“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.