Egan nodded. It was. But I have Pierce Hunt in the back.
“Use your right hand, and slowly reach into your jacket. Don’t think you can draw quicker than I can shoot. It would be your last mistake, Mr. Granger.”
Nicolás extended his hand, and Egan gave him his Glock. Nicolás handed it to the security guard waiting outside the SUV.
“Why are you here?”
“I have a gift for the Black Tosca.”
Nicolás cocked his head to the side. “A gift? What kind of gift?”
“Behind you, in the black garbage bag.”
Nicolás’s eyes briefly moved to the back seat. “What is it?”
“A severed head,” Egan replied truthfully.
Nicolás’s face beamed with pleasure. A faint smile lurked at the corners of his lips. “I’m sure she’ll love it,” he said, lowering his weapon. “Drive forward, Mr. Granger. The Black Tosca is looking forward to seeing you.”
Egan started the engine and put the transmission into drive. The front gate closed behind him the moment the SUV had gone through. Egan followed the winding driveway up the gentle slope for about a quarter mile until he reached the Black Tosca’s magnificent colonial house. Two guards waited for them outside the main entrance. These men weren’t rent-a-cops. Their demeanor, the relaxed-but-alert way they were standing, was a dead giveaway that they were Hector’s men and former members of the Mexican military.
“I would have thought there’d be more than two guards,” Egan said for Hunt’s benefit.
“We’re heading west to the coast tomorrow,” Nicolás said. “Most guys are already there, preparing the compound for her arrival.”
“Where’s Hector? I’m sure he’d like to see the gift too,” Egan said. “He gave me the contract.”
“Hector and his crew will join us shortly, Mr. Granger,” Nicolás said. “Please follow me.”
Egan grabbed the black garbage bag from the rear seat and climbed out of the SUV. One of the guards opened the front door for them. The interior of the house was spectacular. Nothing about the elegant exterior prepared Egan for the sheer opulence within. It almost looked staged. It was just too damn perfect—crystal chandeliers on the ceilings, heavy red velvet drapes on the larger-than-life windows, and bronze statues filling every corner. As he followed Nicolás deeper into the house, Egan noticed that all the rooms flowed into each other and were all meticulously decorated in authentic Mexican fashion with exquisite, high-end furniture. Nicolás led him down a long hall, their footsteps echoing on the marble floor. They made a right at the end of the hallway and entered a huge library dominated by a wide, curving staircase that spiraled up to the next level. The Black Tosca, magnificently dressed in a long, very tight red dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination, was seated in a plush, green leather armchair.
“Hello, Cole,” she said, lifting her eyes from her mobile phone. “How nice of you to stop by.” She pointed at the armchair in front of her. “Come on—don’t be shy. Have a seat.”
She turned her attention to Nicolás. “I’ll be fine,” she said, dismissing him. When Nicolás didn’t move, she whooshed him off with a wave of her hand. Once he was gone, the Black Tosca leaned forward. She delicately touched his knee and squeezed, and then she said, a half smile on her full lips, “I’m told you brought a gift?”
Hunt started counting the moment he heard Egan slam the door. When he reached six hundred, he pulled back the tarp, transitioned from his back to his belly and then to his knees, and slowly raised his head until he could see out the SUV’s windows. Through the front windshield, he spotted one of the guards. Egan had mentioned two guards. Where was the other one? Hunt angled his head left to right. There was no sign of him.
Egan had been inside the house for ten minutes now. It was time for Hunt to make his move. He waited until the guard’s attention was away from the SUV before climbing over the rear seat. He confirmed the SUV’s doors were unlocked. With his eyes on the guard, Hunt raised his left hand and grabbed the door handle. In his right, his suppressed Glock was ready to go. Hunt threw the door open—not powerfully enough for it to bounce back—and raised his pistol to eye level. The guard, who had probably caught the movement in his peripheral vision, moved his hand to the inside of his jacket. The guard gave Hunt the same surprised, stunned look a six-year-old child gives his parents after they tell him Santa Claus doesn’t exist. Hunt squeezed the trigger, burying a bullet in the guard’s heart. The Oyster silencer jumped half an inch, and Hunt fired his second round the moment his sights were on the guard’s head. The bullet tore away the right side of the man’s face, spun him around, and dropped him on the polished marble of the entryway. From there, Hunt moved rapidly. He scanned around for the missing guard one last time and then entered the house, dragging the dead guard behind him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT