Sara Ashland’s face turned ashen.
The Tavez Cartel was one of the most vicious drug gangs in the world—Mexico-based, but with a growing network in the U.S.
It wasn’t as large as the Cali Cartel or the Sinaloa gang, but it was fast acquiring a reputation as the most vicious.
Joachim Tavez wanted to take over territory. He was more than happy to wage war with other gangs.
There was a video of him on the Internet, executing shooters from the Cali Cartel after first torturing them.
‘This is too far for that gang,’ Zeb said, scorning the stranger.
‘That’s exactly why Tavez has this farm. Right here. No one will suspect it,’ the stranger cackled.
Zeb knew illegal pot farms were a growing menace in the forests of the country.
The areas involved were remote, usually uninhabited but for visitors.
Their inaccessibility played right into the hands of drug gangs.
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Don’t, buddy. Hang around for a few hours. A bunch of cartel shooters will arrive. Accompanied by the boss man himself. He takes a personal interest. Which you’d know if you have heard of him. He will come with laborers. To harvest the farm and carry it away. Just stick around. You will see.’
‘If I were you,’ he snarled, ‘I would run. Get away and never speak about this. Otherwise, you and your lady—you might get some unwelcome guests.’
He had risen while speaking and taken a couple of steps toward his tent.
Suddenly, he dived toward it, his uninjured arm reaching inside.
It came out with a Mossberg shotgun.
Its barrel started swinging. Turning in the visitors’ direction.
Zeb waited until the last split-second, then leaned forward and grasped the barrel. Twisted it up and slammed the shotgun back against the stranger.
Its stock caught him flush on the chin. The angry crack of the blow was drowned by his scream.
The stranger fell back, clutching his jaw, all fight leaving him.
‘We should go,’ the girl said, putting a tentative hand on Zeb’s shoulder.
He read her fear.
First Namir killed her father. Now this, a deadly cartel.
‘We will,’ he assured her. ‘But not until we get some supplies.’
‘What supplies?’ the guard moaned.
‘Food. Water. We are taking your stock. You have a cellphone?’
The man gaped at Zeb, tried to laugh, and winced.
‘Cellphone? There’s no coverage here. Not for miles.’
‘Where’s your phone?’
He dug it out and threw it at Zeb. ‘See for yourself.’
No bars. He’s right.
‘Listen carefully,’ Zeb told him sternly. ‘There is a bunch of terrorists in the wilderness. Hunting us. Get out of here. Go to the cops. Tell them. Warn any hikers you see. These guys are bearded. Carry HKs. They can’t be mistaken.’
The cartel man chuckled. ‘Some story. You expect me to believe that? You’re just a pair of thieves.’
Sara Ashland sprang forward and slapped him. Hard.
His head snapped to the left. A dull flush spread over his face. He reached out to grab her and fell back when she kicked him in the belly.
‘Those terrorists tortured my father. Killed him in front of me. Yesterday night. You’d better believe that. Because they will do the same to you, if they find you.’
The guard was lost for words for several moments. His mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, while he nursed his shoulder.
‘I don’t care,’ he blustered. ‘My job is to protect this pot farm. Joachim takes a direct interest in it. Besides, no terrorist is going to mess with the Tavez Cartel.’
‘And, I ain’t going near any cops,’ he squared his shoulders defiantly. ‘Or anyone else. Wait. What are you doing?’
Zeb didn’t answer. He turned the man around roughly and pulled out his wallet. He rifled through it rapidly until he found a driving license.
‘Scot Koeman.’ The picture matched the man in front of him.
He tossed the wallet back and went inside the tent.
He came out with a backpack stuffed with food and water canteens. Coffee, mugs, a pan. Matches. A long length of climbing rope.
A piece of rubber hose and several strings went into the bag’s pocket. Because one never knew when those would be needed.
Koeman’s hunting knives, two of them, were strapped to his thigh.
Sara Ashland grabbed the bag from him while he destroyed the Mossberg and Koeman’s Sig.
‘You’re leaving me unarmed,’ the guard cried out in protest.
‘The Tavez Cartel—surely they’ll protect you.’
Koeman turned mean.
‘You had better run hard. Because they protect their own. They will come after you. And it won’t be a friendly visit.’