that.”
“Like you said before. Drugs, guns.”
“They were people, General. No guns, no drugs.”
“So maybe drug mules?”
“And there were young women. So prostitutes. And bigger, older men. Maybe slave laborers.”
“Slave laborers? In America?”
“Why not?”
“I thought we fought the Civil War to take care of that little bit of evil.”
“If it’s profitable, evil can come back strong, just like a cancer with fresh blood lines to feed off.”
“Damn, Puller, do you really think that’s what this is about?”
“A pipeline is a pipeline. You can run lots of different things through it.”
“And the police?”
“Part of the equation. Paradise is wealthy and a tourist destination and no one wants to rock the boat and maybe the cops are paid to look the other way. Hell, maybe the whole damn town is.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Maybe not. But if I’m those guys I’m not putting an operation like this together and risking a cop stumbling onto it and blowing it out of the water.”
“Something like that has to come from the top. So Bullock?”
“Maybe. I was surprised at how quickly he turned into my friend.”
“I wonder who’s running the op from the other end.”
“My bet is on the guy who got his Bentley blown up.”
“What? Lampert? How do you figure that?”
“I checked the guy out. Made and lost a fortune. Then made another one back, obviously. Only I can’t find out how. And he screws the hired help. And maybe they’re not hired at all. Maybe he’s got slaves on his ‘plantation.’ ”
“Okay, let’s say he is the guy. Why would someone blow up his car?”
“Maybe a guy with size sixteen shoes has a beef with the man.”
“Size sixteen shoes?”
Puller explained about the footprints outside the guesthouse window. “He’s the same guy who saved my butt the other night. I don’t think he did it out of kindness. And maybe he regrets it now. But he may be the one after Lampert. He works on a landscaping crew. Why do I want to bet he works the Lampert estate?”
“And his beef with Lampert?”
“No idea. And I may be barking up the wrong tree. But guys that big with skills like he has are rare. And I can’t believe he came here to cut grass.”
“So with the knowledge in hand, what do we do? Call in the Army? The DEA? The Border Patrol?”
“We need to know more. If we start making noises and they have moles on the inside, we’ll never get the evidence we need to put them away. They’ll be gone, never to return.”
“Well, when we find out where that truck is going we may have all the evidence we need,” she said.
Puller suddenly punched the gas and the Tahoe sped up.
“What are you doing?” Carson exclaimed. “They’ll see you.”
“We’ve already been seen.”
“What?”
“Twin bogies behind us and they’re closing like an Abrams tank brigade on a soft target.”
She looked behind her and saw the set of twin beams coming on way too fast.
“Shit!”
Carson lifted her pistol from its holster.
Puller shook his head. “Ineffective at this range and tactical position. Take my rifle. I’ll pop the back window. Take up a position in the rear. Use the tailgate to steady the rifle.” He eyed the rearview again. “I’m thinking fifty yards. Aim for the windshield and the radiator.”
She was already scrambling over the seat. “Roger that.”
He popped the window, she took her spot, settled the rifle on the tailgate, but then she paused.
“Puller, what if it’s the police or Feds back there?”
A bullet shattered the back glass, covering Carson in shards.
“Don’t think so,” said Puller. “Fire! Now!”
Carson pumped five rounds from her rifle into the windshield and radiator of the first vehicle. It swerved and smoke started pouring from the hood.
Puller led Carson to cover behind a dune. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. They looked at each other as they heard people running toward their general position.
“Tight spot,” said Carson.
Puller checked the pistols. “We’ve both been in tighter. They haven’t located us yet. It’ll take some time.”
“But they will.”
“Yes, they will.”