If there was one thing he knew and respected about Hector, it was his commitment to his men. If Hector was as good of a leader as Egan believed him to be, he was sure Hector was feeling pretty miserable right now. Egan’s objective wasn’t to torture Hector about the probable death of the team he had left behind to ambush Hunt; his goal was to make him realize that when it came to Pierce Hunt, he’d better listen to what Egan had to say.
Egan heard Hector take deep breaths, hold them for a second or two, and then let them out slowly, just as though he was laboring to control something gargantuan. His anger.
“You were right,” Hector finally admitted. “I made an error.”
“Don’t feel too bad about yourself, Hector,” Egan said. “You know what they say, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“A mistake admitted is a mistake half-forgiven.”
“Are you done?”
Whoever was moving from room to room on the second floor of the safe house knew not to hang around a window for too long. “There’s movement inside the house.”
“Hunt?”
“Most likely. Anna Garcia picked up her brother a couple minutes ago. Poor Tony looked like he was in bad shape.”
“You saw them, and you didn’t engage?” Hector sounded annoyed again.
“They aren’t under contract, Hector.”
Hector cursed in Spanish, and Egan could almost imagine the big man shaking his head.
“Anything else?” Egan asked.
“Call me when it’s done.”
Hector hung up. He was furious. What a fucking twat! But he knew his anger was directed mostly at himself. Mr. Granger had been right. Hunt was indeed a dangerous man. Too bad he hadn’t been able to put him down at the ambush site. If Hunt had killed Emilio and the two other shooters, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that the Hypoluxo safe house was compromised too.
The Black Tosca had always allowed him maximum flexibility regarding how he accomplished his missions over the years. What he had in mind this time around, though, would require her approval. The only question was if he should call her now or once he had set the wheels in motion.
“Sir,” his driver said, pointing outside.
Hector looked up from his phone and spotted a number of police cars parked on the highway’s shoulder about a quarter mile ahead of them.
A knot formed in his stomach. Could the police be looking for them? Doubtful. Still, Hector had a hard time believing how fast this mission was turning into a clusterfuck. He didn’t need any more problems. He had enough shit to deal with.
“Make sure you aren’t speeding,” Hector said to his driver. “And relax.”
The driver nodded, but his fingers tightened on the wheel. The presence of the police cruisers clearly bothered him.
His two men in the back shifted in their seats. A quick look confirmed they were getting ready to face the new threat if it materialized. A moment later, they drove past three marked Florida Highway Patrol cruisers. Six officers, coffee cups in hand, were standing in front of their vehicles, laughing.
Keep laughing and having fun, guys, and you’ll go home at the end of your shift, Hector thought.
But he knew that wasn’t to be when, one minute later and only five minutes away from Palm Beach County Park Airport, he saw a riot of flashing red emergency lights in his mirror.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
South of Hypoluxo, Florida
Corporal Ryan Steck from the Florida Highway Patrol was looking forward to the end of his shift. His wife, Mary, had given birth to their fourth child forty-eight hours ago. In two days, he’d be on paternity leave for a full month. Mary was a fantastic mother, but he knew she was looking forward to getting some help. She kept an immaculate house and was also a great cook, but with a newborn and three children all under the age of five, it was about to get very, very busy.
It was three in the morning. His shift would be over in four hours. It had been a slow night. A few routine traffic stops, a drunk driver, but nothing too serious. For Corporal Steck, staying awake at this hour was the hardest part of the shift. He had stopped at the Dunkin’ Donuts to pick up six large coffees and six donuts—three vanilla-frosted and three coconuts—for his crew. He hoped the coffee and sugar would keep them alert until the end of their shift.
He asked his crew to meet him on the highway at a specific mileage sign a few miles south of Hypoluxo. By the time the rest of his team arrived at the meeting point, his partner, Trooper Erica Eiderzen, had gulped half her coffee and eaten all of her donut.
“I don’t understand, Erica, I really don’t.”
“What?” she asked, licking her fingers.
“Your fitness level is light-years ahead of mine. How many donuts do you eat a day again?”
“I don’t count,” she replied, drinking the last of her coffee. “Three or four, maybe? It really depends who’s buying.”
Erica was a tall, hardy woman with a handsome but serious face. She wasn’t talkative by nature, but Steck liked her very much. They’d been partners for three years, and she was the godmother of his third child.
“I wish I had your metabolism,” he said, opening the door of his police cruiser.
She shrugged. “How many hours do you spend working out, Ryan?”
He didn’t work out anymore. He’d love to, but with three kids—now four!—there weren’t enough hours in the day. And he felt it too; his stomach wasn’t as hard as it used to be.
“I walk my dog twice a day,” he said. “Does that count?”
Steck loved his crew. They were hardworking guys and girls—and they trusted each other. He was sad to see one of them go. Tonight was Trooper Linda Farrell’s last night shift. Two weeks from now, she was to report to the FBI Academy to begin training. Steck was convinced Farrell would become a great FBI special agent. She had the strength, tenacity, wits, and guts to reach the higher echelons of the federal police force. Steck had always known the highway patrol was only a stepping-stone for her, but he didn’t mind. He’d shared with her everything he knew about the job. She had repaid him in kind with hard work, loyalty, and dependability.
“I’ll miss you guys,” Farrell said, accepting a coconut donut from Steck. “What I’m not gonna miss are these romantic highway impromptus.”
Steck was big on dissuasion. He was a firm believer that motorists would change their driving habits if they saw enough FHP cruisers on the highways. Statistics supported his claim, so he continued to hold team meetings off the highway’s shoulder.
They exchanged a few jokes and anecdotes before Steck asked them if anything had spiked their attention since the beginning of their shift.
“The report about the red Jeep SRT was kind of out of the ordinary,” Farrell said.
Steck had thought so too but hadn’t dug any deeper. “Why’s that?”
“It said a man knocked out two patrol officers before climbing into a red SRT.”
“And?”
“Well, I took the liberty to investigate a bit further,” Farrell said.
“What did you learn?”
“The patrol officers said that the man who had assaulted them had also savagely beaten up the occupant of one of the units.”
“Drug deal gone bad?”
“Not sure yet, but Édgar Pomar, the man they found unconscious, had a bullet in his right knee, among other things. And what’s even more interesting is that a company named BlueShade Rental, an LLC owned by Graham Young, owns the unit in which they found Pomar.”
“The name Graham Young rings a bell,” Steck said, staring down the highway with a thoughtful expression. “Isn’t he an attorney?”
Farrell acquiesced with a smile. She took a sip of her coffee and then said, “The Miami Herald once named him one of the top ten most influential criminal defense attorneys in the city.”
“How do you know all this?” Erica Eiderzen asked.
“I called the department and asked about the case
. There’s a BOLO out on the SRT. I wanted to know why. Officer safety and all that, you know?”
Steck was impressed. Linda Farrell was a good cop. She had made the right decision to join the FBI.
“But you know what truly grabbed my attention?” Farrell asked no one in particular.
Knowing his protégée wasn’t one to waste anyone’s time, Steck was curious. “Tell me.”
“Young’s LLC owns eight vehicles and two properties.”
“Probably to host and drive his wealthy clients around,” Eiderzen offered.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You think there’s more to it than that, Linda?” Steck asked.
“I’m just saying, it’s kind of weird that an attorney owns two residences—in which he doesn’t even live—and eight vehicles.”
“What types of vehicles are associated with the properties?”
“Two minivans, two sports cars, two Mercedes SUVs, and two Ford panel vans.”
“Nothing illegal about any of this,” Eiderzen said.
“I know,” Farrell admitted. “I just find it strange. Why would he need panel vans? It’s not like he’s an electrician or something.”
“You believe it’s a front for an illicit business?” Steck asked.
“Édgar Pomar has a rap sheet that includes drugs, car theft, and weapons charges.”
“He could be one of Graham Young’s clients,” Steck suggested.
“I’m sure he is,” Farrell replied. “I just wish we could investigate this further.”
“Not our jurisdiction,” Eiderzen said.
“That’s not true, and you know it, Erica,” Steck intervened. “We—”
His partner raised her hands in mock surrender. “I know, Ryan, I was just kidding. What I meant to say was that investigating these cases isn’t our primary mandate. We’re short-staffed enough as it is.”
Eiderzen was right, of course. Even though the troopers of the Florida Highway Patrol were state law enforcement officers and had the power to enforce state laws and make arrests, their main obligation was to ensure the safety of the highways and roads of the state.
“I understand this, Erica,” Farrell replied, “but that shouldn’t prevent us from keeping an eye out for the vehicles connected to Graham Young’s two residences, right?”
Eiderzen snorted. “No, I guess not.”
Steck wondered why Eiderzen was so pushy and was a bit surprised that she was giving Farrell such a hard time on this issue. As the second-most senior trooper of the team, she should be encouraging initiative among the junior members, not dismissing it as she just did. Maybe she’s a bit jealous?
“Anyway,” Farrell said, unfazed by Eiderzen’s criticism, “I emailed you a list of the license plates of the eight vehicles owned by BlueShade Rental.”
“The FBI will be lucky to have her, won’t they?” Steck grabbed Farrell by the shoulders and pulled her close. “Good job.”
Eiderzen rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. She asked Farrell, “Isn’t this your last shift?”
Farrell tapped the glass of her watch with her finger. “Yes, but there’s a few hours left.”
“All right, everyone, saddle up,” Steck announced. “Let’s finish this shift on a high note, and don’t forget to check the list Linda sent us.”
Just as they were about to break, a Ford panel van drove past them. It was in the middle lane, and Steck estimated it was driving at the speed limit. Steck tried to catch the license plate but only got a partial from the last three characters. D79.
He sat behind the wheel of his police cruiser and turned on the cruiser’s computer. Eiderzen took her seat and said, “You’d think Linda would have called in sick or at least taken the day off, this being her last shift.”
“Not her style,” Steck said. He compared the license plate from the Ford panel van he had just seen to the two license plates Farrell had forwarded to them via email.
I’ll be damned.
“One of them is a match,” Steck said, looking at his partner.
“What are you talking about?”
“The list Linda sent us,” Steck explained. “One of the Fords’ plates matches the panel van that drove by us a minute ago. Weren’t you paying attention?”
Steck made a quick executive decision and decided to pull over the van. He’d find a legal reason to do so later. He put the gearshift into drive and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. Dust and small rocks shot out from under the rear tires and peppered the concrete buffering wall separating the two sides of the highway.
“What are you doing?” Eiderzen asked, clipping her seat belt in place.
“We’re gonna check it out.”
Eiderzen grabbed the microphone from the dashboard clip and said, “Trooper Farrell from Trooper Eiderzen.”
“Go ahead for Farrell.”
“A Ford panel van with a partially matching license plate drove past us a minute ago. Corporal Steck will intercept and pull it over. You want to back us up?”
“You serious?”
“The last three digits matched one of the plates,” Eiderzen replied.
Steck smiled. Police work often involved pure sweat—talking to people on the street, canvassing an area to find a weapon, finding witnesses willing to share their stories. Out of the hundreds—and sometime thousands—of pieces of information a team brought in over the course of an investigation, it wasn’t unusual to get only one or two solid leads. Equally important, though, was that success in police work largely depended on luck and on a cop’s instinct to follow his or her gut. Farrell had done so with this case, and as long as it didn’t take him or his team too far from their primary mandate, Steck was ready to probe deeper into BlueShade Rental.
Steck looked in his rearview mirror. The rest of his team was right behind him. They were now traveling at close to ninety miles an hour. At that speed, it didn’t take long to catch up to the Ford panel van. When they were about seventy-five feet behind the van, Steck’s foot came off the gas pedal.
“Can you confirm the license plate?” he asked Erica.
“Yep,” she said. “That’s one of them.”
“Okay. Let the others know. We’ll pull it over.”
It didn’t matter how many years of service he had behind him. Every time Steck initiated a traffic stop, a rush of adrenaline surged through him. All traffic stops are potentially dangerous. Every year, officers of the Florida Highway Patrol were injured or killed during what Steck was sure the injured or dead officers thought was a routine traffic stop. There was nothing routine with traffic stops. Ever. About one out of ten physical attacks against police officers occurred while engaged in a traffic stop.
As he activated the emergency equipment of his police cruiser, Corporal Ryan Steck turned over in his mind everything he could think of that could go wrong.
Never could he have foreseen what was waiting for him and his team.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Hallandale Beach, Florida
Hunt began his controlled descent down the stairs leading to the basement. He kept his back pressed against the wall and his gun in front of him but close to his body. When he reached the final step, a chill coursed through him.
Leila. She was here. I can feel it.
He listened closely for any sound. Once he was satisfied that the only noise was his own breathing, Hunt moved rapidly, room by room, searching for any signs of his daughter. The first room consisted of a double bed, which had been slept in, a dresser with a large mirror, and a night table with a lamp. A sink and a toilet were tucked next to each other in one corner. A video camera hung from the ceiling in a back corner. A lump formed in his throat.
Was it here that they kept her?
He tossed the mattress aside and opened all the drawers but didn’t find anything connecting the room to his daughter. The next room was a perfect replica of the previous one. With one major difference.
The blood.
Something terrible had happen
ed in this room. To Leila? He blinked a few times and shook the dark thoughts away. If whatever had happened here had taken place more than an hour or two ago, the blood would be dry and brown. Instead, it was dark red and fresh.
And frightening.
Hunt let loose a slew of curse words. He was too late. They’d whisked Leila and Sophia away. Were they already in Mexico? Pomar had told him that was a possibility. There was one more room to check. As his eyes swept across the bedroom one last time, Hunt caught something on the floor, glistening in the murky darkness. He moved closer, shining the beam of his flashlight around.
There. What the hell was that?
Upon closer examination, Hunt realized it was an ear, or at least a chunk of one. It was still wet with blood. His heart sank, and his knees wobbled. In his mind’s eye, he saw Leila’s life from when she was a baby to a young woman. He loved her so much. His eyes began to tear up.
Christ, a fucking ear! How much more can I take?
He picked up the piece of flesh, almost dropping it twice it was so slick with blood, and rinsed it at the sink. As the blood washed down the drain, swirling in the white porcelain sink, a tremendous sense of relief surged through him. His legs no longer able to hold him, he sank to his knees and wept.
The ear wasn’t hers. The skin was too dark. His daughter—he was sure it was her—had put up a good fight. She hadn’t surrendered to her captors. He was proud of her. A smile creased his eyes and replaced the tears.
She hadn’t given up on him. Hang on, Leila. I’ll find you.
A soft creaking behind him made Hunt lunge to his right. He rolled once and came up on his knees, his pistol pointed at the door. Too late. A shadow on his left turned on a flashlight, temporarily blinding Hunt with its powerful beam. Hunt reacted immediately. Instead of staying put, dropping his gun, and hoping not to get shot, Hunt ducked below the beam of light and rolled forward before lunging low and hard at the shadow. With immense force, Hunt’s right shoulder rammed into the shadow’s midsection. Hunt dropped his gun in the process, but the shadow—Hunt could now see it was a man—was taken completely by surprise and expelled air in a loud groan. But the fight wasn’t over yet. The man wrapped his right arm around Hunt’s neck and began to squeeze with an almost superhuman strength. Hunt tried to pull down on the man’s arm with both his hands, but the man was just too strong. His arm didn’t budge an inch. Both Hunt’s carotids were being constricted.
Hunt Them Down (Pierce Hunt Book 1) Page 19
