“I have to go,” he said, his voice apologetic. “Charlie . . . he would come for me.”
Something in the set of Anna’s posture and the light in her eyes told him she already knew that there was no way he would sit on his ass and simply hope for the best while his friend was downrange and badly in need of assistance.
Not after Gaza.
In 2007, Hunt and Henican had been part of a small task force of Rangers and Delta Force operators sent to Gaza to provide training and assistance to the Palestinian security forces in their struggle against Hamas terrorists. When two of Hunt’s men had been killed and another had been taken prisoner, Hunt and Henican had mounted a rescue operation, despite being formally ordered not to intervene. They’d succeeded in getting their man back, but very few people knew the entire story of the operation, and even fewer knew how much of his soul Hunt had left in Gaza. Charlie Henican was one of those few.
“I know this isn’t what I promised you, Anna,” Hunt said. “But—”
“You’re wrong. You promised me you’d take care of us. You haven’t failed at that. Your daughter and my niece are upstairs, healthy and happy. They wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for you.”
He cupped her chin in his hand. “What about you? Are you happy?”
“Are you?” she asked right back, softly.
“I was, up until Triggs showed up,” Hunt said honestly.
“I knew what I was getting into when we moved here, Pierce. I’m no dummy.”
“I never said—” Hunt started, but Anna put a finger on his lips.
“Let me finish, will you?”
Hunt nodded.
“You’re the one thing in my life that makes total sense. You, Sophia, and Leila. You guys are my world now. You know that, don’t you?”
“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Hunt replied. He had to make an effort to keep his voice even.
They had moved to the Bahamas to escape the nonstop violence their lives had been filled with. For Hunt, it could be argued that the violent lifestyle had been his choice all along. Nobody had forced him to join the army or to volunteer for Ranger School. Truth be told, he had enjoyed the vast majority of his time in the military, and he could say the same about his time with the DEA. But for Anna it was different. She hadn’t chosen that life. It wasn’t her fault her father, then her brother, had controlled the most powerful crime syndicate in Florida. Every time she had wanted to get out, she’d been sucked right back in. And what about Leila and Sophia? In Hunt’s opinion, they’d been the true victims.
That was why they had moved away from it all. To start fresh. A new beginning. The girls deserved it. Anna deserved it. And he did too. Now, he was being sucked back in. But did he have a choice?
Damn! They had made such progress. Since the death of her brother a year ago, Anna had legally adopted her niece and shut down the Garcia crime syndicate. She’d nearly been killed in the process, but her integrity and strength were only two of the many qualities Hunt loved about her.
He kissed her on the forehead. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone for. You’ll stay here with the girls?”
Anna nodded. “It’s not the best timing, though. Have you forgotten we have houseguests coming? At least Leila will be glad to see her mother and Chris.”
Hunt started to open his mouth when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his jeans pocket. He reached for it and looked at the call display.
Unknown caller.
Hunt debated whether to answer it or not. Everyone who mattered the most to him was safe and sound, either right next to him or sleeping upstairs. Then he thought about Charlie Henican, and he took the call.
CHAPTER THREE
John F. Kennedy Drive, Nassau
New Providence, Commonwealth of the Bahamas
Dorothy Triggs was so concentrated on preparing her upcoming briefing that she never saw the two dark-colored sedans until they were next to her SUV. Their high speed drew her gaze, but by the time she looked over at the first sedan, its front passenger window had already been lowered, and the muzzle of an automatic weapon was pointed directly at her.
Oh no.
“Threat left! Threat left!” Max yelled next to her. But he was too late.
The shooter opened up with his rifle, blasting rounds directly into the side of the armored SUV and sending ricochets off into the night. Some rounds must have found one of the tires, because the driver lost control and veered right toward the ditch dividing the highway.
“Hang on!” he shouted.
Triggs’s heart crawled into her throat. Anticipation of crashing into the ditch at high speed stiffened every muscle in her body. At the last moment, the driver straightened the SUV and managed to stay on the road. To her right, Max had unfastened his seat belt and was reaching for the SUV’s radio, presumably to call the embassy and request backup. But he never got the chance. The second sedan slammed into the right rear panel of the SUV in a perfectly executed and well-timed pit maneuver, forcing Max back into his seat. The rear wheels lost traction and started to skid. This time the driver wasn’t able to recover. The bulky SUV swerved across the road, still going way too fast. It hit the ditch and flipped once, the world coming unhinged, shattered safety glass pricking her skin like a million microscopic needles. Triggs’s seat belt dug into her torso. She screamed. The airbags deployed. The SUV hit a large tree and came to an abrupt halt with a metallic crunch. Dead silence reigned for a few seconds, and then the SUV’s engine began to hiss, steam curling out of the hood.
Blood trickled from Triggs’s forehead into her eyes. She lifted a hand to wipe it away, but an airbag prevented her from doing so.
“Mom? You okay?”
Triggs turned her head toward the sound of her son’s voice. The muscles in her neck and shoulders protested the effort.
“Mom, we need to get out of the truck,” Max pleaded, pushing away the airbags. “They’re coming.”
Images of the SUV going up in flames spurred her to fumble for her seat belt. But she was unable to stop her hands from shaking; the exercise was more challenging than it should have been. Her son had already climbed out of the SUV and was now issuing orders to the driver, who was on the radio with the embassy.
Triggs tried the door handle, but the door wouldn’t budge.
Bullets fired from an automatic weapon pinged off the door, ricocheting everywhere. With a grunt, the driver kicked his door open and exited the vehicle, firing his pistol at the nearest attacker. Powerful hands grabbed Triggs’s arm and pulled her from the SUV.
“Stay down,” Max said, forcing her to take cover behind the right rear wheel of the vehicle. “The marines are on their way. Ten minutes.”
“Who the hell ambushed us?” Triggs asked.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Max replied, inserting a fresh magazine into his pistol. “We just need to stay alive until the marines get here. Stay down!” he repeated before standing up next to her. Using the rear of the SUV as a barricade, he fired his pistol into the darkness.
There was no QRF—quick reaction force—in the Bahamas, but there was a small contingent of US Marines assigned to protect the embassy. At Max’s suggestion, she had traveled to the Bahamas off the books, which had meant leaving her security detail behind. They’d borrowed the ambassador’s SUV and driver to get around.