“Thirty-five,” Ben says. “Come on, don’t be a dick-you’re making huge money on this.”
“What kind of weight we talking?” OGR asks.
“Jesus, on the phone?”
“I’m clean,” OGR says. “Hey, if you’re not…”
“One twenty, give or take.”
“Pounds?!”
“No, gallons, dickwad.”
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
“We on, or not?”
“I’ll get back to you with a time and place,” OGR says.
“Bring cash,” Ben says.
194
Chon’s buddy-late of the SEALs, now with the Oceanside PD-calls him back.
“I ran the address.”
His name is Duane Alan Crowe, forty-eight years old, occupation: roofing contractor.
“You want me to ask around?” Chon’s buddy asks. “See if he’s on anyone’s radar?”
Chon tells him no thanks. Last thing he wants is to let anyone in OC know there’s interest in Crowe.
“Hey, I owe you.”
Chon pulled him out of the shit in Helmand one time.
“You owe me nothing.”
Friends look out for friends.
Way it is.
195
Chon watches Crowe come out of his house, a big briefcase in his hand, and get into his car.
11:30 at night
About fucking time.
Chon is used to sitting still waiting to spring ambushes, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it.
He follows Crowe as he drives off.
196
Guy is standing out front, waiting for OGR to pick him up.
Brian Hennessy is wearing a short jacket, and Chon can see the gun bulge underneath.
Sloppy prick, he thinks.
Brian gets into Crowe’s car.
Chon follows them out to the 405.
197
Californians can have entire conversations using mostly numbers.
“The 133 to the 405 to the 5 to the 74” being fairly typical.
Crowe turns east on the 74 and drives up into the range of hills that flank the coastal plain.
No-man’s-land.
Surprisingly rural for this part of the world. Lots of switchbacks, dirt roads, little meadows hidden in oak groves.
That’s where Crowe’s headed now, and it freaks Chon out.
If he’s going to meet Ben, which is a real possibility — to do whatever the fuck it is that Ben thinks he’s doing.
Chon thinks he knows the place they’re headed-a little picnic area they’ve used to make exchanges before.
He pulls his car over, grabs the rifle, gets out, and starts trotting through the oak trees, hoping he can get there in time.
198
Miguel Arroyo, also known as Lado, leads a caravan of Suburbans through the streets of Tijuana and pulls up outside of the nightclub. His black-clad men pour out of the trucks, their M16s carried at high port, and surround the concrete block building, a hangout of the Sanchez-Lauter faction that went over to the Berrajanos.
Then Lado leads a squad through the front door.
“Police!” Lado yells.
There are about a dozen men in the club, with their girlfriends or their segunderas.
“Police!” Lado yells again. A few of the men start for their weapons but quickly realize they’re outgunned and raise their hands.
Lado’s men relieve them of their weapons and line them up against the wall.
Then they step back and, at Lado’s curt nod, open fire.
199
Ben pulls the van into the picnic area and waits. The back of the van holds one hundred and twenty pounds of his best hydro, plastic-wrapped into quarter-pound packages in twenty-pound bales.
$120K at normal street value, but this is a fire sale at
$42K.
Cocksuckers.
He also has a couple of little surprises wrapped up in two of the bales.
Finally a car pulls into the parking lot. After a few seconds OGR and another guy get out.
Ben does the same.
OGR shines a big flashlight onto the van.
“You come alone?” he asks.
“Like you said.”
“Open the back.”
Ben opens the sliding door. As he does, the guy with OGR reaches to his waist.
