his head and saw that damn reporter aiming his phone at his fallen comrade. Moore was grinning as if he had just won the lottery. The man is a plague, Hunt thought with revulsion. His pompous, entitled attitude exemplified everything that was wrong in today’s society. At that moment in time, there was nothing Hunt wanted more than to punch the reporter in the face, to inflict physical pain on that poor excuse of a man as payback for his lack of respect. The desire to wipe the smirk off the reporter’s face was almost overwhelming, but something deep inside Hunt held him back.
The promise.
A promise he had made to himself years ago while he was still an Army Ranger. A promise on which the seals were still unbroken. A promise entailing that he would never, ever, come what may, use gratuitous violence again. Pea-brained Luke Moore, as ignorant and idiotic as he was, wasn’t worth breaking the promise over.
Hunt’s earpiece crackled.
“Alpha One, Bravo Two.”
“Go for Alpha One.”
“Pierce, you better make your way in here. There’s something you need to see.”
“Copy. On my way.”
But Moore wasn’t done with him yet. The reporter’s phone now pointed at Hunt.
“What’s the dead agent’s name?” Moore repeated.
Hunt ignored him and started walking in the direction of the warehouse. Moore grabbed his elbow.
“I asked you a question,” Moore spat. “You’re on live—”
Hunt spun around and placed the palm of his left hand on Moore’s chest.
“Get out of my face,” Hunt warned. The ice in his voice was enough to make Moore step away, but neither man intended what happened next.
Moore tripped over his own feet and fell backward, managing to hit his head on the pavement in the process. After a stunned moment, he grimaced in pain and raised his hand to the back of his head. It came back bloody. To Hunt’s surprise, he smiled.
“You’re so fucked.”
“Are you for real? I barely touched you, dickhead,” Hunt said, regretting the words the moment they came out.
“You shoved me to the ground! That’s assault, and I’m pressing charges.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Chicago, Illinois
Hunt was still steaming over that idiot reporter, but he didn’t have time to waste. He left Moore sitting on the pavement, still filming with his cell phone, and entered the warehouse. He might have been better off if he’d stayed outside.
Hunt wished anyone who said drug use was a victimless crime could see what was in front of him. The twelve young girls who had been slaughtered were all the proof the skeptics needed to see. The girls had never stood a chance.
Why had the cartel killed them? What had prompted them to depart the warehouse? Had they known the DEA was about to raid them? It certainly looked like it. But how?
Hunt’s phone vibrated in his trouser pocket.
“Yes?”
“Pierce, this is Tom Hauer.”
Hauer was the acting administrator of the DEA. He was a political appointee but a good guy nonetheless.
“Can I call you back, sir? We’re still in the middle of the operation.”
“No, you’re not, I’m afraid. You’re relieved of your command, and you’re about to be placed under arrest by the Chicago Police Department.”
“Say that again?” Hunt replied, his temper rising. This wasn’t a good time to mess with him.
“You’re relieved. I’m sorry, Pierce. It’s all over the news. My hands are tied.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“That reporter you pushed to the ground was filming. Live.”
“For Christ’s sake. I didn’t push him to the ground. He tripped over his own feet.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hauer sighed. “He was tweeting during the whole goddamn operation, and when the shooting started, he switched to a live video feed. He’s saying you shot an unarmed man. Tell me it isn’t true.”
“Moore’s full of shit, sir. The man was armed,” Hunt replied, his mind racing. Something Hauer had said had caught his attention. “Did you say Moore was tweeting? About the raid?”
“I’m on his Twitter feed now, and yes, he started tweeting the moment you left the office. How the hell did this happen?”
Shit! They knew we were coming because of Moore.
Hunt hung up on his boss.
“Follow me,” he said to three of his team members. “I’m gonna strangle that journalist shitbag.”
“Might not be a good idea, Pierce,” Simon Carter told him. Carter was his second-in-command and a close friend.
Hunt stopped and looked Carter square in the eyes. “He screwed us. He publicly tweeted our location, Simon. Scott’s death, and all of this, is on him.”
Hunt saw his own fury reflected in Carter’s eyes. Losing a teammate was bad enough, but they all knew the risks associated with the job. Being betrayed was a different story. Someone was about to pay dearly for his sins.
The moment Hunt stepped out of the warehouse, he was intercepted by a Chicago police lieutenant flanked by three other officers. They had their hands on the butts of their pistols. Hunt was glad the guns were still holstered.
“Special Agent Pierce Hunt?” the lieutenant said.
“Not now, Lieutenant,” Hunt said. “There’s something we need to do. Give me five minutes.”
For a moment, the officer looked confused. Then his eyes moved to the three DEA special agents in full combat gear standing behind the man he was supposed to take into custody. It didn’t look as if they were going to allow their leader to be taken. At least not yet.
“All right,” the lieutenant finally said, stepping aside.
Hunt nodded his thanks.
Outside, the sun was shining. Police vehicles and ambulances were everywhere. Someone had had the decency to cover Scott Miller’s body with a sheet. There would be a time to mourn him, but now wasn’t that time. Now was the time for revenge.
Hunt’s gaze was fixed on Luke Moore, who was being treated by a paramedic in the back of an ambulance. A DEA special agent was standing next to him. The paramedic saw Hunt and took two steps back.
“Come with me,” Hunt said, yanking Moore to his feet.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Moore said and then started screaming. “Help me! This is police brutality!”
Hunt effortlessly lifted the reporter and slung him over his left shoulder.
“There’s something I want to show you,” Hunt said. “Your handiwork.”
Moore didn’t care that people were staring at him. It actually fit perfectly with his plan. In his mind, they were witnesses he would call upon to testify how unfairly the police had treated him.
He was already counting the millions he’d get from a civil lawsuit when his head bumped hard against a doorframe. Moore let out a whooshing sound and blinked back tears of pain.
He twisted his head to the other side and saw a bunch of Chicago police officers chatting together. “Hey, you saw that?” Moore screamed at them. “This guy is out of control. Do something!”
One of the officers pointed a finger toward him. “That’s Luke Moore,” he said.
“Who’s he?” asked another.
“He’s the cop hater I talked to you about.”
One by one, the officers turned their backs.
Hunt lifted Moore off his shoulder and placed him on his feet, handling the journalist as though he was a wooden toy soldier. Moore had the good sense to remain quiet. Carter was standing guard next to the door leading into the laboratory.
“He needs to see what he’s done,” Hunt hissed.
Carter handed a gas mask to Hunt but didn’t offer one to Moore.
“Him too,” Hunt said reluctantly, and they waited for Moore to put a mask on.
Carter opened the door, and Hunt pushed Moore inside. The reporter stopped and tried to walk back out, but Hunt shoved him forward.
“What is this? Why are you bringing me here?” Moore demanded.
Hunt gripped Moore’s neck and showed him the twelve naked bodies resting on the floor. “You did this,” Hunt said.
Moore twisted, trying to turn his head away. “I had nothing to do with this. Who are they?”
“They were human slaves.”
“Get me out of here! I had nothing to do with this!” Moore repeated, trying to get away. Hunt tightened his grip around the reporter’s neck and kicked him behind the legs, forcing him onto his knees. In one swift motion, Hunt drew his firearm and placed the muzzle against the back of Moore’s head.
Moore felt the pressure of the gun to his head. Oh my God. I’m gonna die. He had seen Hunt kill an unarmed man minutes ago. Hunt wouldn’t hesitate to kill him here surrounded by his brutal and heartless peers. Moore wanted to cry for help, but he was too terrified. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, which made wearing the mask even less comfortable.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“Did you tweet where we were going?”
Moore’s gut became a knot. Shit.
Had he caused these deaths? Was he somehow responsible for this mayhem? Without warning, a terrible odor made its way to his olfactory sensory neurons. The stench was such that he gagged on it.
“What the hell?” he heard Hunt say.
It was then that Moore, on his knees and with a gun to his head, understood. The hot, wet weight that filled his underpants didn’t lie. He had shit himself. Never in his life had he felt so humiliated and degraded. And for that, he’d make the DEA pay dearly.
CHAPTER SIX
Six months later
Miami, Florida
Pierce Hunt almost choked biting into the pizza slice. The watered-down tomato sauce did nothing to enhance the chemical taste of the seasoning or the soggy crust. Hunt was convinced the life expectancy of his fellow Americans would drop by a few years if this new recipe ever made it to the mainstream pizza chains.
“This is the best pizza ever,” his fifteen-year-old daughter, Leila, said, already halfway through her second slice.
/> “Absolutely,” Hunt lied between two emergency sips of Diet Coke. “Never tasted anything like this before.”
Leila stopped chewing and cocked her head to one side. “You’re such a bad liar,” she said. “You really don’t like it?”
“Why don’t we try that new taco place next time?”
“Sure,” Leila said without much enthusiasm. She took another bite and checked her phone.
“No phone while we eat, Leila,” Hunt said. “This is our time.”
“You checked yours, like, three times in the last five minutes.”
Hunt wanted to say it was for work. That he had to. After all, it was his first day back on the job after a six-month suspension. But she was right; he couldn’t ask her to do something if he wasn’t willing to do the same.
She was growing so fast. Hunt remembered when she would fall asleep on his chest with her head tucked under his chin and her toes not even touching his belly button. She had been so little then. He missed those years. He craved having them back. Not just the years, but Jasmine too. She was a great mother to Leila, and she had been a good wife to him. He was the one who had pushed her—and Leila—out of his life. He hadn’t done it intentionally, of course, but year after year, he had essentially let the DEA build a wall between him and his family.
Life was all about choices, and Hunt was wondering if he’d made the right ones. Looking at his daughter—now on her third pizza slice—he realized that his life was filled with bad choices. He’d left the army, joined the DEA, and immediately accepted the long undercover assignment that they’d offered him. If he had said no, maybe he, Leila, and Jasmine would still be a family.
His phone vibrated on the table, next to the pizza slice he had no intention of ever touching again.
“Dad?” Leila was looking at him, her disappointment evident. As he was about to take the call, her hand reached for his from across the table. “Please don’t.”
He had promised they’d go see a movie after lunch. His shift wasn’t supposed to start until six. Taking the call might mean they wouldn’t make it to the theater. She knew it. He knew it too. But he was who he was.
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