“Julio Zorita, you know, your Mexican pal?” Hunt asked, his temper rising as his eyes settled on Robbins—whose body was being lifted into the back of an ambulance.
“Pierce—”
“He betrayed us. I’m not sure what the total body count will be, but these deaths, they’re on him. Every single one of them.”
“I . . . I didn’t know. Shit.”
“I’m the only one left, Daniel.”
McMaster remained silent for the better part of a minute. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion, which surprised Hunt. “Listen, Pierce, I—I don’t know how to say this . . . I . . .”
A sick feeling settled in the bottom of Hunt’s stomach. What now? “Just say it.”
“Your daughter was kidnapped less than an hour ago.”
Hunt was sure he hadn’t heard McMaster correctly. Leila was with his ex-wife. Jasmine would have called him if anything had happened to her. Unless Jasmine had been taken too.
Didn’t McMaster tell him he had tried to reach him on his cell? Hunt frantically searched his pockets for his phone.
Where is it? A cold fear crept over him. Where is my damn phone?
“Pierce? Pierce, you there?”
Hunt wasn’t listening. Where was his phone?
My tactical vest. He had left it on the sidewalk where the paramedic had helped him. Was it still there? Still clutching the other officer’s phone against his ear, Hunt jogged down the street. He found his bulletproof vest exactly where he had left it. His phone was in one of the front pockets. He had eleven missed calls.
He sagged on the sidewalk as if someone had cut him off at the knees.
Eleven missed calls. Two were from the DEA office; all the others came from Jasmine’s cell. It took Hunt a while to find his voice, but when he did, it was low and hoarse.
“What about Jasmine?”
“She’s shaken, but she wasn’t with Leila when it happened.”
That was the first good news of the day. He had to speak with her. He’d call her as soon as he was done with McMaster.
“Tell me what you know.”
“Not much for now, I’m afraid,” McMaster started. “It happened in Hallandale Beach, and it was a professional hit.”
A professional hit? That didn’t make one bit of sense. Very few people knew he had a daughter. He kept his work life separate from his personal one. His daughter didn’t even carry his name. Could it be Garcia exacting some sort of revenge? Hunt doubted it. No one in Garcia’s organization knew about Leila—or about Jasmine, for that matter. Could they have found out?
“How do you know it was done by professionals?” he asked.
“A motorist caught the whole thing on his dashcam. We’ll have the footage within the hour.”
“Who was she with?”
“Pierce, it’s kind of . . . seriously, it’s too soon to tell for sure.”
Hunt didn’t like McMaster’s answer. “For God’s sake, McMaster, don’t mess with me.”
At the other end of the line, McMaster cleared his throat. “We ran the plate of the vehicle that was carrying Leila, and we think she was with Sophia Garcia.”
Sophia Garcia. The sound of Tony Garcia’s fifteen-year-old daughter’s name was like a punch to the stomach, a clean blow that took Hunt’s breath away. What the hell was Leila doing with Sophia Garcia? Were they friends? That sounded improbable. Even if Vicente had somehow found out about Leila, he would have never ordered a hit on her. And with his own granddaughter in the vehicle? Impossible.
Could Leila have been in the wrong place at the wrong time? If that was the case, who in hell would dare order a hit against Tony Garcia’s daughter? Then something clicked in Hunt’s brain, and all at once he knew. Whoever had ambushed the motorcade had also ordered the hit on Sophia Garcia.
“I’ll call you back,” he said to McMaster.
Hunt made his way back to the ambush site, hoping at least one of the assaulters was still alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Miami, Florida
To say Jasmine DeGray was worried would be an understatement. She was terrified and rightfully so if she believed the detective seated on the other side of the large contemporary coffee table. She had stopped crying, but her swollen eyes couldn’t seem to focus. She couldn’t stop her imagination from running wild, envisioning all the horrific things the kidnappers could do to her beautiful Leila.
A pang of guilt rushed through her. Why had she said yes? If she had said no to the sleepover, Leila would still be here, not God knows where.
Oh my God! What have I done?
Chris’s big arms around her shoulders did nothing to appease the monsters running loose in her head. She started sobbing again and buried her face in her husband’s shirt.
“Can’t you see she’s had enough? Can’t you come back later, Detective?” she heard him say.
“I wish I could, Mr. Moon. Believe me, I know how hard this is. But the first forty-eight hours are the most crucial. This is when the trail is freshest.”
“I—” Moon started, but Jasmine squeezed his leg and sat straighter.
“It’s okay, Chris,” she said. “The detective’s right.”
She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Ask away.”
“How long has Leila been friends with Sophia?”
“A year, maybe less. They got closer a couple months ago.”
“What changed their relationship?”
Why was the officer probing in that direction? What did this have to do with anything? The detective must have sensed her concerns because he said, “Trust me, Ms. DeGray. This is important.”
“Leila decided to invite her to a home game,” she said.
“The Miami Dolphins, right?”
“Chris has ten tickets per game that he gives away to friends and family members,” she explained.
The detective wrote something in his notebook and switched his attention to her husband. “Mr. Moon, did you ever invite Sophia’s father to a game?”
“I did, once. Why?”
“Do you know who he is?”
“We aren’t friends per se, but he seems like a nice guy. He always takes great care of Leila when she’s there, you know?”
“Of course. Have you ever been to his residence?”
“Once or twice to pick up Leila,” Moon replied.
“Mr. Moon, I have to ask, do you know who Tony Garcia is? I mean, do you know what he does for a living?”
Moon shook his head. “I never asked. But he’s definitely wealthy.”
“You never thought about Googling the guy before sending your daughter for a sleepover?”
Jasmine understood this wasn’t a question, and she didn’t appreciate the detective’s tone. Her husband clearly didn’t either because he bolted off the sofa and was almost on top of the detective when Jasmine yelled at him to stop.
“Chris!”
Her husband stopped, but he pointed a finger toward the detective. “Say what you have to say, and be done with it,” he growled.
The detective had retreated deeper into the sofa. He raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be rude to you or your wife. But Tony Garcia? He’s the head of the most influential crime syndicate in Florida. Didn’t you know that?”
The detective’s words echoed in Jasmine’s head. Tony Garcia. Crime syndicate.
Suddenly, she became dizzy, and the air, like the hope of finding her daughter alive, seemed to have been sucked out of the room. How was she supposed to know that Sophia’s father was that Tony Garcia? There were dozens of Tony Garcias in Miami alone.
Because you’re her mom, and a good mom is supposed to protect her child.
Jasmine swallowed hard. She could feel the tears coming, clogging her throat and blurring her vision. A soft cry escaped her lips as guilt overwhelmed her. Then she thought of her ex-husband, and all the bad memories she associated w
ith Pierce came back. The infidelities, the empty promises, the lies—his goddamn job was still ruining their lives all these years later.
She had understood his motive to join the DEA. Hell, she had even encouraged him to become a special agent. She knew how close Pierce had been to his younger brother, Jake. His death had shaken Pierce to his core. If joining the DEA could somehow help Pierce cope with his loss, then so be it. What she hadn’t signed up for was the two years of undercover work he’d agreed to without discussing it with her. During those two years, she had seen her husband for a grand total of forty-two days. That hadn’t been enough to maintain a healthy relationship, but she had never lost faith, hoping that once his assignment was over, he would return to her and they could once again be a family.
But Vicente Garcia’s trial had shattered that dream.
The news of her husband’s infidelity had been the ultimate betrayal. After everything she’d endured, everything she had sacrificed, she could stand no more. The morning after his first court appearance, she’d taken Leila. She had filed for divorce the same week. She hadn’t exactly been happy that Pierce’s moving back to southern Florida meant Leila would see more of him, and today’s events had proved her right. Her precious daughter was gone.
No, not gone—kidnapped! Because of you, Pierce. I’ve lost her because of you! The dark world you live in has finally caught up to us. You bastard.
“Hon, you okay?” Moon asked. “The detective asked you a question.”
Jasmine wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “I’m sorry, Detective. What was that?” she asked.
“You’ve heard of him, Ms. DeGray? Vicente Garcia?” the detective asked.
She was about to reply when her cell phone rang. She looked at the call display.
Pierce Hunt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Miami, Florida
Pierce Hunt punched Jasmine’s number into his cell as he fought the anger roiling in his belly. He ground his teeth until his jaw hurt and cursed loudly when he dialed the wrong number. He did his best to get his heart rate back to normal, but it was easier said than done.
There had been no enemy survivors. Every single assaulter was dead. A search of their bodies and clothes had revealed little of interest. The FBI was now on the scene and collecting evidence, but since cooperation between the FBI and DEA was at an all-time low, Hunt didn’t expect to receive any actionable intelligence from their investigation. That was why he had taken pictures of the dead assaulters. An application on his cell phone allowed him to collect their fingerprints too. He hadn’t yet decided if he’d share the photos and fingerprints with McMaster. Despite his new boss’s apparent surprise at Zorita’s betrayal, McMaster’s relationship with Zorita bothered him.
Hunt managed to dial Jasmine’s number on his third try, and she picked up on the second ring.
“What do you want?”
Her tone caught him off guard.
“Are you safe?”
“They took Leila, Pierce. They took my girl! What have you done?”
“I—”
“Where are you?”
“Close by. Are you home?”
“Yes, I’m with Chris and a Miami police detective.”
“I can be there in twenty minutes,” he offered.
“No!” she shouted. “It’s your damn fault, Pierce. Oh my God, this is so on you.”
Her words were unexpected, crude, and spoken out of anger. But they nevertheless crushed him. His knuckles turned white, and he felt his phone crack under the pressure. He forced himself to relax. Jasmine didn’t have all the facts, and if she needed someone to pin the blame on, he would assume that role.
“I really think we should talk, Jasmine,” he said as gently as he could once he had regained his composure.
“Why would I care about anything you have to say?”
“Someone ambushed the motorcade I was in today. They killed Vicente Garcia. And they almost killed me.”
He heard her gasp. His words had cut through the haze of her rage. “When? I mean how? Oh my God, Pierce . . . what the fuck’s going on?”
“Wait for me. I’ll be there in twenty.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
San Miguel de Allende
Valentina Mieles tossed her flip phone to Nicolás, her main bodyguard and part-time lover. He caught it with his right hand and immediately started to dismantle it. It didn’t matter that they’d had sex twice in the past hour. Her eyes remained glued to Nicolás. He was standing naked at the foot of her bed, his muscles glistening from his recent efforts. With his soft brown eyes and his high cheekbones, he seemed approachable, a kind man.
But she knew better. Nicolás was a killer.
He had done unspeakable things for her and would continue to do so to cement her power. But like all the other men who had played cameo roles in her life, Nicolás was expendable.
“Leave me,” she ordered him, casting one last look at his naked body. She had some thinking to do and found herself incapable of focusing on the task at hand when Nicolás was naked in front of her.
Nicolás bowed, took two steps back, and vanished out of sight.
Her conversation with Hector had pleased her. The operation had been costly, but Vicente Garcia was dead. With his death, the United States government had lost its star witness. There was no doubt in her mind that her message had been heard loud and clear. People would think twice about crossing her in any way. Not that they didn’t before, but some people needed a reminder once in a while.
The other operation had gone according to plan. One of her men had been injured by Sophia’s girlfriend, but he would be fine. The two girls were now sequestered at her Hallandale Beach safe house. Hector wanted to call Tony Garcia to negotiate the terms of his daughter’s release, but she had vetoed him. She would take care of it herself. She wanted Tony Garcia to understand there was only one way this would end.
His death.
The thought brought a smile to her lips. With Tony Garcia gone, her cartel would control over 80 percent of the drug trade in Florida, and, more importantly, she’d finally avenge the savage murder of her father. But it was of the utmost importance that Tony understood why this was happening to him and his family. Vicente had killed her father over a minor financial disagreement. For this, she was going to decimate their entire family and take over their business.
She got out of bed and walked to the bathroom just off the sitting area. The bathroom was as sumptuous as the rest of the house. The shower was all glass, bigger than most walk-in closets, and had twenty body jets. She turned on the overhead rain shower and let the hot water run over her thick black hair. She remained motionless for a minute to clear her mind before she hit the button for the wall jets. She tried to keep the images of her father’s death from overriding her brain, but she couldn’t.
She never could.
Anger built up rapidly inside her and turned to hatred.
How dare they burn him alive? In front of me? I was thirteen years old!
Suddenly his screams became her screams, his pain her pain. She slid down the slick marble wall until she was curled over her knees. She covered her ears with her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to drive out the sickening visions.
It didn’t work. And the memories were driving her crazy.
How long she stayed there, crying, she had no idea, but by the time she got out of the shower, her fingers and toes were pruned. Never before had the images appeared so real. She had lost control over her emotions, and that couldn’t stand. She vowed to never let it happen again. And she knew exactly what she needed to do to accomplish that.
She toweled herself dry, wrapped another towel around her wet hair, and walked back into her bedroom. She grabbed a new burner phone from her nightstand and called Hector.
He answered on the first ring. She spent the next two minutes explaining what she expected of him. She could tell he wasn’t pleased, but, in the end, he would do as she said.
She was the Black Tosca after all, and she had just ordered another death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Miami, Florida
Hunt called McMaster to give him a situation report as he drove toward Jasmine and Chris Moon’s opulent residence in La Gorce, an idyllic island located north of Indian Creek and along the shores of Biscayne Bay.
McMaster understood Hunt’s need to go see his ex-wife but insisted he stop by the office for a debriefing afterward. The investigation into this afternoon’s events—the media had already dubbed it the Garcia Fiasco—would be long and drawn out. The FBI would want to speak with Hunt sooner rather than later. Truth be told, he was surprised McMaster had given him permission to go to his ex-wife’s first. McMaster must have called in a few favors, Hunt thought.
Though Hunt had been to the house many times before, he still couldn’t believe some people had so much money—or were actually willing to part with so much cash to buy a property. The fact that Jasmine had been the listing agent when Chris bought it might have played a role. Hunt knew that was how they’d met.
A lucky break for her, Hunt thought.
He gave his name to the security guard manning the main entrance of the gated community. The security guard studied his driver’s license and took down his plate number before letting him through. Hunt hated to admit it, but La Gorce was pretty nice. It was a short twenty-minute drive from Miami International Airport—very practical if you had a private jet—and offered international-grade tennis and cricket courts to its residents. Chris Moon’s mansion sat facing southwest on an acre of land jutting into the Biscayne Bay. The gates were open, and Hunt drove his Ford into the circular driveway.
Jasmine was outside waiting for him. Her shoulders slumped. He could see she had been crying, something she almost never did. He wished there was something he could say to make her feel better, but he promised himself he wouldn’t lie to her; there was nothing to gain by sugarcoating the situation.
“Hey,” he said, climbing out of his truck.
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