‘You believe him?’ Sara Ashland mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich.
‘About the cartel growing that pot?’
‘Yeah.’
They had left Koeman’s camp cautiously and then had watched him from a distance.
The guard made no attempt to follow them. He stomped around in anger, yelled at the sky, but stayed put.
‘Yeah,’ Zeb replied as he maintained a fast pace. ‘I found a ledger in his backpack.’
She looked over his shoulder as he flicked through pages. ‘Those are records of pot harvested. Taken away. See those notes at the bottom.’
She sucked in her breath sharply when she made out Koeman’s handwriting and read aloud. ‘“Joachim is not happy. Says there should be more pot. Will cut off my hand if he finds I am cheating.”’
‘Does the cartel head get involved in something like this?’
‘Yes. This one does. He is a micro-manager.’
She looked up with a stricken face. ‘He said they will come after us.’
‘For taking Koeman’s food and water? No, they won’t.’
He looked in her eyes and hoped she believed him.
The cartel will come after us. Because Tavez has a reputation for not letting go of any slight or insult to him or his gang.
His face turned bleak when she upped her pace and overtook him.
Bad enough that we have to deal with a terrorist. Now there’s a cartel involved.
They covered twenty miles, Zeb pushing them hard, resting for only short breaks of five minutes.
Detouring past open flats. Going through wild, beautiful country that he would have taken time to enjoy. If he was alone. And no terrorists were behind them.
‘They are well behind us,’ the girl panted during one fast trot.
‘No. We lost some time at Koeman’s. Namir will not let up now. Besides, we need to put distance between us and the cartel.’
‘You said they wouldn’t hunt us.’
‘That doesn’t mean we should linger around.’
The sooner I can get to Erilyn, the quicker I can hand her over to the cops. And come back, to hunt Namir. And Tavez, if he shows up.
His plan was to cover as many miles as possible that day. Sleep that night. Travel the remaining distance the next couple of days and reach Erilyn either on Saturday evening or early on Sunday.
His plan hit a setback.
It was four pm.
Sara Ashland was doubled up. Her chest heaving. Sweat pouring down her face.
Zeb had opened a canteen and was offering it to her, when the four men came from behind them.
All wearing baseball caps. Two bearded. Two clean-shaven. Of North American or European descent.
All armed, carrying AR-15s or some Chinese rip-off.
‘Evening,’ said a burly man, who tipped his cap. And stumbled.
‘Chuck’s had too much to drink,’ said the clean-shaven man who caught him before he fell.
Chuck shook him off. ‘I am fine. I want to talk to the lady.’
‘Not now, Chuck. Let’s go,’ Clean Shaven urged him, the other two men making similar noises.
‘Dammit, Jake. I told ya, I want to talk to her,’ the drunk yelled.
He lurched forward.
Zeb stopped him with a palm to his chest.
Chuck growled and raised his AR-15.