The smoke seemed to be right ahead of them.
Zeb peered between the trees. No wisps arising from anywhere.
He motioned for Sara Ashland to stay close as he moved quietly.
There came a splash and the sound of someone whistling.
He cocked his head.
Running water? A stream?
It felt like flowing water.
They were on a downward slope again. A gradual decline.
There could be water flowing at the bottom.
Would Namir’s men whistle, however? Would they be so careless?
There was a stream. A very small one, two feet wide. More like a rivulet.
Zeb watched in amazement from beneath a large bush at the bottom of the slope.
A white, bearded man in a sleeveless T-shirt and jeans was standing outside a tent. Dirty sneakers on his feet.
His camp was in a small clearing on the other side of the flowing water.
Around his waist was a gunbelt. Zeb thought his handgun was a Sig Sauer.
Something was cooking on a portable stove. Giving off wisps of smoke.
‘Who is he?’ the girl whispered.
I don’t know every person on the planet. Zeb bit back his retort.
One pm on Wednesday.
The absence of campers had bothered him.
Now, he seemed to be looking at the first hiker.
Stay back, he mouthed at the girl, and stood up.
He stepped out carefully toward the stranger.
The man didn’t notice him until he was out of the woods and approaching the small clearing.
‘Huh?’ the man gawped when he noticed Zeb.
His eyes went wide when they took in the HKs.
His hand blurred towards his Sig.
‘No!’ Zeb dove at him and brought him to the ground.
Clamped a wrist around his gun hand.
The stranger twisted and punched him in the face.
Zeb’s head rang, but he didn’t let up. He absorbed all the blows, a few falling on his wounded shoulder and sending fire racing through him.
He kept on squeezing, however, until the man groaned and let go of his weapon.
Zeb applied an armlock and twisted the man’s shoulder.
The stranger tried to kick back.
‘Don’t,’ Zeb warned him.
The man reared back and stunned him with a sharp elbow. Then, Zeb dislocated the man’s shoulder.
He got up and dusted his hands as the man shrieked in agony.
He tested his jaw. No damage. But it hurt.
His shoulder was bleeding again, but it would heal. More importantly, the wound didn’t restrict his movement.
The stranger cursed, got up gingerly—and made a run at Zeb.
Who slapped him and knocked him to the ground.
‘Who are you?’ Zeb kneeled over him.
‘Who the f—’
Zeb slapped him. ‘Language.’
‘Who are you?’ the man asked, sullenly.
‘I asked first.’
The stranger looked at him, and then at Sara Ashland, who came out of the forest.
‘You’re in trouble,’ he said, his lips parting in a wicked smirk. ‘You just walked into a big heap of it.’
‘Trouble? What kind?’
The man started to gesture with his hand and broke off in a grimace. ‘Behind me,’ he jerked his head, ‘Are several acres of pot. I guard it.
‘Dude, you just stumbled onto the Tavez Cartel’s farm.’